01 My Journey – Step 3

I was four years old. My mother came home – tired, irritable, overwhelmed. I ran towards her, laughing. Full of pride I showed her the picture I had painted. Especially for her.

“That’s nice, well done. Keep drawing. I’ll come to you later.”

She didn’t come.

I sat on the floor. The picture in front of me. And something in me – very quietly, very deep down – learned something in that moment. Not in words. Not consciously. Simply the way children learn: through feeling.

What I do is not important enough. I am not important enough.

I was seven. My parents were fighting. Loudly. All evening. I lay in my bed with the blanket pulled over my head, waiting for it to stop. My heart was pounding. My stomach was tight. I didn’t dare get up. I didn’t dare cry. I tried to be as small as possible.

At some point it went quiet. Nobody came to check on me. Nobody told me in the morning what had happened. Nobody told me what would happen next.

I was nine. My father made a fool of me. In front of others. “Don’t be such a baby.” “What a wimp you are.” Laughter.

Something rose up in me. Hot. Uncontrollable. I couldn’t say anything. I couldn’t defend myself. He was too big. Too loud. Too powerful.

So I went outside. The neighbour’s boy was building a sandcastle in his sandpit. I kicked it to pieces. I kicked sand in his face. When he tried to defend himself, I punched him in the stomach. It knocked the wind out of him. I walked on without a word.

I did to him what had been done to me. Not because I was evil. But because the pain had to go somewhere. Because my body was so charged that it had to explode. And because I wanted, for once, to be the stronger one.

That is not who I want to be. But it is what I learned. As a child my brain had one single task: survive. And for that it registered everything.

I screamed – nobody came. My brain learned: showing feelings gets you nowhere.

I cried – people laughed at me. My brain learned: weakness makes me vulnerable.

I was good – people loved me. My brain learned: I have to function in order to be loved.

I showed anger – people punished me. My brain learned: anger is dangerous. Swallow it.

These programmes are still running today. Automatically. In the background. Usually I don’t notice – until somebody presses the wrong button. And then, suddenly, I’m no longer me. I am the child. The angry, hurt, desperate child – who had no voice back then.

That is not a failure. That is biology. My brain is still protecting me – just with strategies I developed as a child.

Every generation has handed its rucksack to the next one. Packed full of wounds, patterns, convictions. You must. You mustn’t. You are too much. You are too little.

Every experience shaped me. Not maliciously. Not on purpose. Simply the way water shapes a stone – drop by drop, over years. I learned to protect myself. To withdraw. To attack. To turn to stone. To function. To smile even though everything inside is burning.

Traumatic experiences are unavoidable. Every one of us carries them. Lighter ones and heavier ones. But nobody gets through their childhood unscathed.

Trauma is not only the extreme. Not only abuse, violence, war. Trauma is every moment in which, as a child, I experienced more than I could process.

A sentence that hit me. A hug that never came. A parent who wasn’t there – not physically, not emotionally. Small wounds that etch themselves in because nobody was there to heal them.

This hurt, shaped, protection-seeking child – I call it my inner child. It is a part of me. It lives in me. Every day. It has a voice. It has needs.

And it influences my feelings, my thinking and my actions. Always. Mostly without my noticing. And then I lash out, run off or turn to stone.

And with that I burden myself. And the people I love.

It doesn’t have to stay that way. I now give my inner child my full attention. I see it. I hear it. I take it under my protection. I help it to heal its wounds. And in doing so I heal myself.

I take my time now. What comes next are six areas in which children are particularly vulnerable. I put my DoD beside me. I take a pen in my hand.

I read every point slowly. Afterwards I take a break. I close my eyes. I breathe. And if something comes up – an image, a memory, a bodily sensation, a sentence I have never forgotten – I simply write it down. Without judgement. Without explanation. Just as it comes.

I don’t have to force anything. I don’t have to feel anything I don’t want to feel. Everything that comes up is welcome. And if nothing comes – that’s fine too. Everything is right.

1. My reality was denied.

“You’re imagining it.” “It wasn’t that bad.” “Don’t be such a baby.” “You’re far too sensitive.” “It was only a joke.”

I was churned up. Frightened. Hurt. I went to somebody I trusted – and told them what had happened. What I had felt. What had moved me.

And then this person – the most important person in my world – told me: it’s not that bad. You’re only imagining it. You misunderstood that.

In that moment something in me broke. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Very quietly. But it broke. I learned: what I feel is wrong. What I perceive, I cannot believe. I cannot trust my own inner world. Other people I can.

Today I give in immediately when somebody questions my opinion. I apologise for things I wouldn’t have to apologise for. I doubt myself – even when I know inside that I’m right. I keep asking myself: am I exaggerating again? Am I imagining it? Am I too sensitive?

I never learned to trust myself. Because somebody taught me that I can’t.

2. I was not seen.

“Not now.” “I’m busy.” “Ask me later.” “You don’t always have to be the centre of attention.”

