Hey girl,

I wanted to take a moment to talk to you. First, let me tell you—it’s okay to not speak like everyone else. You don’t have to fit into anyone else’s mold. There are so many people just like you, navigating attention struggles, dealing with depression, and feeling different. You are not alone. And you are not defined by the wrong touch you experienced at a young age—that was not your fault.

You can be yourself, unapologetically. You are not ugly—you are beautiful. You are love. You don’t have to carry the weight of your mother’s trauma or live out your parents’ dreams. You deserve to live for you. There will be people who like you just as you are. That smile of yours? It’s radiant, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

It’s okay to learn differently, to move at your own pace. It’s okay to let go of the things and people that don’t serve you. Anita, it’s okay to live. It’s okay to live your life and forgive the past.

And Anita, about your dad—I know he was a protector and a provider, and you admired him for the way he took care of things. But you don’t need to look for men who remind you of him, especially the parts of him that don’t align with your heart. You don’t need a man who carries the same wildness or chaos. What fits your soul is peace, patience, and understanding.

Be patient, baby girl. Everything God has for you is coming. You don’t need to carry the world on your shoulders or save everyone around you. Focus on saving and loving yourself.

You’re worthy of every good thing this life has to offer. I love you, boo.

With love and belief in you,
Your Older Self

Dear Inner Child,
So few memories of you, the remnants tarnished with your father’s anger or your cousin’s unwanted touch. It is so difficult to remember who we once were. I know your young soul grew tired too quickly; yet here you are. Persevering. Eight years past your first wish for death- an eternal sleep that could finally satisfy your weary soul. How inspiring you are to have kept going- kept fighting for the joy you know is out there.
I know you are tired. I know you don’t want to fight anymore, and I am ecstatic to tell you that all your hard work has finally paid off. You have built a community that nourishes your soul. Even on the sad days and throughout the disappointing moments of life, you have a collective around you ready to wrap you in their arms and shower you with affection until your smile once again lights up the room. Because you do. You light up every room you walk into. Your energy is so bright and magnetic. You draw people in with your glee. You have created a welcoming, loving, joyful environment that you so desperately wanted growing up. You are the peace you so desperately sought. You are the warmth and love your growing soul craved.
I am so proud of the independent, resilient, loving young woman you have grown into. Thank you for not giving up. Thank you for holding on even if it wasn’t always for you. Thank you for giving yourself- for giving present me and future us- a chance at the happiness you dreamed of every night. If not for you- for the hope burning within you, we would not have this community. We would not be creating our own home. We would not be able to fall asleep in his arms, steal the covers in the morning, and come home to a kiss on the cheek and dinner on the table.
I know you are so sad that you had to fight so long and so hard for this unconditional love. I realize a part of you still wishes that you felt this love growing up. I know a part of you is still angry that you had to love yourself and drag yourself through the harsh hurdles of life because the parents who were supposed to be there to cushion the blows turned their backs on you, too busy with their petty bickering. I know a part of you is guilty of the anger you feel inside because you recognize the hurt inner child within them that was not as strong as you- not strong enough to cherish their happiness or love every part of themselves as I love you.
Most days you might not think so, but that is my favorite thing about you. No matter what feelings of disdain you may hold for another seemingly shitty person, you see their wounds. You see the inner child within throwing a tantrum and you know the pain they face whether they tell you or not. You are so emotionally intelligent. I understand you may be angry that you cannot be as cold-blooded and petty as your sisters, but you are the warmth that melts the icy exterior. You are the gentle helping hand that allows the angry inner children around you to open up and heal what they have bottled up and hidden away from themselves for so long. Without your emotional intelligence, without the unconditional love you have to offer, this world would be so much crueler. Why would you want to contribute to the pain when you can heal it? You may not have a green thumb or magical healing food, but you have a warm heart and listening ears. You have a way with words and with people that can open their eyes to new perspectives and happier endings. You are the guiding light in such a dark world. I could not be prouder to be anyone else but you.

