Healing My Little Girl Moments

So much of healing work requires us to look back on our lives and embrace our younger selves. For me, it is embracing my little girl — reaching back into moments in time when she was wounded so I can hold her, comfort her, and let her know that she is now safe.

There are so many moments in my little girl’s life where wounds appeared — so many times when weeds rose up to choke her garden of innocence.

In order to effectively heal, you have to remember where the injury was produced.

Remembering is not an easy task for me, now that I am in my 60s. I can walk into the kitchen and forget what I came there for. My sister may ask me about someone I once knew well, and I cannot remember anything about them. So, reaching back for memories might require a deep lift these days.

However, there are scenes etched deeply in my mind that reappear seamlessly — almost like movie clips stored in the cloud of my mind. Because these memories are so prevalent, I know they are spaces that require examination, processing, feeling, and healing.

I shared in earlier blogs that the first time I remember feeling offended was when my grandmother told me that I was Black, fat, ugly, and unlovable. That is a little girl memory that took many years to examine, process, feel, and heal. That little girl has come a long way and is still becoming the woman that God says she is — fearfully and wonderfully made.

As I sit quietly in my room today, I can pull from so many memories where that little girl feels alone within herself.

She feels powerless.

She feels vulnerable.

She feels unseen.

She feels ugly.

She feels unworthy.

She feels weak.

The journey toward my healing requires me to visit that little girl in each of those moments.

It requires me to see her fully.

To sit with her.

To watch her cry.

To hear her moans.

To truly feel her pain.

It requires her to name those feelings out loud — to yell, scream, cuss, shout.

Then I tell her that she is not alone.

I tell her that I am there with her.

I wrap my arms around her and hold her tight.

I tell her that God is there for us.

I tell her that no weapon formed against us shall prosper.

I tell her that we will make it through.

I tell her that the enemy is a liar.

I tell her that we are not what she feels right now.

She is powerful.

She is loved.

She is not alone.

She will be victorious.

She is smart.

She is capable.

She is a conqueror.

The journey to heal my little girl is just that — a journey. There are times when we must revisit trauma so I can remind her of who she is and who she belongs to.

The other day, my little girl remembered something I had not thought about in over 50 years. It was a traumatic situation that happened to my mother.

My mother and her boyfriend, Sam, had been arguing all day. My mother loved Sam. She called him her soulmate. He awakened her womanhood. You could feel their passion when you were in their presence.

My mother said she had been completely in love twice in her life — once with my father and once with Mr. Sam.

I did not particularly like Mr. Sam, but I accepted him because I saw the joy he brought my mother. There was something about him I did not trust, but I was too young to put words to it. Still, my mother seemed happy, so who was I to complain?

At this particular time there was an undercurrent of chaos between my mother and Mr. Sam. In my nosy little eavesdropping, I heard bits and pieces. Mr. Sam had cheated on my mother — and worse, he had gotten another woman pregnant. That crushed her. He had always made her feel like she was the only woman in the world. So, this was the ultimate betrayal.

One day, the arguing escalated. I was upstairs trying to tune out my anxiety about the atmosphere of chaos and violence that seemed to repeat itself among the women in my family. Suddenly, the shouting grew louder. I came out of my room and realized they were now in the basement arguing, and my mother was crying.

I walked down to the bottom of the stairs and yelled, “Stop bothering my mommy.”

My mother yelled back, “Go back upstairs, Valerie. Mind your business.”

I lowered my head and took two steps. Then I heard a loud crash and my mother yelling, “Valerie, help me!”

By the time I reached the bottom of the stairs, my mother and Mr. Sam emerged from a room. Blood was gushing from her face. I yelled, “What did you do to my mom?” He kept apologizing. My mother took my hand, and we walked upstairs. She told me everything would be okay.

As the blood dripped from her face, I couldn’t tell where the wound was. I only knew my mother was hurt. I felt powerless. I felt scared.

Mr. Sam took my mom to the hospital. She returned with stitches on her nose and the top of her lip. He spent the next few weeks apologizing, comforting her and trying to redeem himself, but nothing was ever the same after that.

This episode reinforced trauma in my little girl. It told her she was not safe with men — that she could not trust them, that men hurt the ones they love. It taught her that conflict was dangerous and should be avoided, yet it also planted rage inside her. She wanted to protect her mother but could not. She wanted to lash out but felt afraid and unsure.

She was not safe.

When I revisited this memory, trying to understand why it resurfaced, I realized there must be a place in my present life where I felt unsafe.

Through prayer, I connected that feeling to recently being told that my job was reducing hours and anticipating potential layoffs by June. At the time, I took it in stride. I told myself that I trust God with whatever comes.

But subconsciously, it awakened fear — fear of not being in control, fear of not being safe — the same feelings my little girl experienced all those years ago.

This revealed something important to me: Sometimes we believe we are operating fully in faith, but wounds lie hidden beneath the surface. We miss the triggers. That is why examining, processing, and feeling are essential in the healing journey. There can be so much pain lying dormant within us, yet we have spent so much time covering the wounds in order to survive. We feel fine. We function normally, but deep wounds are tricky. They can rise up unannounced and knock us off our perfectly controlled life. Only through an intimate relationship with God are we able to see the full spectrum of hidden brokenness.

Once I identified the wound, I allowed God to pull it from its roots. I was able to declare with confidence:

God is my provider.

No weapon formed against me shall prosper.

God shall supply all of my needs according to His riches in glory.

My little girl and I will be okay — because God will never leave us nor forsake us.

My message to you today is to never stop visiting your little child. Never be afraid to look at the ghosts that you have hidden in your closet. Your little child needs you. They need your arms wrapped around them. They need to see that you have made it to the other side, despite what it looked like. They need to be introduced to the GOD they you now know and the great things that God has in store for the child and the adult.