I was there. I was alive. I had thoughts and feelings and dreams and fears. I wanted to tell. To show. To be held. But nobody looked. Nobody listened.

Not because they were bad. Not because they didn’t love me. But because they themselves had not been seen. Because nobody had shown them. Because their own rucksack was so heavy that there was no room left for me.

I learned: I am not important enough. My feelings are a nuisance. My needs are too much. I mustn’t take up too much space.

Today I sometimes sit in the middle of people – and feel as if I’m behind glass. I see everyone. But nobody sees me. I don’t say what I need – because I don’t believe anyone is interested. I wait. I get quieter. I make myself smaller.

And sometimes I ask myself: do I actually exist? For anyone?

3. I was moulded.

“You’ll be a doctor, like your father.” “You’re not allowed to play with that friend.” “That’s not for boys.” “Don’t be like that.” “That’s not how it’s done.” “What will people think?”

I had dreams. I had ideas. I had a picture of who I wanted to be.

And then somebody came – and painted over that picture. With their own colours. Again and again. Drop by drop. Until I no longer knew what of it was mine and what wasn’t.

I learned: my own wishes are a nuisance. My intuition doesn’t count. Other people know better who I am and what is good for me.

Today I sometimes ask myself: am I actually living my life – or the life other people designed for me? Often I don’t know what I really want. I wait for somebody to tell me. Maybe I’m stuck in the wrong job, in the wrong town, in the wrong role.

And the worst thing: I played along for so long that I no longer know where the role ends – and where I begin.

4. My boundaries were not respected.

“Give Uncle Herbert a kiss.” “That most certainly is my business.” “You’re still too young to decide that.” “In our family that’s how it’s done.” “As long as you put your feet under my table…”

I sensed that something wasn’t right. That I wanted to say no. That something was happening that felt wrong. But my no interested nobody.

My body didn’t belong to me. My things were searched, my post opened, my room entered without knocking. Or the opposite – there were no rules, no structure, no reliability. I never knew what was allowed and what wasn’t. What applied today no longer applied tomorrow.

I learned: my boundaries don’t count. Others may decide about me. What I feel is irrelevant. I have no right to an inner life of my own.

Today I say yes to everything – and afterwards I feel empty and drained. As if I had betrayed myself again. Or I build a wall around me – and don’t really let anyone near me any more. Because closeness means: somebody comes too close. And I know that. And it hurts.

5. Appearances were everything.

“What will people think?” “You can’t go out like that.” “Look how well behaved the neighbours’ children are.” “Just look at the state of you.” “In our family we do things properly.”

I wasn’t a child. I was a business card.

For the family. For the good reputation. For what had to look right on the outside. My worth depended on how I look, what I achieve, how I come across to others. Not on who I am. Not on what I feel.

I learned: I’m only worth what other people say I’m worth. Achievement is love. Looks are love. Fitting in is love.

Today I compare myself with others constantly. I’m never really satisfied – with myself, with what I’ve achieved, with what I am. I play roles. I adapt.

And sometimes, in the middle of a conversation, I ask myself: who is actually speaking here? Me – or the version of me I play for others? Sometimes I no longer know who I really am.

6. Feelings were dangerous.

“Stop crying, or I’ll give you a reason to cry.” “A boy doesn’t cry.” “Don’t be such a baby.” “I won’t talk to you any more if you’re like that.”

Sometimes it was loud. Explosive rage. Doors that slammed. Crockery that flew. Words that landed like blows.

Sometimes it was silent. Icy cold. Days without a word. Love withheld as punishment. Or nobody talked at all – everyone simply carried on as if nothing had happened. As if it had never existed.

I learned: feelings make me vulnerable. Feelings cost me the love of people I need. So I swallow them. Deep. Very deep. Until I can no longer feel them myself.

Or I explode. Exactly like back then. Without knowing why.

Today I sometimes recognise myself in exactly those people. In the way I use silence to punish. The way I lose it – and afterwards don’t know myself where that came from. The way I numb feelings – with work, alcohol, box sets, shopping. Anything – as long as I don’t have to feel.

I pause for a moment.

Whatever has just come up is allowed to come up. All of it. Sadness. Anger. Disappointment. Maybe even relief – at finally having a name for something that has been with me for a long time.

I take my DoD. I write down what comes up. Images. Sentences. Names. Feelings. Moments. Without structure. Without order. Just as it comes. I take my time. As much as I need.

The anger that surfaces is normal. It is allowed. But I don’t aim it at my parents. They are not to blame. They did it as well as they could – with the rucksack they inherited themselves. I leave them in peace.

I direct my energy at myself. I can’t heal anyone else. Change anyone else. Only myself.

I am safe. I am centred. I am grown up. I take care of myself.

And I am not alone here. In the next sections I get support – to recognise, to understand, to overwrite old patterns and to walk a new path. Step by step. At my own pace.

It was me I was waiting for.

