There are moments when I am standing in my kitchen, surrounded by dirty dishes and children arguing over something completely insignificant, and I realize I am doing two jobs at once.
I am raising my children. And I am raising myself.
The second one is quieter.
Nobody sees it when I have to remind myself that I am allowed to rest. That I am allowed to have needs. That love does not have to be earned through usefulness. That I don’t have to study everyone’s face before I decide whether it is safe to speak.
I am teaching my children things I was never taught.
You can say no. You can ask questions. Your body belongs to you. Adults are supposed to protect children. You don’t have to earn tenderness. You are allowed to take up space.
And sometimes, while I am saying these things to them, I picture the little girl I used to be.
I have an image of her in my mind.
She is cowering in the corner. Small. Terrified. Trying to disappear.
And when I see her now, I don’t want to lecture her. I don’t want to tell her she should have been stronger. I don’t want to tell her that everything worked out eventually.
I just want to walk over to her. Get down on the floor. Hold out my hand.
And say:
Come with me.
You don’t have to stay here anymore.
Take my hand.
Come meet our family.
They’re waiting for you.
You’re safe now.
I imagine bringing her home.
Not metaphorically.
I mean really bringing her into the life I have built.
Into the noisy kitchen. Into the pile of laundry. Into the ridiculous arguments over whose turn it is. Into bedtime stories and muddy shoes and children climbing into my bed.
Into a house where little people can laugh loudly without looking over their shoulders. Where they can cry without being ashamed. Where they can say no. Where they can be difficult and still be loved. Where nobody has to disappear to keep the peace.
And I think she would be confused at first.
She might not believe me. She might stand there frozen, still waiting for the catch.
So I would take her hand anyway.
I would show her.
Day after day.
This is what home is.
This is what mothers do. This is what fathers should do. This is what adults are supposed to do.
They protect the small ones.
They don’t hurt them.
They don’t make them responsible for the darkness of grown people.
And there is something almost unbearably beautiful about realizing that I am now the woman who can walk into that room and get her.
I couldn’t save her then.
But I can love her now.
And I can build the kind of home she should have had.
I can give my children the childhood she deserved.
Not perfectly.
I lose my patience. I get overwhelmed. I make mistakes. Sometimes I hear an old voice come out of my own mouth and have to stop.
But I notice. I repair. I come back. I choose again.
That may be one of the greatest gifts healing has given me.
Not perfection.
Choice.
The little girl in the corner doesn’t have to keep watch anymore. She doesn’t have to predict everyone’s moods. She doesn’t have to make herself small. She doesn’t have to survive the room.
She can take my hand.
She can come home.
She can meet her family.
And perhaps that is what I am really doing all these years later.
Raising children while quietly walking back through the wreckage to find the child I was.
Taking her hand.
Bringing her home.
And telling her the thing she should have heard all along:
You are safe now.
You are loved now.
You belong here.
Come on.
Our family is waiting for you.
B🤍
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