In this letter I will not get to address all of you, my inner children. But please know that whether in writing, through dance, through tears, through chant, I will find you, witness your pain, honor your wisdom and bring you home to me.
So little 3-year-old, there you were so adorably cute, curly hair, big eyes, easy smile, bubbly with excitement about this world.
Then the first death happened.
Mom, who loved you so much, who took joy in your wonder and awe, who held and cuddled you. That mom died.
And the strangest, most crazy-making thing was that to others she still seemed alive. She looked and sounded the same. But you knew the truth.
From that moment on your mom never looked at you the same. She didn’t hold you the same. The mother who you loved, trusted, ran to, was gone.
She died.
But there was no funeral, no acknowledgment that there was a death. No grief allowed, no language offered, no explanation, and worst of all, no good-bye.
Perhaps there were signs leading to that death, but to your little mind it was as if one day your mom loved and adored you, and then —poof –she was gone, replaced by a mother who was always annoyed, angry, and flinching as you touched her.
Your replacement mom couldn’t let herself be loved by you, and you had so much love to give.
This mom took care of you, provided shelter, clothing, food.
But love, tenderness, mother guidance, that kind of love that only a mom can give was lost and it has never come back.
And painfully, incredibly hard to accept, may never come back.
Little girl, this was a death, so crushing, so huge, so all-encompassing, but invisible to everyone else, even, almost to you. So that you felt this unease, this pain, this grief that was so palpable, and yet, so unacknowledged.
And thus the only reasonable conclusion left for you to make was that it was all in your head. You were too sensitive, too much. And yet somehow not enough.
I am here little one to honor your truth. I am 42 years old. I am you all grown up.
Now I am a mother of five. Because of your pain, I was able to stop the pattern. For you see, this same thing happened to mom, which is why she repeated it with you. Who knows how far in the past this pattern goes.
But with you it ended.
I was able to love my children freely, and they know I love them. They were held.
Because of you I can now help others to find their own little children to help them come home.
I am here little one.
And I will not tell you that what happened was OK or that you should be over it.
I am here to bear witness to your story, to honor and hold you, to let you be angry and sad.
And when you’re ready, I am here to help you play, to be a wondrous free-spirit, full of awe and delight…even if that wound will always be there.
Your first death.
Your initiation into healer woman at such a young age.
Thank you for holding it, for not denying it.
I love you.
You are home.