In my childhood I also learned what love is. Not from books. Not from films. But through what I experienced every day. Through the way the people around me treated each other. Through what I was given – and through what was missing.

This picture of love sits deep. Deeper than I think. And to this day it determines who I attract. Who I feel drawn to. Why I keep falling in love with the same kind of people.

Science calls it attachment style. How I experienced closeness and care as a child shapes my entire relationship life. Not as fate. But as a pattern. As my personal compass for what feels like love.

I read the following four attachment styles slowly. Again I put my DoD beside me. I write down what surfaces in me.

Securely attached.

“I’m here for you.” “You’re allowed to cry.” “We’ll work this out together.” “You’re doing a good job.”

I had caregivers who were reliable. Who came when I called. Who held me when I needed holding. Who showed me: you are safe. You are loved. You can rely on me.

I learned: I am worth being loved. I can trust others. When I need help, I’m allowed to ask for it.

Today I go into relationships openly. I can allow closeness – and distance too. I argue without being afraid that everything will fall apart. I trust – without losing myself.

That is a stable foundation. Very few of us have it. But we can keep building on our foundation. Nobody said it is finished and has to stay that way for ever.

I am on my way. I am learning. Listening. Recognising. Understanding. Putting it into practice. Walking a new path. Living.

Anxious-ambivalently attached.

“I love you.” – and shortly afterwards: coldness. Silence. Withdrawal of love. “Come here.” – and when I come: “Not now.”

Sometimes there was warmth. Sometimes icy cold. I never knew what to expect. I tried everything to hold on to the love. Adapted. Made myself smaller. Bent myself out of shape.

I learned: love is unpredictable. I have to fight to get it. When somebody pulls away, it’s my fault.

Today I cling. I need constant reassurance. I read every short sentence, every pause, every unanswered message as a sign: she doesn’t love me any more. She’s leaving. I’m too much. I’m not good enough. I’m losing her.

I keep falling in love with people who give me this hot and cold. Because it feels familiar. Because it feels alive. Because stability would feel strange – almost boring.

Avoidantly attached.

“Pull yourself together.” “Don’t be such a baby.” “We don’t talk about things like that.” “You can manage on your own.”

Closeness was never safe. So I learned to get by without it. I taught myself to be alone. To be strong. To be independent. And at some point it even worked.

I learned: if I need nobody, nobody can hurt me. If I have no expectations, I won’t be disappointed. If I keep my distance, I am safe.

I have a high opinion of myself – I function, I manage, I need nobody. And at the same time a negative image of others: other people are unreliable. Weak. Too needy. Too complicated.

In relationships I don’t really let anyone in. I talk about all sorts of things – just not about what is really going on inside me. When somebody gets too close, I withdraw. Nobody is allowed to really see me.

I look for somebody who confirms me. Somebody I’m better off with when I do everything myself. Who doesn’t ask too much. Who isn’t interested in my true self. Who respects my distance.

And I call that freedom. But it is loneliness. The familiar, safe, old loneliness.

Disorganised attachment.

“Come here.” – and when I come: a blow. Or shouting. Or crying. Or simply nothing.

I wanted protection – and the person who was supposed to protect me was at the same time the source of my fear. I wanted closeness – and closeness meant danger. I wanted to be loved – and never knew what was coming next.

I learned: I can’t trust anyone. Not even myself. Love and pain belong together. When things are good, I wait for the catastrophe.

Today I am often torn in relationships. I want closeness – and flee from it. I test whether the other person really stays. I sabotage what is good – because I can’t believe it will stay good. I fall in love with people who need me and hurt me at the same time. Because that is the only thing I know.

None of these styles is a verdict. None is a mistake. Each is an answer to what I experienced as a child. I do it as well as my blueprints allow. And I can now recognise those blueprints. I can see that they are not carved in stone. I can change them.

What that means in everyday life becomes clear when I look honestly. This is not an excuse. And not an accusation. It is a fact.

That’s why so many people leave the house every day – with frustration, anger, stress, exhaustion, loneliness, depression, shame, rage, jealousy, envy, mistrust, feelings of inferiority, powerlessness, a compulsion to control, despair and a pile of fears – and dump all of it on the people around them.

Me too. More often than I’d like. I can’t help it. I’m just the way I am.

No. That’s not enough for me. I want more. I want to let off the handbrake. I want to live and love with my whole heart.

Maybe I’m still sitting with what has come up. With images. With sentences. With a pain that is older than I thought. That is good. That is right. That is part of it.

Forgiveness.

As long as I don’t forgive, nothing will really change. I can meditate. I can fill my DoD. I can get up early every morning and speak affirmations. I can do everything right – and still be marking time.

Because the energy is still draining away. Because the anger is still burning. Because I still have a score to settle. Because I’m waiting for somebody to finally admit what they did to me. I’ll be waiting a long time.

Often I don’t even notice it. I don’t think about them all the time. But they are there anyway.

