(Listen to the audio version of this article here.)
Read Part One of this two-part article series here.
There is this small voice that echoes in the back of my mind. It usually appears following a difficult conversation or when I’ve disappointed my husband or a dear friend again. My failures replay as mental tapes, images of the dog escaping, bolting towards the street through a gate I accidentally left open, the sink overflowing, or the coveted blueberry crisp coming out of the oven burned due to my distractions. One memory becomes another until they’re impossible to separate.
I call this nagging narrative my little girl. She carries every wound I’ve collected and faithfully replays them whenever I’m most vulnerable.
I wonder if you ever hear an almost imperceptible recording coming from your past experiences? Is there a dialogue repeating in your head that keeps you stuck? Reminding you that you should work harder, be more, do more, and keep your guard raised just in case. Perhaps you have a little girl speaking to your heart, filling you with memories that only work to keep you trapped in an endless cycle of questioning your place in the world.
If that is you, I encourage you to keep reading. I’m not offering a quick solution to rid you of your shadows. But I am sharing my journey to help you understand that you can live with the relentless words that attempt to enslave you.
One of the hardest lessons in life is letting go. Whether it’s guilt, anger, love, loss, or betrayal, change is never easy. We fight to hold, and we fight to let go.
Are You Keeping a Record of Your Failures?
My little girl began collecting messages at the innocent age of 6. She listened as I journeyed through a world that dealt some wounding blows. As an act of survival, I became a performer, quickly learning to mask my emotions and stuff the pain. This approach was refined through my teenage years and perfected as I moved into adulthood.
The strategy worked to shield me from revealing secret insecurities and a growing need to control. Until one day, I was forced to face the truth: My strategy had done nothing more than lead to a life of questioning myself, doubting God, and storing critical self-talk in the sensitive places of my soul. She carefully catalogued every lie, convinced one day she would need them again.
I distinctly remember my little girl’s first assault. She launched repeated blows, reminding me of my failure to be a real woman. Real women never cry over empty arms or the words, “You can’t have children.” A real woman doesn’t walk away from unfaithful husbands or toxic relationships. A real woman would find a way regardless of physical limitations or the emotional cost. She wouldn’t stop until she made it work!
I have had many more attacks following that initial blow. They addressed small missteps and bigger failures, but on each occasion, my little girl reached into the storehouse and pulled up half-truths and misguided judgments. And with each assault, I took the same defensive posture—memorize the lie, file it in my mental catalogue of failures, and retreat in defeat.
But God is so good. He didn’t allow me to stay trapped in my endless cycle; rather, he allowed me to see my behavior with fresh eyes.
Letting Go of the Stories That Keep You Stuck
I enjoy walking early in the morning. It allows me to get some needed exercise while offering an uninterrupted time for prayer. But recently, I witnessed something I don’t think I’ll soon forget.
As I walked toward the intersection leading to the orchards on the outskirts of my community, a hummingbird flew low over my head. I watched it dart and dash from flower to bush and then to the glass globe streetlights that line our streets. It hovered, moving from side to side, repeatedly bumping its slender beak into the glass. I watched its committed attempts, and then it dawned on me: The hummingbird thought the globe was a feeder! As I watched, a second bird flew across the street and mirrored the behavior of the first, bumping, fluttering, and then darting to another pole. They both eventually gave up in bitter defeat.
At some point in their past, these small flying jewels experienced a feeder. They memorized the shape and how to navigate the feeding holes, but they never learned to distinguish what was real from what was fake. Streetlight or feeder, all are the same to a hungry hummingbird!
The more I consider these tiny birds, the more I realize they weren’t foolish. They were simply hungry. They were searching for something they remembered had once satisfied them, but memory had become a poor guide. They couldn’t tell the difference between a feeder that would nourish them and a glass globe that only reflected what they longed to find.
My little girl isn’t much different.
By sharing the stories she collected long ago, she works to rewrite the memories. She believes that if she rehearses every failure, every disappointment, and every wound, perhaps she can keep me from repeating the same mistakes and, in some upside-down way, keep me from being hurt again. But all she really does is lead me back to empty streetlights, convincing me that if I just try harder, think longer, or punish myself enough, I’ll finally find what I long for.
She is wrong.
When the Little Girl Inside You Still Hurts, Do This
So when her voice grows loud, I don’t have to argue with her. I don’t have to prove her wrong or relive every painful memory. Like the hummingbird, I can simply leave what has no life to offer. I can turn toward what truly nourishes my soul—to the voice of a Father who has never confused my failures with my identity.
Perhaps that’s what healing looks like. Not silencing the little girl, but gently taking her hand and leading her away from the glass globe, reminding her that there is a real feeder nearby. One offers only reflection. The other offers life.
—
Photo courtesy of Chris F./Pexels
