The Inner Child Does Not Go on Vacation

I took time off this month, a winter break here in New Zealand while much of the world summers in the sun. I planned to cocoon myself on the couch and sip tea as I watched the tides change in the harbor and the water reflecting the ever-shifting sky.

Only whenever I tried to settle or sit, I was surprised to encounter a gasping emptiness inside desperate for air, a hurt child gulping in full shocks of breath that hadn't yet gathered enough voice to scream. 

"I thought I was taking care of you," I responded begrudgingly to a little girl inside, age four, no more than five, quaking with fear and sadness alone in a dark bed.

As a trauma specialist, I do a lot of my own work with my younger parts and my Inner Child. I felt impatient and annoyed. Hadn’t I resolved this already?

It's what I hear so many people say. Despite the inner work we've done, parts of us still surface in despair, dejected precisely because they continue to be met with our disdain and indifference.

The parts of me who wanted to enjoy the vacation desired nothing to do with my little girl. "How inappropriate," they muttered amongst themselves. "Her timing is terrible. Can't she see we're trying to rest?"

They resented any hint of inner need and the responsibility of responding it required. They tried their best to convince me she could wait and it was better not to respond at all, offering me distraction after distraction to occupy my time.

And I took the bait. I reorganized my closet. I cleaned the kitchen drawers. I saw friends. I started browsing for new veranda furniture online.

And the minute I paused, there she was.

Collapsed.

Despairing.

Barely crying because she'd given up on anyone coming to care for her.

It would've been heart-breaking, if I hadn't hardened my heart to her suffering. Instead of softening, I felt frustrated and even angry that this inner child part of me hadn't figured out how to solve this suffering on her own.

There was a part of me who was overwhelmed at the sight of her and thought she was pathetic: a tiny four-year-old, skinny, sunburned rings under her eyes, curled up in her bed, weeping silently lest she disturb anyone and get in trouble.

I could recognize the inner parts of me that wanted to neglect her, just like she’d been neglected in real life. And other parts that didn't know what to do or how to trust themselves to help her. I knew it wouldn't help to keep allying with those parts of me that saw her pain as weakness and believed that weakness was best distanced and despised.

Her feelings threatened to sink my plans for rest and slowing down. I knew my frustrated parts preferred strategies of self-criticism and overwork to distract me from the little one’s quiet sobs and to keep the flood of her feelings away.

No matter how much I bought into their strategies, any time I paused, there she was, growing evermore desperate for care and attention the more I tried to look away.

Her need wasn’t going away when I refused to attend to it. Instead, it got stronger.

Before I could respond to my little girl, I needed to accept how deeply I'd failed her.

I'd allowed my frustration to lock her away and convince me her needs would infect and paralyze me. Her pain was so old and untended that it felt too big to handle, like waves that would capsize everything.

Those parts — the frustration, the overwhelm, the overwork, the criticism — wanted to protect me from her. And they had been trying to protect me from her for a long time.

I had to pause with the parts who told me I couldn't handle my inner four-year-old’s big feelings of despondence and despair. I told them they were wrong. These parts of me couldn't hold or handle her, but the adult me, the one right here in the present moment with all my resources and capacity — I can.

I needed to update their narratives about my ability — and choice — to lead my inner world with self-awareness and self-love.

I met those protective parts with acceptance for how scared they were by my little girl's intensity, and gratitude for how long they'd worked to keep her from capsizing us.

Only when they were willing to step back and let me near her did my endless drive for activity cease.

As I came to a halt, I reassured my protective parts that I had the tools to help the little girl, while staying present and centered. I promised them that she wouldn't overwhelm me. 

I approached her and a wave of annihilation pulled me under into a nothingness that was so complete, I almost stopped breathing. I knew I was feeling her feelings, this traumatized, hopeless part of me who had carried this heaviness alone for all this time.

My heart broke or opened or maybe both, because I felt how much this little girl — me, when I was so tiny I wouldn't have been trusted to make my own lunch or cross a street — how much she felt truly and deeply alone.

For her little consciousness, that aloneness turned inwards and collapsed into a self-hatred and confusion so deep and powerful that she willed herself to no longer exist.

I knew my nervous system was in a flashback, pointing me towards unresolved trauma that was ready to heal. To my nervous system, relaxation felt too much like the depression and shutdown of the past. My protective system wouldn't let me go there, so my protective parts motivated me into endless activity — even and especially during my time off.

This time, I wasn't falling for the distraction.

This time, I could see the part of me they'd exiled.

I made my way to that dark bedroom, inside. I sat on the floor next to my little girl's bed, where this young and rejected part could see me. I gave her space, but I let her know I was there, and I wasn't going anywhere.

She didn't trust me, because I’d left her alone inside for so long. It took time for me to show her this would be different.

Every time I felt her pangs of emptiness and annihilation flooding my body, I would pause and turn to her. I would go inside and picture myself sitting on the floor next to her bed, just being with her. I spent days doing that, not expecting anything to change, meeting her as she was, bringing my presence, my attention, and my care.

After a while, I started to sit at the bottom of the bed. And later, after hundreds of momentary visits, some lasting just a few seconds, some longer, she allowed me to place my hand on her arm. I felt her stiff little body, curled and contorted with tension, and I stayed with her.

I wanted to do more, but I knew nothing more was required. 

All she needed was me, in my wise adult self, to show care for her.

She needed to see that even though I'd abandoned her, I was never going to leave her again.

Everything else — the worries about getting it right, about whether she would drag me down with her, or what it would take for me to constantly attend to her like this — disappeared as my heart opened to her. To me. And to the pain we'd been carrying all this time.

The thing about healing developmental trauma and CPTSD is that it happens in layers. Often, the youngest parts of us don't have access to language. They need us to respond to their needs, first with presence and then with love.

What is unbearable for a child can be soothed and held by the adults we have become. We're not as vulnerable as we think we are. We have skills and resources now that we didn't have then. We can learn how to be with, and heal, the pain.

I could explain the neurobiology and the memory reconsolidation that was happening in my experience.

But I prefer the parts approach of Internal Family Systems (IFS), that sees our inner experiences and feelings as aspects of ourselves. I find it a more elegant language to talk about how we heal.

My little girl is more awake now. She responds when I come to see her, which I continue to do many times a day. As she continues to connect with me and trust my commitment to her, there will be more healing ahead.

In the future, she'll be able to let go of the pain of the past and leave that dark room, to come to the present and share her gifts. For now, though, I time travel to visit her and bring her care.

If you've ever had feelings of loneliness, depression, and anxiety arise unexpectedly, just when you're planning to relax and enjoy, I encourage you to explore trauma healing with me or another specialist.

That way, your little ones can also come home to you. And you can sit together, just like I'm doing with my little girl, showing her how the waters change over the harbor, reflecting the winter sky.

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