Side-view reflections
When trauma masquerades as wisdom
We're on our way home from an overnight stay at my parent's house. Windows rolled down, my toddler rests his hand on the door of the car, fingers dangling over the threshold of the window. His eyes squint against the brightness of the Leo sun and warm breeze.
I watch him in the side-view mirror, wondering what he's contemplating. His face so stern, he can only be contemplating life's greatest mysteries.
More likely, he's wondering when is the right time to ask for another snack.
But still, as I watch him deep in thought, I'm convinced he's mulling over how to best serve his purpose in this world, how he can step into his role as a light worker, ushering in the next generation of beings here to change the world.
He is a light worker, after all.
His innocence is pure. His wonder contagious.
He smiles at strangers, waves to passersby, watching humans intently as only a toddler can.
He sees people at their purest form. Knows their heart in an instant. Trusts in the goodness of humanity.
My daughter does too. Mostly.
But she's asking different questions now.
"Why can't I walk to the library by myself?" she asks often.
Months away from officially being a teenager, she's no longer of the age where I can make decisions for mysterious parental reasons. She wants explanations. She wants to understand my logic.
It's less than a mile up a guarded path. I should let her walk it. I've walked that same path for nearly six years. I know it well.
But something tells me it isn't safe.
Maybe it's rooted in reality. The path does meander through a thick wooded area.
But more likely it's rooted in my own history of trauma.
I dance this line–a boundary of sorts. Wanting to protect my little girl from the dangers of the world while supporting her budding independence. But having no clear idea of how to do that.
How do you teach your child about being aware of her surroundings without terrifying her? How do you acknowledge that young women do go missing, that sexual assaults do happen, without making her afraid to exist in the world?
How do you separate legitimate caution from trauma-induced fear when they feel exactly the same in your body?
Years ago, when she was nearly 6, she made a new friend at camp. They became quick buddies and stuck together through their two weeks together. The weekend between the two weeks, they ran into each other at the pool in her dad’s community. Her dad chatted with the girl’s mom, and realized both girls were going to camp again the next week and that they lived mere blocks from one another.
“We can carpool, if you’d like,” the mother suggested.
“Sure, that sounds great. Let me just confirm with her mom,” my ex replied.
He called me later that afternoon, sharing the plan.
“Does that sound ok to you?” he asked.
I could already sense the dread in my body. The fear. The panic.
“Uh, yeah. I guess,” I replied.
“You’re not sure,” he responded, detecting the hesitation in my voice.
“No no. I’m sure it’s fine. You hung out with them all day. I trust your judgment,” I quickly said.
Later that night - nearly midnight - I sat up in bed, dripping in a panic-induced sweat.
Picking up my phone, I quickly typed out: “What if they pick her up tomorrow and by the time we know she’s missing she’s smuggled on a plane halfway around the world?”
“Damnit, Tina,” he responded nearly immediately. “I’ll text the lady and cancel,” he offered, not needing any further explanation.
Back then, I was able to protect her from my anxiety by making decisions behind the scenes.
Now, nearly a decade later, I'm painfully aware of the anxiety palpitating through my body. I can see how I'm trying to package it neatly in a box and hand it to her.
As someone who believes our children deserve to live a life free from the burdens of past generations, I know I have work to do.
It is my duty to send my children into adulthood with the tools they need to process and resolve their own shadows, without the burden of standing in mine.
Watching my son through the side-view mirror, I vow to do this differently. But I know how shallow my vows can be in the face of my shadows.
It takes more than awareness to break free from patterns carved this deep.
I don't know how to teach my daughter about staying safe without making her afraid. I don't know how to separate my legitimate concerns from my trauma.
But watching my toddler now, his face tilted toward the sun, his small fingers dancing in the wind, maybe that's where I start. Not with answers, but with remembering what joy looks like. Remembering what trust looks like before the world teaches us to be afraid.
I don't have the answers. I'm not sure I ever will. But I do have the awareness now, and two children who deserve more than my unhealed wounds masquerading as wisdom.
For today, that will have to be enough.
Tomorrow, for my email subscribers, I will be sharing additional insight about this reflection - practical steps that I am taking to walk this path, for myself and for my children, along with a weekly Oracle card reading and access to a free meditation. You can get the insider content here.
On Sunday, August 10th, I am stepping back into sacred community for the first time since my surgery. Join me alongside Trish Brewer & Maria Winters for Weaving Hope: a circle for meditation, breathing, and reflection. Sliding scale $19-$49, because healing should be accessible to all hearts ready to receive it. Register today.