My Little Loves
If this were like a book, I’d have a dedication page that said, "To my parents, I love you." I wouldn’t be the woman, mother, friend, wife, and person I am without you. My childhood, teenage, and adult trauma is not yours to carry. I’ve made it through the trauma, and I will make it through the healing. It’s funny how the mind will protect you from the trauma, tucking it away where you can’t reach, but your body remembers. Trauma shows its face, not as a memory, but as a reaction. Sudden, invisible, and overwhelming. Like a wave crashing before you even see it coming, before you know it, you’re under, fighting for air, clawing your way back to calm. But I’m strong. I can take it. I won’t let it win. For so long, I believed I was outrunning it—glancing back, laughing, certain I’d left it behind. Then I’d turn around and slam right into it. Again. And again. And again. Until one day, I stopped running. I was driving one day, and this song came on the radio: My Little...