When my boss criticises me – I’m not reacting to my boss. I’m reacting to my father. Who never found me good enough either.

When my wife wants something from me – and I immediately withdraw – I’m not reacting to her. I’m reacting to my mother. Who was too much for me. Or too little.

When I’m standing in front of an opportunity – a new job, a project of my own, a risk – and suddenly I’m blocked, I hesitate, I give up – then I’m not hearing my own voice. I’m hearing theirs.

“You’ll never manage that.”
“Who are you to think you can do that?”
“Be glad of what you’ve got.”

These sentences are old. But they still echo. In every meeting where I hold back my idea. In every night where I can’t sleep. In every relationship that fails – and I don’t quite know why. I’m still paying the bill for something that has long been over.

I look honestly. Why am I not getting anywhere professionally? Because my father told me early on: “What will people think?” I don’t dare stand out. Don’t dare want too much. Don’t dare be bigger than what he imagined for me.

Why do I let myself be treated badly at work? Because as a child I learned to put up with it. Because somebody stronger decided how things go. And I functioned. Like back then.

Why do I sabotage myself – just before things get good? Because a voice inside me says: “Who are you to think you can do that?” And I stopped contradicting it.

Why can’t I be close to my wife when she cries? Because nobody showed me how. Because showing feelings meant: weakness. Because a man doesn’t do that.

I still blame them. Not out loud. Not consciously. But I do it. Every day. In every situation where I get stuck. And as long as I do that – I also give them the power. That is the price of resentment. I pay it. Not them.

Forgiveness does not mean that what happened was okay. It does not mean that I forget. Not that I act as if nothing had happened. Not that I let myself be hugged at the next family party and smile.

Forgiveness means: I take my energy back. I cut the power line. I close the account. I pass the verdict – and then put the file away. Not against them. For me.

I pause. What if the people who hurt me are themselves the most wounded in the room?

My father, who never listens – maybe nobody ever listened to him.

My mother, who doesn’t respect my boundaries – maybe she has none of her own.

The boss who runs me down – maybe he is full of shame himself. People pass on what they know. Not because they are bad. But because they don’t yet know how to do it differently.

And I make myself available. I am the victim. Not because I deserve it. But because my inner child knows the pattern. Because it feels familiar. Because I haven’t yet learned to react differently.

People who hurt me set me a task. They show me where I may still grow. Where I still have to set a boundary. Where I am not yet centred.

My resentment towards them is like a stone I drag up the mountain every day. Heavy. Exhausting. Pointless. And at some point I have carried it for so long that I have forgotten: it is no longer my parents talking at me. It is only their voices in my head.

I can learn to switch them off. I can also put the stone down. Now I put it down.

The letter I don’t send

There are things I never said. Because there was no safe place. Because I was too small. Too dependent. Too frightened. Because I didn’t have the words. Because I didn’t believe my words counted.

They are still there. My inner child still believes them. And they slow me down – every day. Now I let them out. I put them on paper in order to get rid of them. What is written there is no longer in my head.

I take pen and paper – no screen, no phone. I sit down. I take a deep breath. And I write a letter. To the person who still owes me something. Not money. Words.

My father. My mother. My ex. My boss. My brother. Myself.

I write everything. What hurt me. What I never understood. What I could never forget. The anger. The grief. The disappointment. The pain that had no language – until now.

I censor nothing. I correct nothing. I don’t write what I ought to write – but what is really there. Ugly, loud, unfair, childish – all of it may come out. This letter is not for them. It is for me.

And then – when everything is out – I keep writing.
What would I have wished for?
What was missing?
What would have helped me back then?
My inner child may now wish for anything.

And right at the end – when I’m ready, and only then – I write a single sentence. Not for them. For me:

I let you go now. Not because it was okay. But because I want to be free.

Then I put the pen down. I don’t send the letter. I don’t have to keep it either. I can burn it, tear it up, bury it. The act of writing was the work. Not the paper. And I do this again and again, whenever the anger comes. Until it gets calmer.

The empty chair

I put a second chair in front of me. Empty. Simply there. I sit down. I breathe. And I imagine that the person I wrote the letter to is sitting on that chair. My father. My mother. My ex. Myself.

I look at them. Really look. Not the image I have of them in my head. The person. The way they were. The way I experienced them. And then I talk. Out loud. With words. Not in my head – with my voice.

I say what I never said. What wasn’t possible back then. What I carried around with me for years. I don’t have to phrase it perfectly. I don’t have to explain it. I’m allowed to be angry. I’m allowed to cry. I’m also allowed to be silent – and simply sit.

And then I change chairs.

I sit down on the other one. For a moment I become them. I look back – at the place where I was just sitting. And I answer. The way I believe they would answer. Or the way I wish they had answered.

Perhaps something unexpected comes up. An explanation I never heard. An understanding I never allowed myself. Or simply: silence. That is an answer too.

I change as often as I need to. It goes back and forth.

