Today, I was in tears as I shared tea with my little me who was sexually abused.
Each gulp caressed my frightened inner child who feared the openness of being loved.
The warmth, which coated my throat, placed a slow, gentle hand on her quivering shoulders. She startled and quickly snapped her neck upon feeling the relief that settled in my belly.
The serenity took her by surprise; she was expecting it to be a dreaded encounter.
Savoring the luscious taste of oolong with tranquil, deep breathing, engulfed her in the safest comfort of being seen—without having to lower her head in shame.
I wept tears of grace, imagining how her young heart survived all this time without me.
Her poised and composed silence whispered that she’d mounted many modest victories against pillages that would leave my worrisome mind trembling.
And without exchanging a single word, she bared her soul as the hero in our duo.
The one who was left stranded behind on a deserted island, but managed to start a fire, gather food, and stay alive without a helping hand.
I wailed in earth-shattering gratitude amidst the solitude, which blanketed our joined presence.
That even as she was lost for all these years, she had been okay all along. And only needed to be reunited with the considerate company of my free flowing tears to experience the wholeness of knowing that she had not been abandoned.