Stories Our Inner Children Still Tell

A love letter to longing, belonging, and becoming our own sanctuary

Recently, I spent days with dear friends — whose presence feels like a soft lullaby for my spirit. Their laughter wrapped around me, their words lighting up the quiet corners of my heart with insights only intimacy can offer. The kind of intimacy that asks for nothing but your presence, your truth.

Easter has just passed — one of those gentle yet stirring holidays. It brings chocolate and cheerful colors, yes… but beneath that sweetness lies a quieter thread. One of reckoning. A holiday that tugs at the roots: closeness, belonging, origin. Family.

And family, in its many forms — remembered, imagined, lost, or chosen — sits heavy and luminous in the room.

In our cozy circle, with delicious meals made with loving hands, and the honest conversation, we found ourselves diving deep. Into stories that softened us. Stories that echoed with longing.

Whispers of Longing

We cried. For mothers no longer here. For fathers we miss, or never quite knew. For the nearness of kin we love but now only reach across borders, time zones, or dreams.

We wept not just for what we had lost — for the fantasy of someone calling just to ask: How are you? For the quiet magic of someone gently placing a hand on your forehead and whispering: All will be well. The storm will pass.

And I realized, in those tears and tender words…it wasn’t just us speaking. It was our inner children. The soft, brave voices within us — unguarded, unmet, yet ever hopeful.

The Child in Us Tells the Truth

Those stories we told — those raw, beautiful fragments of grief and grace — they weren’t neat or polished. They came tumbling from the deepest parts of us. From the children we once were. From the longing we still carry.

We even caught ourselves feeling jealous — of those whose families remain intact, whose parents are still near enough to hold them, whose roots feel less remote.

But it was a holy kind of envy. The kind that speaks not of bitterness, but of hunger. A sacred need. To be seen. To be held. To belong.

We Are the Parents Now

And then came the quiet revelation: We are the parents now. To our children, yes. But also to the ones we once were.

We carry within us the power to mother and father our inner children. To whisper sweet bedtime stories of resilience and wonder.

To gently touch our own cheeks and say: You are safe here. You are loved. We’ve got you now.

How We Unleash Our Stories

We let them out gently, like flower seeds on the wind. We release them through laughter, through tears, through art and silence and song. We speak them aloud — not perfectly, but truthfully.

We begin in the middle, or at the end. We start with the part we were afraid to name. We choose curiosity over shame.

And in doing so, we heal.

By honoring our tangled roots and imperfect paths. By making room for softness. By choosing love — for our past, our present, and the child within us who still believes in bedtime stories.

A Story for the Soul

If you need to hear it today, let me be the one to say it: You are not alone. The storm will pass.

And the story you carry — however unfinished — is sacred. So tell it. Or re-write it. To yourself. To your child. To the wind. Let it be messy. Let it be yours. Let it be unleashed.