Somewhere, I lost my inner child. The child that emerged when I entered the world. A part of my innate being. She has been lost.

That’s not how it always was. I can barely grasp the whisps of a time when I was whole and complete. Pieces of me were not torn off and discarded then. But along the way, it happened. Where I once was whole, I now am rent and worn.

I hide it all under a sparkling coat of partial truths, half lies. The covering makes me appear how I’m supposed to be, or at least how I believe I’m supposed to be, and that brings refuge from the storm pounding down on me.

We entered this wilderness of life together, but I left her behind.

Sometimes I despised her. So wrong and weak and misfit.

I loved her at first.

When I came into this world it seemed that everything I did was a delight. “Ohs,” and “ahs” filled my ears. Then it was not hard to believe that everything about me was wonderful. The simplest endeavor was rewarded with sheer love and joy.

That faded, not completely and not suddenly, but gradually.

Soon, I was only celebrated if I was a version of a person the crowd around me thought was correct.

“Very well done,” I would hear, and the joy those words sparked, flared around me. I craved more.

And so when the opposite came, “Oh no, don’t do that!” “That’s not how we behave.” “Be a good girl.” I hated it, hated her.

The inner child elicited the criticism and I despised her.

“Go away!” I shouted. “Leave me alone. You are not a part of me.”

And she did. She hid in fear, within the woods, alone, forgotten, discarded and I was glad. I left her behind and I was happy to do it.

“I hate her,” I thought with no regret. “You are not who I am supposed to be.”

And around me, it was confirmed once I left her when I no longer gave her space.

“That is so good.”

“Sit still.”

“Be quiet.”

“Stop dreaming.”

“Yes, yes. So good. You are what we want.”

I learned and I taught her as I shunned her and erased her.

“Yes, that is what we want.”

“That is who we want you to be.”

I would say there was no regret, that the reward was worth it. But I felt the loss of her. I knew that I was leaving her behind. Everyone told me it was right and I hung onto that, but still, it was a piece of my core being that was torn from me.

The message persisted.

“Oh child, you are so good when you…”

“Nice little girls like you don’t…”

So, I didn’t.

I wanted to be a nice little girl. To be “oohed” and “ahhed” over like I once was. I complied and it tamped down the tender feelings of loss. Hid them in the mud I gladly walked in, wiping all I could off my feet in disgust.

I ignored her screaming, “Please don’t leave me behind. I belong with you!”

“Shut up!” I said. “Leave me alone. You are wrong and when you are with me, I am wrong.”

“But,” she would cry out, “I am a part of you.”

And then I would rage against my inner child.

“I hate you! I hate that you are a part of me. Leave me alone.”

So I gained acclamations from the outer world I lived in, whenever possible. I was a “good girl.” I complied and followed rules and most of the time, it seemed those around me liked me. Oh yes, they liked me especially if I did not cause any problems. As long as I was a conscious follower.

It felt good for a minute. I had done my duty, rid myself of that disgusting, tiny, pathetic, disobedient child.

Sometimes when I was alone, when no one could see me or judge me or tell me how bad I was, I would call for her.

“Please come back. You are a part of me. As long as no one sees us together, it’s okay.”

She is a kind and tender child, yearning only to be loved, to belong.

So she would come back. Sometimes we were even friends, but always I told her, “Always, you must hide when I tell you to.”

And she did.

Sometimes she would hide for so long, I forgot about her. And around me, I heard what I needed to keep her hidden away.

“You’re so smart.”

I got pieces of paper that seemed to say, “Now! Now you are something of worth.”

Look at me. I matter. Then I would look around and see who else mattered. Who else had the correct piece of paper, list of achievements, talents, jobs, number of children, home, husband, security, and family?

This was how it all unfolded I was told, and I believed it.

But when the iron no longer scorched the fabric of my life trying to unwrinkle my quirks, she would return.

“Don’t you miss me?” she wondered. And I did. I missed her desperately. I didn’t even know it at times, because when something is gone long enough, you no longer feel the absence. Only when they come back is the invisible chasm filled and felt.

“I do,” I would cry. “Now that I see you again, I do. But you are wrong! You are not who I’m supposed to be. Other people won’t understand and I need other people, more than I need you.”

But the people would leave.

Always eventually left alone, my mask was torn to pieces and what was underneath was wounded and scarred and sometimes very ugly. It could be no other way because I had torn away and discarded pieces of myself.

You cannot break yourself down and then not expect to be damaged, but you can very effectively hide the brokenness.

I hid my inner child.

Behind goodness and compliance.

Others hide it in other ways, behind work, or perfection. And I did some of that as well.

It is hidden behind drugs, alcohol, or the perfect social media page, the perfect family, the perfect marriage.

Yes, society appreciates some methods of deception more than others, but the masking is all the same–a bid to hide our loss of the perfect child we once were.

Now that lost inner child is maimed, beaten, hated, and ignored. It is easier that way than to deal with all the outside ridicule, judgment, and disgust.

Until it isn’t.

Now, for me, it isn’t. Well, it is still easier, but no longer worth it.

I pull the mask away piece by piece. I hold and heal the broken pieces. But there are so many. Is it even possible to be whole again? I ask the child to come back. To teach me who I am. To find that inner child, that baby who lay in her parent’s arms and was delighted over simply for being. I know she will never be the same. I will never be the same, but perhaps, we can at least be together again.

It’s not a linear journey with a clear end in sight, but rather a maze, where it is easy to become lost again.

It is only pieces of me missing.

Surely they can be ignored. That’s the toxic poison I feed myself sometimes. But she can’t, because she deserves to be loved, appreciated, and seen in awe. And no matter how much I have ignored and despised her. No matter how far I ran from her, she has always been there crying out, longing for belonging.

I know now, and it is time.

It is time to be whole again, or at least to patch it together as best as possible. I am not a perfect physician, but I am a resident-in-training, and now that I know, I will keep trying–to call her back, to find her, and to let her know she matters and is loved, not by any outside being, world, place or person.

She is loved by me because she is a part of me.

Once she is loved by me, I will be able to share her with the world. If she is hated then, it won’t matter because I will have found her, loved her, and nurtured her with tenderness. She will no longer be lost.

She deserves a voice. Every inner child does. He, or she, is a part of who you are authentically. That child deserves space to grow, the room just to be, a place to belong.