I think I’ve just had the biggest breakthrough of my life.

And I don’t mean that in a fleeting, momentary sense. I mean it in the way tectonic plates shift beneath your feet and suddenly, the entire landscape of your inner world looks different. It feels like something I’ve known in fragments for a long time—but only now have I been able to fully integrate.

What I’ve seen is this: my wounded inner child has been running the show for most of my life. In almost every situation—from love to work, to how I perceive others and how I respond to perceived slights—it’s been him behind the wheel.

And while my first instinct might’ve once been to feel deep shame about that, I don’t anymore. I think sometimes that part needed to take the wheel—not because he was equipped to lead, but because his pain was so big it couldn’t be ignored. He was crying out for help. And by letting him act out, I’ve slowly come to see the wound he’s been carrying all along.

But that doesn’t mean it hasn’t caused destruction. The damage is real.

There have been women—good women—who were healthy matches for me. But I couldn’t follow through. That part of me didn’t believe we were capable of love. He didn’t believe we were lovable. And so we sabotaged. Or shut down. Or chose someone more chaotic because chaos felt familiar.

There have been jobs I should have taken. Secure, grounding, soul-nourishing work. But instead, I chose the thing that mirrored my upbringing—unstable, emotionally dangerous, and draining. Because that’s what I knew how to handle. Love? Support? Safety? Those felt terrifying.

Because the part of me making those choices… is probably five or six years old.

He’s not mature enough to see the whole picture. He doesn’t know how to trust what’s good. And it’s become so clear to me that reparenting isn’t optional—it’s essential if I want to live a life that’s truly mine.

The wound behind the college rejection

The college situation—not getting into Level 4—ripped this open for me. At first, I thought it was about the course. Then I thought it was about validation. Then I realized it was something much older, deeper.

It was the wound saying:
“You’re not good enough. You’ll never be good enough. You’ll never be loved.”

It brought me back to the core truth I’ve circled for years: I wasn’t loved as a child. Not really. Not in the way a child needs to be loved. And the ramifications of that fact have affected every relationship, every choice, every moment of self-doubt, every retreat into isolation.

The truth is stark:

I was bereft of anything soft, anything that held me, anything that saw me.

I wasn’t raised to be loved. I was raised to meet someone else’s needs. And I’ve spent most of my life turning a blind eye to that fact, then facing it, then suppressing it again. Because it’s too painful to feel directly.

But I’m feeling it now. I’m letting it in.

“Why wasn’t I good enough for my mother to love me?”

That’s the question. The raw, unfiltered one I’ve been avoiding all my life.

And from that question springs all the others:

  • Who did I have to become to be loved?
  • What parts of myself did I have to abandon?
  • Why do I still believe I’m unlovable?
  • Why do I choose what hurts instead of what heals?

This five- or six-year-old part of me is still controlling so many decisions. And it’s not his fault. It wasn’t my fault either. But now—now that I see it—it is my responsibility. To step in. To lead. To soothe. To reparent.

Because when I don’t, that child wreaks havoc—not out of malice, but out of desperation. He doesn’t know how to sit with pain. He doesn’t trust that love will stay. He believes he’s alone, so he acts accordingly.

That’s what happened with the college. My brain translated a bureaucratic process into a warzone. Everyone became the enemy. Every delay or silence was a personal slight. It was unbearable.

But the truth is, it was just echoes of the past. My psyche screaming here we go again. We’re not good enough. We don’t belong. No one cares.

The shame spiral — and stepping out of it

I feel shame even writing all this. Because I acted on these beliefs. As an adult. And I hurt people. Projected on people who were probably kind, safe, maybe even rooting for me. My tutors didn’t deserve that. My classmates didn’t either.

But it was never about them.

It was about a wounded child trying to survive in an adult body.

That’s devastating to admit. And yet, it’s also liberating. Because now I can do something about it.

Understanding others through this lens

I’ve even thought back to my ex-partner. At the time, I felt betrayed. I believed she didn’t love me. But now I see something else.

She loved me as best as she could, from within the limits of her own wounded upbringing.

She was shamed into silence as a child. Taught to lie about her true feelings to stay safe. So even though she cared, she couldn’t express it honestly. And when she got needs met outside the relationship, it wasn’t about me. It was about what she never got as a child.

It hurt. It still does. But now I can see it wasn’t personal. It was familiar.

And the pain cut even deeper because it mirrored my mother’s neglect.

Building a new path forward

These past few years have been brutal. I’ve isolated. I’ve overeaten. I’ve created a kind of emotional starvation and tried to fill it with anything I could—food, coping strategies, achievement, withdrawal.

But now… now that I’ve seen this clearly, I think something different is possible.

I can start again. Fully conscious. Fully present. Fully me.

Because I’m not five anymore. I’m not stuck in that house. I’m not trapped in a dynamic that destroys my soul. And I don’t have to act like I am.

The depression? The helplessness? That’s him. That little boy. He was hopeless. He was alone. But I’m not. Not anymore. I’ve got tools. I’ve got support. I’ve got a therapist. I’ve got awareness.

Now it’s about practicing new choices.

Sitting with the shame—not letting it define me.
Making conscious decisions—not compulsive ones.
Building from love—not fear.

And most of all, giving my son what I never had: a parent who sees him, holds him, and loves him exactly as he is.

Final thoughts

This might be the beginning of my real life.

I don’t expect it to be perfect. I know that little boy will still cry out sometimes. But now I know how to listen. I know how to comfort him. And I know how to say:

“I see you. I love you. But I’m the one driving now. You can rest.”

And maybe, for the first time, he will.