At the end I’m sitting on my chair again. I breathe. I look at the empty chair opposite. And I say – out loud, if I can:

I see you. I have said what I had to say. I have heard what you said. I let you go now.

The chair stays empty. I’m the one who has changed.

Ho’oponopono

It comes from Hawaii. Four sentences. That’s all it takes.

Families once used it to settle their disputes. Everyone at the table, everything on the table. Today I don’t need anyone else for it. Just me.

I close my eyes. I picture the person who is really getting on my nerves right now. The one I keep having pointless arguments with in my head. I hold their image inside me. And I speak – out loud, ideally, when I’m alone:

I’m sorry.
Please forgive me.
Thank you.
I love you.

That sounds strange. Maybe even wrong. Why should I ask for forgiveness – from somebody who hurt me?

Because it isn’t about the other person.

I don’t address these four sentences to that person. I address them to the part of me that is still suffering. To my inner child, who is hurt. Who is still waiting for an apology. For things to be made right. To the wound that is still open.

I take responsibility – not for what somebody did to me. But for how I keep carrying it around with me.

I’m sorry.
Not to him. To me. I’m sorry for what I’ve been doing to myself ever since.

He hurt me. Once. Maybe a hundred times. But ever since, I’ve been hurting myself. Every day. I replay the scene. I keep fighting a fight he forgot about long ago.

And I’ve turned the pain into evidence. Look what was done to me. Someone like me can’t be successful. Isn’t allowed to be happy. Doesn’t deserve more.

That’s the bill I’ve been paying for years. He isn’t the one handing it to me. I hand it to myself.

Please forgive me.
I ask my little one for forgiveness. Because I abandoned him.

I waited. For the other person to come. To understand. To apologize. To make it right. And as long as he doesn’t, I stay small. As if my life were his decision.

I handed him the key. To my happiness. My courage. My worth. I give him the power to keep me small – and wonder why I’m not getting anywhere.

Please forgive me for waiting for him this long. I’m taking the key back. Now.

Thank you.
Yes, him. Not for what he did. For what he showed me.

Every time he drives me up the wall, he points to a spot that still hurts. A wound I didn’t know I had. An old sentence I still believe.

Without him I would never have found it. What I can’t see, I can’t heal. He is my mirror. Not by choice. But a good one.

I love you.
My little one. Who learned back then: Hold still. Make yourself small. Then nothing happens to you.

He wasn’t stupid. He protected himself as best he could. With what he had. I don’t scold him anymore. I take him in my arms.

And one day – not today, maybe not tomorrow – the sentence will apply to the other person too. Not because it was okay. But because I no longer need hatred to protect myself.

I repeat the four sentences. Slowly. Until something in me gives way.

The other person doesn’t have to apologize. Doesn’t have to understand. Doesn’t have to be there. Maybe he’ll never change. Maybe he isn’t even alive anymore. I’m not waiting for him anymore.

I have forgiven others. Or I’m working on it. Now comes the hardest part. Forgiving myself.

I am not only a victim. I have hurt people too. I have said things I shouldn’t have said. Done things I regret. I shouted at my son – over something trivial that had nothing to do with him.

I gave my wife the cold shoulder, for weeks, because I didn’t know how to talk about my pain. I let a friend down when he needed me. I wasn’t there. I looked away.

I know why. I was hurt myself. Overwhelmed. I passed on what I knew. Just like they did back then. That explains it. But it doesn’t excuse it.

And as long as I don’t forgive myself for that – I will keep doing it. Because shame doesn’t change me. Shame paralyses me. It whispers: you are bad. You can’t do any better. You’ll do it again. Self-compassion says something different.

Self-compassion is not self-love. Self-love can feel like a task – I’m supposed to like myself, I’m supposed to think well of myself, I’m supposed to be proud of myself. That doesn’t work on command. Self-compassion is simpler. And more honest. It only asks: would I talk to a good friend the way I talk to myself?

Never.
To a friend who had made a mistake I would say: I understand that you regret it. You didn’t do it out of malice. You did it as well as you could – with what you had. Now you know more. Now you can do it differently.

That is what I say to myself now. I take the letter, the empty chair, the four sentences – and I heal myself.

I write myself a letter.

I write: I know that I shouted at my son. I know that I was ashamed afterwards. I see myself anyway. I did it as well as I could.

I sit down opposite myself.

On the empty chair sits the child I was. Seven years old. The blanket pulled over his head. Waiting for the fighting to stop.

I look at him. Really look.

I change chairs. I am now that child. I look back – at the adult I have become. And I feel: back then I only wanted somebody to come. Somebody to say: it’s all right. You are safe. I’m here.

Nobody came. I change again. I am the adult. I look at the child. And I say out loud:

I know that you were alone back then. I know that you didn’t know what to do with all of it. I understand how you feel. It’s not your fault. From now on I will always be there for you. You are safe. I love you.

Perhaps tears come now. That is good. That is right. That is long overdue.

