Ep 7: The Journey of Healing the Inner Child

Contents

• Preface

• How Childhood Trauma Shaped Me

• The Healing Journey

• Conclusion

1. Preface

It began years ago. Following a prolonged fever that left me in a state of physical burnout, I woke up feeling heavy and overwhelmed with stress. In that state of insecurity, desperate for an anchor, I turned to a friend for a Tarot reading. Truth be told, I had never been a believer in fortune-telling. I didn't seek the Tarot to predict the future; I simply longed for a moment of spiritual comfort.

However, sometimes the things we doubt the most are the ones that touch us the deepest. After laying out the cards, the reader remained silent for a long while before speaking a sentence that would stay with me forever: “You are carrying a wounded inner child within you.”

That moment felt like a needle piercing my heart. I froze, caught between confusion and a sudden awakening. Perhaps, deep down, I had always known this, but I had never dared to name it. From that moment on, I began my journey of understanding and practicing "Inner Child Healing."

I came to realize that childhood traumas are neither small nor easily forgotten, as we often assume. They silently imprint themselves upon us, following us throughout our lives. They influence our personalities, our relationships, how we love, our career choices, and even our self-perception. In this article, I share my personal experience. While it may not apply to everyone, I hope you find empathy here, and perhaps, the strength to face your own reflection and move forward on your own path.

2. How Childhood Trauma shaped me

Adults often assume that children lack deep understanding and that "small things" will simply pass. But for a child, events that seem trivial can sometimes turn into deep-seated wounds.

When I was not yet a year old, my mother became pregnant with my second sibling. Due to the pregnancy and other circumstances, I was sent to live with my paternal grandmother. That period lasted over ten years—it wasn't until the 6th grade that I returned to live with my parents. Although my grandmother’s house was less than a kilometer away, and my parents visited often, deep in the heart of that child, the feeling of separation solidified into an indescribable loneliness.

There is a memory I still recall vividly. One morning before school, I stopped by my parents' house. My three younger siblings were chattering on the bed (my youngest sibling had recently been born), each holding a piece of candy. Meanwhile, I was rushed out the door so I wouldn't be late for school, without receiving a single candy. Walking into class, tears welled up in my eyes. When the teacher asked why I was crying, I lied and said I had a stomachache. The child I was then couldn't understand my mother's rush; I only knew one thing: "Mom didn't give me candy, but my siblings got some." To me, it was a gross injustice.

When I finally moved back home at age 12, a different struggle began. My father worked far away, and my mother worked until late at night. Consequently, I became a "surrogate parent" (a classic case of parentification) to my three siblings—cooking, cleaning, doing laundry, and caregiving. Once, I asked my mother to let my younger sister (only 18 months my junior) learn to cook to help out, but she dismissed it, saying my sister was "too small." From then on, the emotional gap between my mother and me widened. I withdrew, living like a shadow in my own home.

In the years that followed, this trauma crystallized into my personality. I became introverted, had few friends, and preferred solitude. I felt safe only when alone. In a group, I might appear enthusiastic, but the moment I stepped away, I disconnected; I never initiated messages with anyone.

This fear of abandonment manifested heavily in my romantic life. During the dating phase, if a man simply glanced at another girl in a café or casually mentioned another woman's name, my emotions would instantly reset to zero. My heart would sink, and I would immediately slam shut the door I had just barely opened. This was my defense mechanism: I would not allow anyone the opportunity to hurt me.

3. The healing journey

After that fateful conversation with the Tarot reader, I sought methods to understand and heal myself. I consulted professional psychotherapists and listened to spiritual healers. Each provided me with a different perspective and set of tools.

Gradually, however, I realized that the only person who could walk this path to the very end was me. No one could face my memories and pain on my behalf. So, I learned to practice introspection—turning inward. I rewrote my childhood journals to give a name to the painful memories instead of burying them. I learned to meditate, visualizing myself hugging that little girl from the past, whispering to her: "You suffered so much back then, but I am here now. You are no longer alone."

It has been over a year, and I can feel a profound shift. I am calmer in the face of old memories—no longer blaming, yet no longer avoiding. Healing is not about erasing the past; it is about learning acceptance, living with it, and eventually turning that wound into a source of strength. Here are the steps in my healing process:

a. The spiritual path: Even before understanding the concept of the "inner child," I had turned to religion. I have always believed that when the body is tired, it can rest on a bed, but when the soul is weary, it needs a sanctuary. To me, religion is not superstition, nor is it weakness. It acts as a compass, preventing me from getting lost in life. Every faith has ethical codes and reminders of compassion and tolerance. I believe any faith is good, provided we practice it in daily life rather than just holding it as a belief. Religion taught me a simple but profound lesson: to give love to others, one must first learn to love and accept oneself.

b. Meditation, Yoga, and Nature connection I am not a professional meditator. For me, meditation is simply closing my eyes, listening to my breath, and visualizing myself returning to my childhood to gently embrace the child I once was. I whisper to her: "Mom and Dad didn't lack love for you; they just had their own struggles, and perhaps their love was expressed in a different language."

Alongside meditation, I turned to Yoga as a gentle compensation for both body and mind. Every slow movement and deep breath serves as a reminder that this body is worthy of love. Yoga not only improved my physical health but also taught me patience and how to listen to my internal limits. On mornings when the sun has just risen, rolling out my mat in the quiet, feeling the warmth on my skin, I feel revitalized.

After exhausting workdays, I often retreat to a park to sit alone among the trees. I am fortunate that here in Australia, parks are abundant and nature is always welcoming, ready to embrace wavering souls. There, amidst the sound of the wind, the scent of grass, and the vast sky, I feel soothed and cleansed.

c. Nutrition I have limited my intake of animal meat, shifting towards a more plant-based diet. Nutrition from vegetables not only makes my body feel lighter but also clears my mind—a way of respecting both my body and nature.

d. Connecting with Children I live with my younger sister’s two children. They have become the bridge helping me relearn how to love. Caring for them when they are sick, playing with them when they are happy, and comforting them when they are sad has helped me mature. Through them, I have reconnected with my mother, learning to view her with more compassion—realizing that she, too, is just a woman with her own limitations and choices.

4. Conclusion

Looking back, I am grateful for that conversation—a seemingly fleeting chat with a Tarot reader that opened a massive door for me. Without that day, I might still be living in a loop of trauma and isolation.

Today, life is not perfect, but my soul has found a sense of serenity. I believe that anyone can walk this journey of healing. You only need the courage to face it and the willingness to embrace the child within you with all your gentleness.