Trigger Warning: This article covers topics related to childhood trauma, depression, and suicidal ideation. Please take care of yourself while reading, and step away if you need to. If you are in distress, remember you are not alone—help is available through trusted friends, therapists, or resources such as the 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline (in the U.S.).
Greetings, shadows, my familiar companion.
I can’t cast you aside—because you only become more powerful. I’m learning to allow you to coexist. You rest within my chest like an empty burden, communicating not through language but through pressure.
At the age of two, I felt my grandmother’s sorrow. She struggled to accept love. I absorbed it on her behalf.
At three, I watched my mother, tears brimming in her eyes. “Don’t cry, Mommy. It’s alright,” I said, fighting back tears myself. She required solace, so I did my utmost to provide it.
At four, I recall sitting on the porch, longing for my mother to come for me. I hadn’t seen her in two years, a victim of being shuffled between my parents—there were no legal disputes, just the harsh reality of the seventies with parental kidnappings and domestic turmoil.
My mom, a survivor of domestic violence, carried profound trauma. Yet all I knew was that I missed her terribly. So I sang.
At twelve, I stood by my best friend’s funeral—her hands crossed, one revealing a bruise. The feeling of grief never truly departed after that, sometimes diminishing, yet always lurking nearby.
At fifteen, I stole floral shorts because we couldn’t afford to fit in. I gazed at my reflection in the brightly lit mirror: green eyes, putting on a smile, internally hurting, waiting for my first love to arrive. Even then, I felt it.
At twenty-two, just before Christmas, I found myself alone. Residing in a small apartment, finishing my last semester at college. My mom was back in the hospital—her depression now diagnosed as bipolar disorder, frequently accompanied by psychosis. The sorrow became mine to bear quietly, my pain unnoticed by others.
I nearly took my own life. I was on the brink. But I didn’t go through with it. Perhaps hope kept me tethered, a stubborn inner thread believing in another tomorrow.
Instead, I held my cat and cried. I opened the holy book my aunt gifted me and whispered a prayer. My cat’s soothing purrs comforted me, and I appreciated his company.
When darkness returns, it doesn’t always manifest as me. Sometimes I retrace a memory; at other times, I observe the little girl I once was, silently suffering.
Darkness, I recognize you. You deserve acknowledgment. I can embrace you. I can nurture you. I’m learning to manage this better.
This realization didn’t happen all at once but gradually unfolded within my being over time.
The memories I recounted, although not linear, surfaced during a Brainspotting session.
Brainspotting is a focused mindfulness technique: involving visual cues to connect with bodily sensations, facilitating subconscious release where language may falter.
I discovered it as a therapist, in search of my own healing while assisting clients like myself.
Throughout the years, I have engaged in numerous sessions—both alone and with my therapist. Each session digs deeper, revealing my narrative, innate wisdom, and uncovering grief, latent memories, and childhood defense mechanisms that my mind couldn’t access.
Facing these realities has profoundly changed my life. Each session boosts my self-compassion, enhances my capacity to endure difficult emotions without dissociating, and deepens my understanding of trauma within the nervous system.
The insights aren’t tidy or immediate; it’s a continuous journey of gently acknowledging the girl and young woman I was—reclaiming my voice and making choices today from my adult self, not my child self.
Once, during a journey, the pain resurfaced. I was momentarily distanced from a relationship. An abandonment wound emerged—not from explicit problems but through familiar silence and separation. In other circumstances, space didn’t bother me. Yet that evening, something within my subconscious yearned to surface, and I felt it before I could grasp it.
I settled down and concentrated on a specific spot.
Visions of grief, isolation, and survival moments my body had held on to manifested. As they flowed by, my chest loosened, releasing what it was prepared to while reorganizing everything internally.
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