Healing My Inner Child at My Kitchen Table: In More Ways Than Expected

"Welp, this is a mess."

That's all it took.

My partner had been home from work for less than five minutes, and suddenly I wasn't standing in my kitchen anymore.

I was 8 years old.

But before I tell you about that little girl, let me tell you about the magic that came before it.

Once a month, I send out snail mail to my snail mail club. It's usually a Friday in the middle of the month. This day is sacred to me. It is a day I spend creating.

I have been overcoming perfectionism and people-pleasing for a long time now, and yet I still struggle to allow myself the full freedom to create a mess and create spontaneously.

Anyway, it is a Friday afternoon. I had just spent all day creating cootie catchers, assembling my letters, and making the most amazing glitter-filled cootie catcher. I was really proud of it because it was the epitome of what I encourage others to do: create something because it feels good, not because it looks good or serves any purpose other than creating.

And boy, if a glitter-covered cootie catcher wasn't that, I don't know what is. No real need or use other than the joy it filled me and my inner child with.

So after all this whimsy and joy, I decided I wanted to take a video to capture the beauty. To my displeasure, my phone kept stopping the recording. One, two, three tries, and I didn't capture it. Though the cootie catcher was still beautiful, she had lost some shine and so much glitter.

Literally minutes later, my partner came home from work, and I was so excited to show him my creations.

His first comment wasn't about how creative I had been, an acknowledgment of how much fun I must have had, or even something that matched my energy even a little.

"Welp, this is a mess."

Thirty-year-old me, fighting for my life to keep my creativity alive: devastated.

Eight-year-old me: destroyed.

Before my brain had a chance to remind me that my partner loves me, that he wasn't criticizing me, or that he probably meant the glitter explosion happening in our kitchen (which, fair), my body had already decided I wasn't safe.

I wasn't reacting to a sentence.

I was reacting to a memory.

At that moment, I was instantly transported to a summer when I spent weeks making a large house for my puffball friends.

Think puffballs with eyes living in the lap of luxury.

Not just a little cardboard box. A two-story mansion. Windows. Doors with hinges. Furniture. Everything a puffball couple could possibly need, all created out of paper and found objects.

Looking back, I wasn't just making a craft.

I was building an entire little world.

I "made a mess" of our basement, a room that no one used but me, except on the rare occasion I got over my fear of being down there.

I imagine my dad had a good reason for me needing to clean up the "mess" in a room he never entered. (Still salty.) I truly believe I was going to do it, and I remember doing my best to explain that I was almost finished with my project and would clean up afterward.

One day I came home excited to keep working on it.

I walked downstairs expecting to see my masterpiece waiting for me.

Instead, there was empty space.

At first I thought maybe he'd moved it.

He hadn't.

My dad had thrown away my masterpiece.

I cannot explain to you the pain this caused me. I am even crying now writing this article.

My hard work was seen as worthless and not valued in the slightest. My creativity, something my parents often bragged about to others, took a major hit that day, and my avoidance of messes began.

If you know anything about art making and creativity, you know that shit gets messy. You also may know the mess is necessary. The best ideas come from out of nowhere, from scraps of nothing and random doodads.

Without realizing it, I may have spent the last 12 years of my life reacting to this very moment.

Suddenly, so much made sense.

Why I kept everything organized.

Why I only created when there was a purpose.

Why I subconsciously believed creativity needed to justify the space it took up.

So when my 30-year-old self allowed me to pour what always feels like buckets of glitter out in the middle of my kitchen, I was healing.

Then one sentence pulled me right back to being 8.

As a licensed marriage and family therapist, I know our nervous systems don't always distinguish between a present-day interaction and an old emotional injury. They aren't asking, "Is this exactly the same situation?" They're asking, "Have I felt this before?"

Mine had.

And I sobbed.

Not because my partner called my art a mess.

Because a little girl who had her masterpiece thrown away finally had enough safety to cry about it.

Something my 8-year-old self needed at the time and wasn't given space or empathy for.

So here's what matters now.

I didn't hold in my devastation. I allowed myself to grieve, not only for myself in the moment but for all the younger versions of me that have been affected by other people's perception of me.

I know my partner didn't mean to hurt my feelings.

And he did.

Growing up a parent pleaser, I eventually learned not to share that type of emotion. But today I did.

Eventually, I came to and shared where I had been transported. While what he said was hurtful in the moment, it also picked at a wound that hasn't quite healed yet.

Even a slightly younger version of me would have taken the comment personally and shut down, possibly severing my relationship altogether, not understanding why or even recognizing my hurt inner child.

Today I let my feelings come, from all parts. I sat with them, and when I was ready, I shared how I was affected. I didn't demand repair. I didn't berate or punish my partner.

I acknowledged that on the micro, I was hurt. More importantly, what showed up on the macro was what my body felt.

Together, my partner and I were able to put our heads together and solve the glitter-falling-off-the-cootie-catcher problem as a team.

My partner was able to recognize his own wounded inner child showing up in the interaction and responding in a way I assume his own inner 8-year-old had once been treated.

As counterproductive as it sounds, I will forever be grateful for this experience. It was one of many moments that highlighted my growth in understanding myself and better considering others and the context of a given situation. It allows me to stay in relationship with those I love while also considering myself and my own needs.

It also reminds me that no matter how much work I do, my nervous system will sometimes still react before my logical brain does.

And that's okay.

Because now I know whose tears I'm crying.

Next month there will probably be glitter all over my kitchen again.

It will probably end up on the floor, in the sink, and somehow in rooms glitter has no business being.

And maybe my nervous system will still flinch if someone calls it a mess.

But now I know the mess was never the problem.

The glitter isn't the danger.

The shame was.