There’s a concept in the world of therapy known as inner child work, and I personally am its biggest fan. The process involves connecting with your child self, at varying ages, and healing residual trauma based on the selected age. Maybe you’ve heard of it, or maybe you have participated in this technique. Regardless, this letter itself is a form of inner child work. This past year has involved some of the most rapid and difficult character development I’ve known, and before I dive into the next wave, I wanted to take a moment to reflect on what has been said and done with my younger self. Maybe this will inspire you to do the same.
I’ve set myself up in a park. It’s calm and sunny. Warm but not hot. And I’m on a bench. I am waiting.
They walk up to me, small and delicate. Long hair, flannel, and power boots. They must be nervous. We’re wearing our outfit, the one that makes us feel unstoppable. They see me from across the park and smile, waving a little. I wave back and gesture them over, to sit on the bench beside me.
They sit. Their back is rigid, hands folded in their lap, a pleasant smile on their face. I’m lounging, arms splayed across the bench. At ease. Relaxed.
“You cut your hair,” they say.
I sit forward and touch the newly cut edges.
“I did!” I say, “Do you like it?”
They cock their head and nod.
“I do…I thought we were trying to grow it out though.”
“We were…but conditioner is expensive and long hair gets in the way.”
They laugh and I think to myself how beautiful they are. I know they don’t feel it. I know they scrutinize themselves in the mirror, watch the way their clothes hug every curve of their body. I know they hide their chin with their hair and that they only wear high waisted jeans. I wish they would believe me when I tell them:
“You’re beautiful.”
They stop and look at me.
“Do you really feel that way?”
I nod a little.
“I’m trying to…” I admit, “It gets easier. We don’t binge anymore and sometimes you find your tummy cute and your arms beautiful.”
They look at their hands and smile.
“That’s good to know…maybe when we meet again in twenty years, we’ll love every bit of ourselves!”
I smile thinking of 40-year-old us, sitting on this bench in the sun, looking at the younger version of themselves. I wonder what they’ll think.
“You must have questions,” I say, “You always do.”
They smile and pull out their phone. Always so prepared for everything.
“I do,” they admit, “but do you have any first?”
So considerate. We always were. I shake my head.
“I know you,” I say, “I am you, I’ve lived you. I have all my answers.”
“True…okay…”
They pause, looking at their phone, deciding.
“Are we successful?”
A good question. A complex question.
“Yes,” I decide, “But not in the way you think. We’re not president of anything. We don’t run clubs or workshops.”
Their face falls, panic replacing it.
“But it’s okay.” I reassure them.“I can feel your panic. I feel it everyday, but there’s something we’re learning and you have to trust me. You work so freaking hard.”
They nod and I can feel their pulse racing.
“You work so hard and it’s admirable. But it doesn’t make you happy.”
“Success makes me happy.”
“And tired. So tired. Not physically but…in every other sense of being, you are tired…”
They are quiet.
“So we decided to rest, “ I continue, “we are learning that this workaholic mindset doesn’t work anymore…we learn that if we do that, we’re gonna burn out. And we learn that we can still be successful…and take naps.”
They look up.
“We nap?” they ask.
“Oh yeah we nap,” I smile, “Napping is fuck*ng awesome. Everyone was right. Most things can be fixed with a good nap.”
They look at me and I feel for a moment they feel like I failed.
“We didn’t fail…” I whisper, “You have to believe me…and trust me…I promise, I won’t let us fail…”
They take a deep breath and nod.
“Okay,” they smile. “But we did good right?”
“We did so good!”
They’re shaking a little and I reach out to take their hand. They hold it and scroll through their list.
“Okay, second question, how’s college?”
I laugh.
“A roller coaster and nothing like you thought it would be!”
“What do you mean?”
“You know how Mom always says the more she knows, the less she feels she knows?”
“Yeah.”
“Well that’s accurate as f*ck…you learn A LOT of stuff and you end up having more questions than you did before, but it’s good because it’s life giving and you finally understand bits and pieces of our world you didn’t get before. It’s awesome. And terrifying.”