I speak the four sentences – and I mean myself.

I’m sorry that I punished myself for so long. Please forgive me for making myself available as a victim. Thank you, me, for everything I got through. I’m learning from it. I love myself. Unconditionally.

What does it actually mean – that I made myself available as a victim?

For years I went back into the same relationship. To a person who made me small. Again and again. Because it felt familiar. Because I didn’t believe I deserved more.

That wasn’t love. That was an old pattern. And I forgive myself for taking so long to recognise it.

I wasn’t a victim because I was weak. I was a victim because I didn’t know any different. Because my inner child knew this pattern. Because pain sometimes feels like home.

That is over. I give myself the same kindness I give others. I am worth it. Not because I’m perfect. But because I’m a human being who is trying.

I feel. Therefore I am.

For a long time I thought feelings were the problem. The weakness. The thing that makes me unpredictable. The thing I ought to keep under control.

The opposite is true. Feelings are my most precise instrument. My inner navigation system. They show me – faster than any thought – what matters to me. What I’m missing. What threatens me. What nourishes me.

Neurologists have proved it. They examined patients with damage to the emotional areas of the brain – the rest worked perfectly. Highly intelligent people. And yet they could no longer make a decision.

Not the big ones. Not the small ones. What shall I have for lunch? Impossible to say. Without feelings, no compass. Without a compass, no way forward.

I don’t need to control my feelings. I’m learning to read them. What do my feelings show me?

Anger says:
He just looked straight through me. I won’t stand for that any more. I set respectful boundaries.

Fear says:
This is so important to me that I don’t want to lose it. And it also says: here I’m not ready yet. Here I still want to grow.

Grief says:
That really meant something to me. It’s okay that I cry.

Shame says:
I’m afraid the others will see who I really am. And then won’t want me any more. (→ My Light)

Loneliness says:
I need somebody who really sees me. Not a thousand contacts. One real one. And sometimes it also says: I would like to learn to be good company for myself.

Joy says:
Here. Exactly here. In this moment. That is me.

Feelings are not good or bad. They are messengers. I am learning their language.

And yet – how often do I ignore them? I’m tired – and tell myself I simply didn’t sleep enough. I’m angry – and call it stress. I’m sad – and call it a bad day. I’m lonely – and scroll through my phone.

I translate my feelings into explanations. Into distractions. Into symptoms I treat – instead of messages I listen to. And yet the message would be so clear.

The body as an archive

I don’t remember everything. But my body remembers. Everything.

The pain that had no words. The fear I breathed away. The anger I swallowed. The grief I didn’t allow myself. None of that has disappeared. It has etched itself in. Into my muscles. Into my posture. Into my organs. Into my nervous system.

Science today calls it somatic memory. Trauma does not sit in the head. It sits in the body.

When my boss criticises me in front of others – and my neck tenses up immediately. When my wife speaks in a certain tone – and my stomach contracts before I have even understood what she said.

When I hear a certain piece of music – and suddenly there are tears, although I have no idea why.

That is not coincidence. That is the archive.

My body has learned: this situation is dangerous. This tone means trouble. This silence means love withheld. And it reacts – immediately, automatically, without my permission – with the same strategies I developed as a child. Freeze. Run. Attack. Function.

That’s why good intentions alone help so little. That’s why I know exactly that I shouldn’t shout – and shout anyway. That’s why I tell myself every evening that tomorrow I’ll react differently – and react in exactly the same way. Because the trauma doesn’t sit where I’m looking.

What helps? I go into the body. Not into the head. I notice a feeling rising – fear, anger, shame, grief. I don’t numb it. No alcohol. No phone. No work. No distraction.

I feel what my body is doing. My hands may be trembling. My head gets hot. My throat tightens. My stomach cramps. Tears rise.

I name it. Out loud, if I can:
“It makes me angry when…”
“I’m sad because…”
“It frightens me that…”

I breathe. Deeply. Slowly. I let the wave of feeling flow all the way through me. It hurts. It hurts like hell. But I allow all of it. The feeling takes me over completely. I want to feel everything that comes with this wave. I endure the pain, because I know that it heals me.

I breathe until I become calmer of my own accord. My body begins to settle. The pain eases. I take my time until my muscles relax again. I stay centred.

I learn: my feelings won’t kill me. On the contrary. Suppressed feelings become a crushing burden over time. They make me ill. After living through a wave of feeling I am exhausted – but relieved. The burden has fallen away. I feel liberated.

And I get better at it. Every wave of feeling I ride instead of pushing away makes the next one a little easier. My body learns: it is safe to feel. I am safe.

Sorting out my feelings

Not every feeling I have belongs to me. That sounds strange. But it’s true. Sometimes I react to something – and the reaction is so big, so violent, so out of proportion – that I don’t understand myself what is happening.

My wife makes a harmless remark about my work. And I explode. My colleague overlooks me in a meeting. And I withdraw for days. A stranger gives me an odd look in the street. And I brood about it for hours.

