REUNION

There are wounded parts that follow us like a shadow, never far in the background. Parts of ourselves we’d rather not face. Parts we hope—if we don’t acknowledge them—might go away. But they will not.

We are all wounded in some way. You don’t make it through this life without carrying something inside you that once broke you apart. We want to heal. But mostly, we try to conceal it—a bandage made from vices, self-medicating in whatever form it takes. These parts will not heal on their own. They will not dissolve or melt away. There is no amount of distance that will erase them.

No one has ever been crueler to me than I have been to myself. The hatred I’ve experienced from within has always been a thousand times more dire than anything I’ve received from without. I hated myself for my inability to conform. For my strong-willed resistance. For the weakness of breaking. A thousand daggers to my heart. I should have been more agreeable. I should have been more lovable. I should have been quieter. I should have been stronger. I should have known better. But I did not.

And the truth is, I could not have known. I could not become something I had not been shown. I wasn’t born knowing how to be human. None of us are. What I did know was that my heart was big and wide and free. I had passions and ideas and a wild creative energy coursing through my veins, uncontainable. I was always meant to be different. There was never a chance of me blending in.

But I hated myself for that. Every single mistake I ever made played on repeat in my mind—a broken record looping endlessly. A knife to my heart, my own hands the ones that wielded it. My own brain, the monster I could not escape.

I’ve gotten better at holding her. Holding myself. Holding all the broken pieces. They’re not as jagged as they once were. But they didn’t smooth out on their own. Unlike in the ocean, the pieces that shape us don’t wear away with time. They don’t become smaller or less intense simply by being tossed around in the tides of our own making. We have to smooth them ourselves—patiently, deliberately, with soft hands and soft hearts. With forgiveness and compassion.

I’ve always given that to others. I’m quick to forgive. I don’t hold grudges. I understand that beneath the masks we wear, we all want the same thing: to be seen, accepted, and loved. But showing that kindness to myself has been a struggle. I ran from the wounded girl I once was. I numbed the raging adolescent I had to become to survive. I inflicted pain on her—tortured her, hated her—then escaped from her in every way I could.

Now… now I am softening to her. Because it is my job to heal her. I am not responsible for the things that happened to her, but I am the only one who can bring the shattered pieces of my own psyche back together.

So I extend my hand to her now, despite its shaking. I sit with her in the quiet of my own mind and ask her what she needs. Some days she wants to laugh and dance and sing. Some days she wants only quiet and comfort. Mostly, she just wants me to see her and acknowledge that she is there. She will always be there.

And I am ready for her now. I am here for it all, with open arms and love in my heart—ready, at last, for the reunion of all my parts.