Love always,
Your Healing Self

“No. No!” “No. No, wait!” I jolt awake. It was just another nightmare. Another one but, the same one I’ve been having for weeks now. I look over and see Penelope, my wife, sleeping soundly. I hear our son cooing in the next room and the candle on my bedside table told me that it was still dark outside but it was the early morning hours.
I take a deep breath to calm my racing heart, shake off the recurring nightmare and go in to tend to my son. He was born 6 months ago and is growing like a weed! I stand over his bassinet that my father made for me when I was born and smile at him. Telemachus looks back up at me and returns my smile. I pick him up and craddle him close to me. I hold him for a moment before putting him back down. I put a finger to my lips and I go to make him an early breakfast of cow’s milk. Penelope’s milk never came in so we bought a couple of cattle so we could feed Telemachus.
I fixed a horn and cloth for him and returned to feed him. It was just barely day break when Penelope woke and found us watching the sun rise in silence. “Odysseus, is he hungry?” I look up at her with a smile. “Oh. Why didn’t you wake me? It was my turn to feed him.” I just shook my head. Telemachus was still nursing but sleeping at the same time. Penelope walks over to us. “Odysseus, give him to me.” I hand him to her, rise from my chair and walk over to the window. She knows something is wrong when I don’t argue with her and when I stay silent with my words.
“Odysseus?” It wasn’t a question but more along the lines of her pushing for an explanation. I take a deep breath and begin: “I had the nightmare again. Only this time, I was holding someone’s infant son over a wall.” She looks at me in shock. “Did you drop him?” Her bright, blue eyes have darkened and her thin red lips have paled. Almost as if she could pictue what I dreamt. I shake my head. “I don’t know. I woke before anything happened.” Telemachus was now fast asleep and Penelope had returned him to his bed. She wraps her arms around me from behind and places her chin on my shoulder.
“It was just a dream. Albeit, a strange and recurring one but, I don’t think it means anything.” Frustrated, I turn from the window and begin pacing around our small company room. “Odysseus, I didn’t mean it like that.” “I know, I just–I don’t know what to make of it. I have mulled it over and over and over and I come up with no explanation as to why I keep having the dream. I’m actually surprised you slept through my yelling throughout the dream.” She has a puzzled look on her face. “Sweetheart, I am a mother to an infant son. Every time he simply coos in his sleep, I wake to make sure he doesn’t need us. I think I would wake to you screaming from your dreams.”
“Wait. You didn’t hear me?” She shakes her head. Her face full with worry and concern. “Odysseus, what’s wrong?” I begin breathing heavily as I come to the realization that I was screaming in the dream and not in reality. “Odysseus?” I shake my head at her. “You’re right. It’s probably nothing.” She nods her head and I walk to her and enwrap her in a hug. As we stand there in the embrace, I think about the first time we met. Her redish brown hair shone in the sun and her eyes were as blue as the ocean. Her skin had darkened from her time in the sun as a child and she and her friends were playing in a small body of water trying to cool themselves in the Summer sun.
They had just come from the Olympic Games and were flirting over the men they saw when I was caught watching them. Her friends cowered and tried to cover themselves but, Penelope invited me to join them. The water was cold but, refreshing and before I knew it, her friends had left us to our vices. (What if Odysseus DIDN’T kill the infant? To be continued. This story was inspired by Jorge Rivera’s Troy Saga currently on Spotify.)

