Returning to the Child-Self

We talk a lot about “returning to the self” or our past-selves. I’m not sure we understand what that entirely means. I think we are projecting our idea of ourselves, as we were, when we were younger. Happier, maybe as a care-free young adult or as an unwounded child; the likes and the dislikes. Not who we have grown to be, no.

Do not return to the old self, the one that reacted poorly to emotional situations, the one that teased and bullied peers due to pressure, the young adult that drank until they were numb because they couldn’t face reality or themselves.

As you heal, as you are healing (because it’s a journey and never a destination, you just keep getting better at it the more you work on yourself) You were able to recognize the serenity that came from past hobbies and know what they mean now.

Such as drawing, painting, writing, hiking, baking, sports, reading, scrapbooking, photography, playing instruments, singing, dancing, putting puzzles together, ceramics, woodwork and so on.

Sometimes these hobbies evolve as we age; the funny trope of people in their 40’s all of a sudden gardening, hiking and birdwatching. Hey, I’ve always enjoyed those things so back off…

If it feels good in your belly, in your soul and it brings no harm to yourself, others or our Earth, then please reconnect your past self with your present self, but in a way that honors all the hard work you’ve done to get here.

And I’m glad you’re here.

August 2025 - The latest water color painting. This one was pulled from a memory of driving alone in September 2023, for the first time- from the west coast of California to Las Vegas to visit my sister who was in town for work. I had to pull over, the sunset beating against the mountains and hills was arresting. It showed me new colors, ways to appreciate the desert and pause, to listen to my needs. My eyes and heart needed this moment.

Art, painting in particular was my go-to. I would put my headphones on, blasting Smashing Pumpkins or Led Zeppelin and let it rip.

I would allow myself to feel whatever I needed to, and express all the held anger, disappointment, fears and heartbreak while letting those feelings travel through my body, into my fingers and splash all over the paper.

My Dad got me an easel with paper, probably from his work. The way he supported me in my late teens, how it made me feel at the time and how it makes me feel now are all completely separate feelings, compartmented and settled into different locations in my mind and in my heartfelt memories.

2001 - Cray-Pas. Bethel, Maine. This was a summer road trip with most of the family. Sunsets, landscapes and nature were my jam.

I think most fathers of that era, the boomer generation- did not know how to emote with their daughters, maybe even less so with their sons.

He wasn't an artist, couldn't give a damn about them, he thought they were lazy "hippies" and did not approve of my choice of becoming an art and music therapist.

He also saw how much I loved taking photos, so he would buy me disposable cameras or film. He acknowledged my choices and got me the tools to make art. It was an action that showed me he was paying attention. He knew I was suffering, and art was my way to release my pent up energy, yet he couldn't admit it, couldn't acknowledge his pain separated from my agony.

2003 - Mixed media. Watercolor, acrylic and pen. I would often incorporate song lyrics into my art. This is one of only a few pieces that survived the move from California to Illinois back in 2012. The van had a leak and it destroyed nearly all of my art, some that were in shows and won awards.

I don't think we held a full conversation until I was about 16 years old. It was all transactional, orders and demands of chores completed, homework finished and the loud alarm of his booming voice: "Up and at 'em! Rise and shine, the day is wasting away!" on the weekends.

Eventually, I started to see his softness. I loved the way he loved mornings, even if I was up early at 4:30am, unable to sleep- while he was getting ready for work, he had a warm smile and wore his kindness as a badge of honor.

As the day wore on, his smile lost light. The depression, PTSD from the Vietnam war, the ongoing issues with his marriage all chipped away at his cheery disposition. As the sun set, so did his spirit. He had an incredible way of surviving, we called him a cat with nine lives, and he hated cats.

The war, the car accident that should have killed him, the suicide attempt when I was a child, the explosion in the garage, the heart attack, and more should have ended him. Yet, he persisted.

2002- Pencil. I was obsessed with The Backstreet Boys. I can't stand listening to their music now, it makes my stomach turn. Another piece that was salvaged from the move.

His act of kindness is remembered as I pick up my paintbrush and reconnect with my teenage self these days. I am no longer upset that he couldn't verbalize how to handle my emotions, he couldn't handle his own. I wish he would have. I wish we had a better relationship, and it wasn't without great effort on my end. He just gave up after I moved to California. I get it. I chose to live far away, and I don't regret it. I still wish he loved me as I was, as I loved him with all his faults, and there were plenty. Damning ones, unforgiveable ones.

In the four months since his death, I have been slowly recollecting my memories of him. How I would like to honor his kindness but never forget his ignorance. Many truths and opposites can and should be held about people and how we feel about them. I loved him and I despised him. I respected him yet completely disrespected his opinions and views on the world. He allowed himself to sour and curdle from the ugliness of life. His words became indigestible, putrid and diseased. I won't allow for that in my life.

Pop-Pop with my dear friend and her firstborn, this was before the softness left him, you can see it in the sweetness on his face.

As I rekindle my relationship with my past-self, I am remembering how I treated myself. How unkind I was to the gentle, soft, sensitive- yet angry girl I was.

I was so hard on myself. I hated everything about who I was, because I wasn't living up to my parents expectation of me.

I know better now. I am enjoying who I am and I am proud of the lovely, kind woman I have become. I am different from them. Very, wildly different.

That little girl wanted to be held, to be kissed on the cheek. To be celebrated for who I was, not for my silence, not for how I performed or how I behaved.

She loved to be outside, treading carefully through the tall grass in search of creatures, barefoot in the creeks and ponds, scanning the chilled, rushing water for fish and frogs. Searching the skies for great horned owls, red winged black birds, hawks and mourning doves. Digging into the soil to find worms and to feel the pressure from the earth underneath my fingernails. Climbing and hiding in trees, hoping to find silence from the screaming inside the home.

Now, my home is quiet on the inside. It is safe here. I am deeply loved. I have found what I needed and I am proud to give so much love to that sweet little girl. She is safe and so am I.

One of many outdoor hiding places, this was located on one end of the property, it was a pig shed at one point, relocated beneath the willow tree.

My older sister (by 11 years) recently told me how darling I was as a child. I don't remember much of my childhood, let alone what kind of kid I was. She said "I wanted to scoop you up and keep you in my pocket. I wanted to keep you."

I was loveable, I was wanted.

What a gift to receive, these words have helped to heal a wound that had never completely healed. I held an image of my ten year old self in my mind and imagined hugging her so tight, kissing her sweetly on the cheek and telling her that she was loved, that she was wanted.