Chapter 3, Who can sit still to meditate?

Nine years ago, I was given a gift—but not the kind wrapped in shiny foil with a perfect bow. No, this was the kind of gift that kicks you in the gut, drags you through the mud, and makes you question everything.

It was the gift of human experience.

And let me tell you—it was hell.

The first challenge on my so-called “healing journey” was to connect with my inner child. Sounds sweet, right? Like some cozy, heartwarming exercise where I’d sit in meditation, gently reconnecting with the little girl inside me.

Except—no. That is not how it went.

The moment I tried to be still, my body revolted. The internal pain screamed at me, like an angry storm raging inside my chest. Meditation? That was a joke. Stillness wasn’t peaceful—it was torture.

It felt like being trapped on a boat in the middle of the ocean, waves tossing me in every direction, the nausea building with every swell. My entire system was in fight-or-flight, and if stillness was supposed to be the answer, then it felt like the cruelest joke in the world.

I couldn’t stop moving, because movement was the only thing keeping me from drowning in it. If I slowed down—if I actually stopped—my nervous system acted like a wild animal backed into a corner, convinced a bear was six feet behind me, ready to pounce.

And if one more well-meaning person chirped, “Have you tried mindful meditation?”

I was this close to punching them.

It had been a week since surgery. My body was doing its best to heal, but I was exhausted. I lay in bed, trying to fall asleep, when an image popped into my mind—a little girl.

She was about three years old, sweet, quiet, but alone.

She wasn’t crying. She wasn’t reaching for anyone. She just stood there, waiting, needing nothing but a friend.

Instinctively, I knew what to do.

I had seen enough movies to recognize what this was—it was a time travel moment. But the last thing I wanted to do was look at this tiny girl and say, “Hey, I’m you. That felt too jarring, too direct.

So instead, I did something that felt more natural.

A name flashed into my mind: Adel.

I didn’t question it.

"Hello, Denise," I said gently. "I’m Adel."

In this dreamlike state, I heard her soft, hesitant reply.

"Auntie Del" she replied (It was like she couldn’t say Adel)

I smiled. “It’s nice to meet you.”*

And just like that—she smiled back.

The next day, during a nap, I took a few deep breaths, and bang—I was there again.

But this time, Denise wasn’t three. She was twelve.

I watched as she tied the laces on her skates, getting ready for figure skating practice. She was nervous—it was testing day.

"Hi, Denise! Great to see you," I said cheerfully.

She looked up, her hands fidgeting with the ends of her sleeves.

"Hi, Auntie Del," she replied.

I could feel the nerves radiating off her. She had worked hard for this. The pressure was real.

"Denise, it’s great that you’re nervous," I said. "It means you care. It means you’re excited to do well. But however it lands today—that doesn’t define you.”

"Really?" she asked, her big brown eyes searching mine.

"Yes, really. You’ve put in the hours. You’ve worked hard. You’ve done the best you can. That’s all that matters. The result? That’s just a formality. If you don’t like how it turns out, then you figure out what you didn’t know, and you keep going. That’s how growth works.

She paused, as though my words weren’t sinking in.

"Where were you when you started?" I asked.

"I couldn’t skate at all," she admitted.

"Exactly. So you’ve already won. You’ve already reached your goal. Today is just another step. No matter what happens, you’ve already succeeded.”

She let out a small breath. “Thank you,”* she said. “And… thanks for being here for me.”

"I’m always here," I assured her.

And just like that, I drifted off into sleep.

My journey to inner child healing had begun.