The phone rings.
“Hello?”
“Hi Mom. Guess where I am?!?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Where?”
I hear my daughter catch her breath with anticipation and excitement. I’m sitting on my couch in suburban Minneapolis home. It’s cold outside and I’m under a blanket, it’s late, I have to be at work early. I couldn’t sleep.
“I’m in Canada! I got here! Oh Mom, I’m so excited!”
I hear her fumbling around.
“Mom, just listen…”
I hear the beep of a key card being accepted in a lock.
“That was me, I’m in my hotel room!”
I gasp, catching a little hitch in my throat as a tear escapes my eye. I am picturing my 5-year-old daughter standing on tippy toes. She is grinning as she opens the door, turning to see if I am looking.
“I’m so glad you got there safely, how was the flight?” I don’t want her to hear the emotion in my voice. She is my child, and she is a capable woman.
“It was great, no problems, and here I am. I wish you were here. I want you to hear me give my paper.”
“You will do great,” I say, wishing I could be there. I don’t want to make this about me. It’s not, it’s all her. My sweet and spicy first born.
So, this is parenting. I did not raise my kids so that they would need me. I raised them so that they would be capable, reasonable and compassionate. I don’t mean to speak of them as a group or a possession, singular or plural. The babies that I grew in my womb, that I gave birth to, that I suckled and nurtured do not belong to me. They belong with me. I belong with them.
In the beginning there were three, a daughter and two sons. My little crew. My daughter became a big sister at 17 months. My oldest son became a big brother at 28 months. It was crazy, I was struggling in an abusive marriage, with a mother who had struggles of her own. Precarious describes the first years perfectly. It is good that my precious posse was more important to me than life itself. We had adventures, we ate at McDonalds, we had guns that you could only shoot at charging pink Rhinoceros in the house on Tuesdays that started with J.
`I did the best I could to give them a good education, a good work ethic and the understanding that in many statements the word can’t actually means won’t. You should be honest and clear about what you mean. I gave them religious education in the hope that it would springboard them into a spiritual awareness. The ability to discover the importance of a faith walk, and dedication to their individual vibration. I encouraged sports and music. Joining a group and taking part for the duration of the commitment. You don’t need to sign up again. You do need to honor your commitment.
I could have taken them away from their father. I chose to share custody, legal and physical. I chose to love them more than the disdain I held for him. I knew him as my abuser. They knew him as daddy, they adored him, and they were of him. They had every right to know him on more than just the weekends. Warts and all, he was theirs. Warts and all, so am I.
I gave them as much space for self-discovery and development as I could. I grew up with suppressive rules. My mom was fighting the demon of anxiety and depression. Her safety was conditional on my compliance. I held loose reigns, and there could have been more slack.
Parenting is a dance of generations. You will always be influenced by your past, not controlled by it. My parents were donors of many loving hours with my children. They enriched the lives of these children as they grew into the adults that they are. My parents gave them deep roots, and heritage. There are many teachers, coaches and friends that took on roles of immeasurable value. The influence of adults outside our family group are the buds of branches in the young lives. Branches that will reach for the sky, nourished by the deep roots and supported by the strength of these remarkable young lives.
My daughter is standing inside her hotel room. In a different county. Alone. Capable, proud, and she is sharing the moment with me. I am crying. I am not proud of her; I am proud for her. Yes, I guided, and she accepted. Yes, I taught, and she chose to learn. Yes, she failed. Her failure is not my lesson. It is hers. Yes, she succeeded. The success is not mine. It is hers.
Three people. One momma. I love them all, better yet I really like them.

Dearest Little One,

You were always full of wonder, asking questions with depth beyond your years. Why was I born a girl at this exact place in time in this exact spot on Earth? How does reincarnation work? Why do some people discriminate based on age, orientation, financial status, religion, and/or faith? Certainly love is the answer, knowing no bounds, waiting patiently for us if we only have the courage to look.

You always spoke your mind even if you didn’t know it was impolite according to societal norms or expectations. Even if you did, I know you would have been fearless and persistent in your self-expression. You have always been deeply spiritual and never questioned the beauty of your soul. Blessed with the freedom to find deity all around, you found your own moral compass that suited you as a dedicated truth seeker and lifelong learner. This has led you on a quest for growth that is never ending.

You’ve always been a dreamer, seeking solace in your books. But you also had your own creativity, always citing your imagination whenever someone questioned where you got those ideas from. You never lose sight of the value that comes with playing pretend. Keep dreaming of how the world can be a better place and never stop using that to craft your goals in life.

Your natural resilience pulled you through so many obstacles, even when you faltered in the darkest of times. But don’t worry little one, that’s waiting for you in your teens and beyond. Just know that I am waiting for you, and all will be well.

If only you could see us now, I have every confidence you would be as proud of us as I am of you. Nourishing you is what pulls me through and keeps me going. In seeking all the love and light and happiness you were robbed of in those formative years, I find that I am reclaiming the self-love that always came so naturally to you. Yes, I have no doubt that I have made you proud.

Love, Your Whole Self