That is not an adult reacting.
That is my inner child.
I am learning to tell the difference.

When I react as an adult, my reaction fits the situation. I’m angry – and say clearly what bothers me. I’m sad – and allow the grief without drowning in it. I’m disappointed – and say so. I stay in touch with myself. I can still act.

When my inner child reacts, the reaction is out of proportion. Too big. Too small. Too loud. Too quiet. I freeze. I explode. I disappear. I don’t know why either. And afterwards I’m ashamed – or don’t understand what happened. That is the signal.

I ask myself a simple question – in the middle of the storm, or afterwards in the DoD:

How old do I feel right now?

If the answer is somewhere between four and fourteen – then it is my inner child that has just taken the wheel. Then today’s situation is a trigger. But the wound is old.

I breathe. I say to myself inwardly: I see you, little one. You’re allowed to feel that. But I – the adult – am taking over now.

I don’t act out of the wound. I act out of myself.

That is not theory. That is practice. I won’t manage it the first time. Not the tenth. But at some point – in the middle of an argument, in the middle of a crisis – I pause. And I notice: this doesn’t belong here. This is old. I know this.

And in that moment something in me grows. Quietly. But reliably.

Feelings are not good or bad. They are real.

I learned to like some feelings and to fight others. Joy is welcome. Anger is dangerous. Grief is weak. Fear is embarrassing.

That isn’t true.

I allow feelings. I feel what my body is telling me. I name what comes up. I ride the wave instead of pushing it away. I ask myself: is this my reaction as an adult – or is my inner child reacting right now?

I write in the DoD what happened. And step by step I learn to understand the language of my inner world. That is my daily training. No big programme. Just attention. Again and again. For me.

I am not my feelings. But I listen to them. They are my most honest signpost. They show me my boundaries. Where I want to grow. What matters to me. What is inside me.

I have now got to know my inner child. I know that it has suffered too. I know that it carries wounds. I know how it influences my life to this day.

Now I do something my little one has needed for a long time.

I take him under my protection.

I close my eyes. I breathe. And I picture how I was as a child. Not the well-behaved, functioning child. The real one. The small one. The one who couldn’t sleep at night. The one who didn’t know whether he would still be loved tomorrow. The one who so often felt invisible.

I see the little one in front of me. Maybe he is sitting in a corner. Maybe he looks at me suspiciously. He isn’t sure whether he can trust me. He has learned to be careful.

I take a step towards him. Slowly. Without pressure. I sit down beside him. I say nothing. I am simply there. That is the beginning.

I give my inner child a name. One that feels good. Maybe my nickname from back then. Maybe simply: little one.

I talk to him. Not in my head – out loud, when I’m alone. I ask him: what’s going on inside you right now? Is something weighing on you? What is buzzing through your head?

And then – this is the most important thing – I listen. Not in order to calm him down. Not in order to silence him. But because it may be the first time that somebody really listens to him. I let him talk and simply listen.

In my DoD I write a letter to my little one. I tell him that I understand his distress. His fear. His anger. His loneliness. His hunger for closeness and security. I comfort him.

I promise him: I’ll look after you. I’ll listen to you. I’ll take you seriously. I’ll protect you. I’ll make you strong. From now on I’ll always be there for you. I want to be your best friend.

The inner critical voice

My little one is listening to me now. And I’m listening to him. But there is somebody else in the room. A voice I have known for so long that I have stopped noticing it is there. It comments on everything. Every decision. Every mistake. Every moment where I’m not good enough.

You’re such an idiot. When I say the wrong thing in a meeting.
You should have known that. When I make a mistake.
Look at yourself. When I look in the mirror.
You won’t manage it anyway. When I try something new.
Typical. Always the same. When I fall into the same pattern again.

This voice sounds like the past. Like my father, who was never satisfied. Like the teacher who made a fool of me in front of the class. Like my older brother, who called me a softie.

I heard it for so long that at some point I stopped distinguishing it from my own voice. But it is not my voice. It was never my voice.

Now I do something simple. When the voice appears, I pause. I ask myself: would I talk to my little one like that? – Never.

So I talk differently. Not softly. Not dishonestly. But honestly and compassionately. The way a good father talks. One who finds clear words – and still stands on his child’s side.

That was a mistake. I’m learning from it. I’ll do it better.
I’m not perfect. But I’m on my way.
I’m doing really well.

That is not positive thinking. That is a decision. One I make anew every day.

Emotional regulation

Breakfast. Seven o’clock. Coffee not ready yet. My wife looks into the kitchen and says, without looking at me: “It would have been nice if you’d emptied the dishwasher yesterday.” Seven words. Matter-of-fact. Not even loud.

And still – something in me flips. My neck goes stiff. My breathing gets shallower. Somewhere deep down my inner child doesn’t hear the sentence. It hears: you’re good for nothing. You never do anything right. Look at that.