“That’s cool…” they frown, “Why isn’t it like we expected it to be?”
I look at them and I know what I say next will scare them. But if I do it right they’ll be okay.
“You have another crisis…”
They’re eyes widen.
“Not like that…well not at first. The pandemic hit you harder than you thought it would and you spent most of the semester at home, commuting.”
They’re scared again, I can feel it.
“But believe it or not it’s actually a little bit of a miracle,” I chuckle, “Do you remember as a kid when we couldn’t spin in circles? Because if we did something terrible would happen?”
They nod.
“That’s OCD, babes, and it turns out we have it.”
“OCD? Like organizing your clothes by color?”
“Not really, it’s more complicated than that. It’s like…” I sigh and sit back, “You get a thought in your head like…like If I touch this sink, I’m gonna get sick and die and so you don’t touch the sink. But then the sink turns into a doorknob and a doorknob into the whole door and then the carpet and walls and suddenly you can’t touch anything ‘cause you’ll get sick and die and so you freak out. It’s wild.”
They look at me. Silent. And then they burst out laughing.
“Sh*t, that’s what that is?”
I nod and smile as they cackle.
“I thought everyone had that!”
“Nope! Turns out freaking out over little sh*t and having all those silly routines is not normal! And that’s why we’re on meds!”
I give them a thumbs up and they copy me.
“Yay for meds! Do they work?”
“You know that constant sense of doom you have?”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, we don’t have that anymore.”
“Oh my god they do work…”
I nod and pull the bottle out from my pack.
“These babies are gonna save you a lot of grief so don’t fight them, okay?”
They nod, taking the bottle from my hand and turning it over in theirs. A beat of silence. A second one.
“Are we happy?”
I don’t answer. They look at me.
“These are also anti-depressants. Are we happy?” they ask.
I nod.
“Yeah…and sad…we’re a lot of things. We’re happy because we finally start to find peace. We start to read and write again. We start to do things we enjoy again. We’re happy because we make new friends that get us. We’re sad because Mom and Dad split…”
I wait for their reaction.
“Unsurprising,” they say, “but still sad.”
I nod.
“We’re sad because our doggo goes and the world turns out to be a pretty sh*tty place…we’re angry ‘cause our first relationship doesn’t last and our second one flops. We’re angry ‘cause governments only get worse-”
“Worse?”
“Just wait til January boo, sh*t gets real.”
They scoff.
“But it’s all good, really, in the end. We learn a lot from that sadness and that anger. We learn how to protect ourselves, how to set boundaries, who to let in and who to keep at a distance. We learn what’s important to us and what we no longer value. And we learn that we don’t have to know everything. That the best part of life is not knowing and getting to find out. We’re a lot gentler with ourselves and it’s amazing to finally start to forgive ourselves for being human. It’s good, I promise. Even if it’s a little scary.”
They lean into me and I smile, wrapping my arms around their small frame and burying my face into their hair.
“It sounds like the future is pretty awesome,” they say.
“It really is,” I murmur.
“What do I have to do to get that future?”
“Just be you. Wonderful, glorious you.”
They laugh.
“Everyone always says that!”
“Funnily enough it’s true! Most of that fluffy bullsh*t is.”
Their phone dings and they sit up, glancing at the screen.
“That’s my alarm…any advice before I have to go to math?”
I wrinkle my nose and think.
“Be gentle with yourself. Respect your boundaries. Eat more cake.”
They laugh.
“And never fake it,” I raise my eyebrow.
They go beet red.
“But-”
“No buts. They’re big boys. They can handle it.”
“Alright, alright…I’ll try not to…” they say, eyes rolling.
“You’re gonna be late to math.”
“We’re always late to math.”
“Yeah, that never really changes.”
They reach over to me, giving me one last hug.
“See you in twenty years.”
“Same place?”
They stand and shrug.
“Maybe. Maybe it’ll change. We’ll see!” and they turn, waving goodbye as they walk away.
I sit back on the bench, watching the park around me. They’re gonna be just fine. We’re gonna be just fine.