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 Love by Adele

Tell me, do you feel the way my past aches?
When you lay on me, can you hear the way my heart breaks?
I wanted you to have everything I never had
I’m so sorry if what I’ve done makes you feel sad

I’m holding on (barely)
Mama’s got a lot to learn (it’s heavy)
I’m holding on (catch me)
Mama’s got a lot to hear (teach me)

 Listening to that song felt like standing in front of a mirror that saw everything—my pain, my guilt, my longing, my love—and reflected it back with devastating honesty. Pain doesn’t sit in a neatly compartmentalized box. It seeps into the corners of your life that you’ve been trying so hard to protect.

My children feel my heart ache when I’m sad, overwhelmed, or it all feels too much. They sense it. They carry it. They feel lost in it, too.

CJ was conceived after we returned from two back-to-back deployments. We weren’t healed. We weren’t ready. We were still children ourselves.

From the beginning, he’s absorbed my emotions—carried my pain like armor. He’s stepped into the role of protector, shielding his brothers so they wouldn’t have to feel what he does. But that’s not his job. He deserves freedom. He deserves a childhood without worry.

When I could finally see this, I knew it was time. It was time to stop running.

I began my healing journey six months ago. I started to see the trauma. I began to recognize the reactions. Some days, I could stay ahead of the wave. Other days, I got pulled under. But now, when I fight my way back to the surface, I can look my children in the eyes, apologize, and name the hurt. I can show them that what happened wasn't okay—and that I’m choosing something different. I’m choosing them.

Reparenting the child within you while also parenting the child in front of you is one of the most challenging and least acknowledged parts of motherhood.

If I can climb through the hurt and show up as an authentic, imperfect mother, so can you, mama.

Healing doesn’t mean having it all together. It means showing up with your whole heart and seeing your little loves staring back at you with eyes wide and deep like an ocean.