From Eye-Roll to Awakening: My Inner Child Wake-Up Call

I used to skim right past anything labeled "inner child." It felt so outdated as a concept, cheesy, embarrassing even, like something from a self-help book I'd never actually read. Life moved fast, and I was busy performing adulthood: push through, stay strong, get approval, keep moving. Feelings? Needs? Those were distractions. I lived like my body and heart were optional equipment.

Then something shifted. I started noticing there are different parts inside me. Not metaphors—real, distinct ways I feel and react. There's this soft, vulnerable part that's been here since I was small. It carries the fears, the hurts, the pure joys I used to feel freely. And the way I've been treating that part?

It's the same way I was treated, or the way I learned to treat myself to survive. We grow up being taught to override ourselves. "Don't cry." "Be tough." "Don't need so much." "Change who you are so people like you." We learn to abandon our own feelings and needs in the name of being "good" or "successful" or "lovable." It's so normalized we don't even see it happening.

But slow down with me for a second. Imagine that vulnerable, feeling part isn't abstract—it's like a real child who's been with you every single day of your life. Right here, right now, tagging along through meetings, arguments, quiet nights alone.

If a literal child was sitting next to you:

Would you snap at them, "Stop being afraid—toughen up"?

Would you tell them their needs are too much, their emotions inconvenient?
Would you force them to look/act/dress a certain way just because others might judge?
Would you send them out into the world desperate for everyone's approval before they feel okay?

No. Most of us wouldn't dream of it.

We'd pause. We'd kneel down to their level.

We'd say things like:

"It's okay to feel scared—I'm right here."
"Your feelings matter. Tell me what's going on inside."
"You don't have to change a thing to be loved. I love you exactly as you are."
"We'll figure this out together. You don't have to earn safety or care."

We'd hold space. Protect. Comfort. Guide without shaming. Teach them gently that other people's opinions aren't the final verdict on their worth.

Seeing my own inner parts through that lens changed everything. Not overnight, but gradually, like thawing after a long freeze. The constant self-criticism quiets. The patterns of self-abandonment (people-pleasing, overworking, numbing out) lose their grip. Joy creeps back in. Intuition gets louder.

Because that vulnerable part finally feels met instead of exiled.

This is the work I'm doing now—not some quick fix, but a daily practice of showing up as the loving, steady adult presence I needed back then... and still need today.

It takes time. It goes against everything we've been taught about "strength." But it's real. And it's worth the slowness.

If any of this resonates—even a little—maybe give yourself permission to pause too. Listen to that quieter part. Speak to it the way you'd speak to a child you cherish.

What would change if you did?

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