Embracing the child within

Content warning: childhood abuse

I’m struggling with the frustration of not knowing “what is the right thing to do” in my heart. Juxtaposed against that is not knowing which of the thoughts in my head is true. It’s a strange place to be in as a coach who excavates thoughts for a living and as a journalist who knows the right questions to ask to get closer to what is true. I’m also noticing grief because my brain and heart are fighting each other.

When I couldn’t push forward on a task (thanks, incessant thoughts!), I decided to connect to my heart-brain. I went for a bike ride, met a former colleague for a quick lunch and then came back to my desk only to notice nothing had truly shifted. My heart said, “Let’s work outside but let’s take a moment for meditation first.”

Sometimes when we are so busy, we choose to fight ourselves and white-knuckle our way through our to-do list, and that feels so unkind, doesn’t it? If a child came to me in tears or with a heavy heart, I would take the moment to embrace them, to be present for them, to help them process and heal from the hurt or the challenge. I might offer them a snack or a drink while I listen to their struggles. And then I’d love the shit out of them until they were smiling and happy again, or send them to their room to colour, read or rest until they felt better. Why can’t we take a moment of kindness for ourselves in the busyness?

So today I chose to take 10 minutes and sit with Mr. Tree (that’s what my son calls the elm tree in our yard) and Lady Lilac. I put on a guided meditation—the weekly one for my sign from my Chani app—because I knew sitting in stillness wasn’t going to quiet my mind today. And the meditation was on one’s Inner Child, and I immediately conjured an image of myself, perhaps 8 years old. (Years older than the photo above.)

This Nadine was teensy, with dark brown, wavy hair. She was so cute and so fragile-looking. She was always nervous, maybe because she was always making mistakes. Often staring off and daydreaming, forgetting something, knocking over a glass of milk because of depth perception issues. (If we walk down the street together, I will likely bump into you.) She had opinions that no one had time for and might react emotionally and strongly at the smallest thing. With all of these behaviours, there was risk. Risk of having a parent become frustrated and angry and blow a fuse.

CONTENT WARNING: Description of abuse

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The tears were instant and plentiful. I couldn’t even hear what Chani Nicholas was saying in the app at first because all I could see was little Nadine sobbing, terrified on her twin-size bed after someone threw something at her, slapped or kicked her. I think that’s where she’d go to console herself after an incident escalated. I don’t know. Trauma brain makes things super vague and fuzzy to protect us from revisiting that which is painful. But what made me sob harder was that I had no memory of anyone coming to check on me after. Of anyone saying they are sorry, or consoling me and letting me know my tears were OK, valid even. Just a vague recollection of being told I was making a Big. Deal. Out. Of. Nothing.

Now, at nearly 48, I know that my ADHD makes me susceptible to Rejection Sensitivity and that I am also a Highly Sensitive Person (HSP). Little things can seem like a very big deal in my mind because my brain can’t process them as quickly as a neurotypical person’s brain can. But as I learn how much ADHD overlaps with trauma responses, I understand that my brain was wired to experience conflict, rejection, and abandonment in a very LOUD way. I have also learned that can turn down the volume with practice and support (it’s why I’d really love to study somatics and the Vagus Nerve). But that does little in the moment when I am triggered and feel unsafe.

I am deeply loved by the people who abused me. I know them well enough now, have done enough of my own work to heal and forgive and process to know they believed they were doing the best they could with what they knew to be right. I know that SWANA cultures tend towards yelling and violence as conflict resolution, though that is certainly not a blanket statement. Hurt people, hurt people. Intergenerational trauma and survival mode beget more of the same. It’s a tough cycle to break. Especially when our nervous systems are conditioned to be activated in conflict. But I’ve also found the path back to loving them as they are now.

My friend and coach, Japji, calls us Cycle Breakers. And that term feels so good. To know that my life here in Canada, thousands of miles away from home on World Refugee Day, meant I could break a cycle. That I’ve never physically abused my kids. That when I yell a little too loud, I can own it and apologize. That I can cry when overwhelmed and share my pain with them. That we all have access to therapists, coaches and other supports to help build a new future with new possibilities.

When asked about the difference between coaching and therapy, I like to think of an infinity loop, with my self in the present moment as the crossover point in the middle. Therapy allows me to explore the past, caring for Past Me and integrating those lessons and stories into the present. Coaching teaches me to explore what’s possible in my future, caring for Future Me in the now by integrating those lessons and stories into the present. Meditation allows me to see that Past and Future are just thoughts, and all we have is the NOW. And the present is a gift.

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My friend and homeopath, Zahava, asked me to reflect on where I have been abandoned. It’s in this fear of abandonment that I hang onto that which no longer serves me, or make decisions that blow up my present moment. The abandonment was in the after, when those I loved left me to cry tears of shame for making a mistake and never admitted that they were tired and just lost their shit.

Today, while meditating I petted Little Nadine’s hair while she cried. I told her she didn’t have to hold it all anymore, that I’ve got her, that we’ve gotten through so much and it’s OK. It’s better than OK now. I held her hand and she showed me around my childhood bedroom. The bookshelf she converted into a dollhouse that no one could afford. The little paintings she’d drawn and stuck on the back wall of the shelf for Barbie and friends. The furniture she’d scavenged or made out of tissue boxes. A home where no one would get hurt and imagination could roam free. And the lightness I felt was a love strong enough to stop the tears.

I am so proud of how I am showing up for her, of how committed I am to doing the grueling work of looking into the shadows to coax her out and tell her it’s safe to come into the present. There comes a time when it is necessary, when it’s too painful to do anything but lovingly, patiently and painstakingly liberate oneself from the shadows of the past. To shine a light on the uncomfortable truths and transform them into love.