The Child in Me Returns

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by MissT

The child in me returns quietly,
not kicking doors or screaming blame,
but standing in the doorway
with scraped knees and a familiar ache.

She doesn’t ask me to save her.
She doesn’t need explaining.
She only wants to know
if I’m still leaving myself behind.

She remembers the rooms
where love was conditional,
where silence was safer
than being seen.

She learned early
how to fold herself small,
how to read faces like weather,
how to earn warmth by being useful.

For years, I sent her away.
Told her to be strong.
Told her we had work to do.
Told her grown love would fix it.

It didn’t.

So now she comes back
when I slow down,
when I stop mistaking pain for purpose,
when I choose rest over proving.

I sit with her.
Not as a saviour.
Not as a judge.
Just as someone who stayed.

I tell her this:
You were never broken.
You were surviving.
And you don’t have to do that anymore.

The child in me exhales.
She curls up where my heart used to ache.
And for the first time,
she sleeps without listening for footsteps.