My brain immediately switches to counter-attack. The suggestions come quickly and temptingly:

“Empty it yourself – it’s not as if you have anything else to do.”
“I earn the money here, in case you’ve forgotten.”
“I can always move out, then you won’t have to be annoyed with me any more.”

Of course I don’t say that. Instead comes the muted version – just as poisonous, only quieter: “Is that really such a big deal? I was dead tired yesterday. I already do so much around here. What else am I supposed to do?”

Both of us fall silent. The coffee goes cold. The day has started badly – and it isn’t even half past seven.

What would be possible instead: I notice that something is rising in me. That’s enough. I don’t have to understand it yet – I only have to notice it. I breathe. One deep breath. The body calms down a notch. Enough for a moment of clarity.

I recognise: in my head this is no longer about the dishwasher. My little one feels attacked. Not good enough. He knows that feeling. It is old. Not from today – from much earlier.

I say to myself inwardly: I see you, little one. We’ll talk about it later. But now the grown-up takes over. And then – out of that small pause – I answer as an adult:

“You’re right. I’ll empty it quickly now, before we both set off. It takes five minutes.” I get up. I do it. Done. No drama. No justifying. No guilty conscience. Breakfast saved. And my wife sees: I listen to her. I take her seriously. Not because I have to. But because I can.

That is emotional regulation. Not weakness. Not giving in. But the ability to leave a tiny moment of air between the impulse and the action. In that moment lies everything.

Loving discipline

I keep the promises I make to myself. Not the big, heroic ones. The small, daily ones.

I get up when I said I would. I drink my glass of water. I take the walk, even if it only lasts fifteen minutes. I withdraw when I feel myself getting exhausted – not because I’m weak, but because I look after myself.

Every time I keep a promise to myself, my little one learns: I can rely on my grown-up. He really is there for me. That is the core of building trust. Not one big moment. A hundred small ones.

And when I forget a promise – then I laugh about it. I’m a human being. Human beings make mistakes. I get up again. Without beating myself up. With compassion. Then I’ll just drink my glass of water at ten instead.

The imperfect walk that I take is better than the perfect one I skip.

Self-care

This is not a luxury. This is the basics.

I recognise and meet my physical and emotional needs. Not at some point. Not when I have time. Not when everybody else has been taken care of. Now. I go to the loo when I need to. Not after I’ve quickly finished this one thing.

Good sleep is not laziness – it is the basis for everything. Without it my nervous system is permanently on alert. My little one takes the wheel. I react instead of acting.

Good food is not indulgence – it is respect. Every meal I consciously prepare and consciously enjoy is a message to my little one: you are worth it to me.

Movement is not sport – it is language. My body carries the memories. Movement helps it to let them go. A walk. A run. Dancing in the kitchen. Everything counts.

Nature grounds me. It reminds me that I am part of something much bigger. Ten minutes outdoors can do more than an hour inside my head.

Good people nourish me. I choose consciously who I spend my time with. Not everyone deserves a place in my life.

Pausing is not a break from life. It is life itself. The moment where I stop functioning – and start being. I am a human being. Not a human doing.

And sometimes self-care is very simple: I get in touch with somebody I’m fond of. Not because I need something. But because connection nourishes.

These topics are so important that we will keep coming back to them. With concrete exercises, prompts and tools – for each of these areas. Step by step. At my own pace.

Playing

I rediscover the seriousness I had as a child when I played.

As a child, playing was not a leisure activity. It was life itself. Complete. Present. Without purpose.

I do things for the sheer fun of it again. Not to be rewarded. Not to be productive. Not to prove something to anyone. Simply because it feels good. Because my little one needs it. Because I need it.

I no longer expect the person in front of me to approve of my ideas and my reality. I approve of them. And others will love me for it. Not everyone. My view of reality is valid. Simply because it is mine.

I don’t need confirmation from outside. I give up the conditioned habit of judging – towards others, towards myself. I heal my little one’s pain. Wound by wound. Day by day.

And one day I look into my rucksack.

It is empty.

I’m a good mother to myself. That is not a promise for some day. That is a decision. For today. For now. I see my inner child and embrace it. I learn what it has experienced. I notice how it influences me every day.

I forgive the people who were not good to me. I forgive myself. I let go of what slows me down. I listen to my feelings. I ride the waves instead of pushing them away. I want to heal. And every day I build up a little more trust – in myself.

My DoD accompanies me on the way. I write into it what comes up. The disappointments. The old sentences. The moments where I recognise my inner child. The letters I don’t send. The promises I make to myself. And the ones I sometimes forget – which I smile about and carry on.

I go my way. At my own pace. Step by step.

It was me I was waiting for.

In the next step I build up trust. In myself. In the people around me.

My Journey:

Step 1 It was me I was waiting for

Step 2 I stay centred

Step 3 I’m a good mother to myself

Step 4 I’m doing really well

Step 5 I have enough time for everything