Held, at Last

A beach, 1974.

I remember one of those days, many years ago... the kind that doesn’t announce itself, but leaves everything different. Just me and my therapist, in a room that felt too quiet for what was about to surface.

He was a quiet, older gentleman who sat across from me in that softly lit room, with steady eyes and a voice that never flinched.

By then, I had already survived more than I’d ever said aloud.

I’d just come out of the hospital, still raw, still unsure if I belonged anywhere—in that room, in my body, in the world.

After a few minutes into the session where I wasn't saying much, he asked if I would try a guided meditation. And even though part of me wanted to run, I said yes.

“Close your eyes,” he said.

“Now imagine the most beautiful place you can think of.”

So I did.

And I was there—on a beach that only existed in some untouched corner of my mind.

The sand was soft and white, the ocean calm and endless, palm trees swayed with no need to be heard, and children played nearby, laughing freely, surrounded by the kind of love that stays.

Then, his voice broke through again.

“Now… imagine a little girl. She’s there too.

She’s walking along the shore.

She seems okay… but something in her feels a little lost.”

And I saw her.

So clearly.

Tiny. Barefoot. Hesitant.

She wasn’t near the soft trees or the warm sand.

She stood alone, far from the beauty, in a darker, barren stretch of shore, where the sand clung to her feet, swallowing her steps as if trying to claim her, and the wind was a little colder.

Her small feet splashed in the shallows as she turned in slow, uncertain circles—searching for the faces that should have been watching, waiting for the arms that should have come running.

But no one came.

And I could see it land on her face—that quiet, shattering truth:

She was alone.

I could feel her confusion.

Her hesitation.

The moment it hit her that she was alone—hit me too.

Then came his next words:

“Go to her.

Hold her.

Let her know she’s not alone anymore.”

And I did.

I went to her without even thinking.

I knelt in the warm sand and pulled her into my arms.

Not gently, but protectively—like someone who had lost too much to ever let go again.

She didn’t cry. She just leaned into me.

And I didn’t ask why.

I just held her.

Then his voice softened again.

“She won’t find her parents.

From now on, she is yours to care for.”

At that moment, I gathered her into my arms, held her tightly against my chest, and lifted her as if I could carry her out of every shadow she had ever stood in.

My arms trembled, my thoughts whispering promises as I imagined drying her tears with the warmth of my love, silently vowing that she would never feel lost again.

And then the final line—the one that shook something loose in my chest:

“That little girl… is you.”

Time folded in on itself.

And in a second that felt like a lifetime, I understood.

I had loved her instantly.

Held her fiercely.

Promised her safety.

And I hadn’t even known she was me.

I realized, right there, that I had never held myself like that.

Never spoken to myself with that kind of care.

Never believed I was worth saving.

And suddenly... I wanted to.

I wanted to be the one who showed up for her.

Not someday.

Not if someone else failed.

Now.

Me.

Because even if my innocence was long gone, even if trust in people had been broken and buried, maybe…just maybe, I could still reach into the rubble and find something worth holding.

Not the whole little girl I once was—but a part of her.

The part that still wanted to believe joy was possible.

The part that still believed love could be safe, and that healing didn’t mean pretending everything was okay—it just meant choosing not to leave myself behind again.

That was the moment something shifted.

Not everything.

But enough.

I didn’t walk out of that room healed.

But I walked out with a promise:

If no one else ever came—besides Jesus—I would.

I would care for her.

I would care for me.

Tenderly.

Bravely.

Unconditionally.

The way I always deserved.

The way I had always tried to love others—I would finally offer it to myself.

And in that decision, I started to feel the quiet stir of something I thought I had lost for good.

Hope.

Small, but alive.

It was such a simple exercise. But I sat there frozen, tears slipping down my face, because suddenly I could feel it—all the times I had felt lost, all the moments I had waited for someone to come for me. And no one did.

But now... I would.

That day didn’t fix everything. But it gave me a second chance.

The day I chose to stay with myself. The day I became both the child and the mother. The day I remembered what love was supposed to feel like—and decided to learn how to give it.

To her.

To me.

To us.