Desperate to be Heard
As little girls, many of us are taught NOT to listen to our bodies.
When you grow up in a high-demand religion centered around phrases like “Praise to the Man,” those messages become ingrained from the time you're barely old enough to speak. By 18 months old, we were already learning them through one of the most powerful forms of conditioning that exists: music. We sang a song of jubilee that we were stars shining brightly for all the world to see — but ONLY if we do and say happy things each day.
We learned to ignore our emotions. Be happy. Be pleasing. Make life easier for everyone around you. Deny what your body is telling you for the comfort of others. That wasn't just encouraged — it was celebrated. It was the goal.
Be.
Perfectly.
Happy.
And if you're an overachiever, you become exceptionally good at it. Year after year, songs become lessons. Lessons become habits. Habits become your identity. Then one day, it's your turn to teach the next generation the very same message: ignore how you feel and follow these rules instead.
It took me 35 years to leave that message behind.
But leaving didn't magically turn my inner voice back on. It took another eight years before I could finally hear what my body had been trying to tell me all along.
I'm privileged enough to have therapy covered by insurance, and in 2023 I started going every week. I wasn't in crisis. I wasn't even sure why I wanted to go. I just felt pulled toward it. My body told me it was time.
So I searched for a therapist, somehow found one on the first try and made the appointment. We started slowly and covered my basics:
Born into the church
Third of seven kids
Raised in a military family, moving every few years around the world
Married at 18
You know, the foundations of trauma.
Eventually my therapist suggested EMDR. I had heard of Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing before, but I didn't know much about it. Being naturally curious — and always up for an adventure — I was excited to try something new.
If you've experienced EMDR before, you know one of the first steps is identifying a safe place. Somewhere your mind can return if the memories become overwhelming. My therapist gave me a few minutes to find my safe space. Immediately, my mind started racing. I searched everywhere. It felt like I was running from room to room inside a giant house, desperately trying to find somewhere that felt safe enough to stop.
Nothing.
The longer I searched, the more anxious I became. My people-pleasing instincts kicked in immediately. I was convinced I was doing EMDR wrong and that my therapist was probably getting impatient waiting for me. Finally, I admitted what was happening. He gently told me to take a little more time. When I closed my eyes again, I found myself somewhere completely unexpected. I was a little girl, maybe three or four years old, sitting alone beneath my favorite blanket. Everything around me was dark. I told my therapist where I was.
He asked, “Do you feel safe there?”
I answered, “I'm scared...but if I stay under my blanket, I'm safe.”
Of course, my therapist recognized that this wasn't actually a safe place. Instead of moving on, he invited me to stay there for a while. He asked if there was anyone nearby who could help little me.
“No,” I answered. “The people out there aren't safe.”
Then he asked if present-day me could comfort her.
“No, I don’t know how.”
Then he asked a question I'll never forget.
“What about future you?”
I paused.
I had never imagined a future version of myself in that way before.
But after sitting with it for a moment, I quietly answered,
“Yes.”
Then something beautiful happened. I saw her. My future self. She was radiant — flowing, with soft purple and pink light shimmering around her. She felt wise. Peaceful. Whole. She wrapped her arms around me while I wrapped my arms around my younger self. The three of us sat there together. Separate, yet somehow one.
She didn't say much. She didn't need to. Her presence alone taught me something I have never forgotten.
I am more than the version of myself standing here today.
A few months later, I wrote this in my journal about the session:
“I think this memory was about emotional safety and much as it was about physical safety. If no one can truly see the real me, then I'm safe.”
That sentence changed everything. From that day forward, I started listening. Really listening. It wasn't easy and honestly, it still isn't, but I stopped shutting myself out.
I let myself scream.
I let myself cry.
I let myself be weird.
I let myself be angry.
I let myself be sad.
After more than four decades of pushing my emotions away, there were a lot of feelings waiting to be felt. It has been one of the hardest things I've ever done. It's also been one of the most freeing.
Today, I have practices that help me reconnect with my body when I lose my way. Meditation has become the easiest path back to myself. It's where I can hear the quiet voice beneath all the expectations. The one that knows exactly what I need before my mind catches up.
And these days, when I do EMDR, I finally have a safe place. I call it my meditation meadow. It's somewhere I visit often, but not because I'm hiding anymore. After all these years, I've finally learned how to come home to myself.
