“The wound is the place where the Light enters you.” – Rumi

There’s a scared little boy at the center of me. Sometimes I catch glimpses of him, standing there in a world that feels both achingly familiar and impossibly strange. He’s always trying to be something else, someone else – anything but himself.

He’s always searching. For answers. For love. For warmth in a world that feels so cold sometimes. He just wants to be seen. Really seen. Not the surface stuff, but the deep-down truth of who he is.

• He wants to let people in.
• He wants to be heard.
• He wants to be accepted.
• He wants to feel worthy. Just… worthy.

But life had different plans, didn’t it? His story started with pain, with ridicule, with a loneliness that cut to the bone. Trauma. Self-doubt. And yes – self-loathing. Never quite sure where he belonged in this world. When things got hard, he’d either lash out or vanish. Usually seeking refuge in the woods.

“I don’t like fighting,” he’d say, over and over. So he learned to read people instead. To crawl inside their heads and understand their motivations. Not for connection – for protection.

Somehow this boy shares space with a man. An adult who’s done the work. Who’s learned to navigate this world, to heal, to take up space without apologizing. This man dreams of making a difference, of making his life mean something. Of finding some kind of… fulfillment.

When the two meet they often seem to fight. Oh, the arguments they have, and they learned from the best: his parents. Always fighting with himself. Mostly about things that haven’t even happened yet. Often they seemed to want the opposite, but deep down they each needed the same thing:

• The man yearns for a deep love that ignites the heart
• The boy whispers “you’re not worthy” and trembles at the thought of that love

• The man seeks meaningful work
• The boy just wants to play

• The man craves financial stability
• The boy begs for new toys

• The man wants to express himself freely
• The boy carries shame like a second skin

But there’s something else here too: A spirit. Loving, joyful, and truth-seeking. Finding wonder and humor in the smallest things. Looking at both boy and man with such complete acceptance it almost hurts to witness.

This spirit doesn’t see separation. Doesn’t judge. Just loves. Just holds space.

Maybe they’re both flawed. Maybe they’re both perfect. Maybe they’re opposite sides of the same coin, or maybe they’re opposing truths that are both right at the same time.

And here’s the thing that breaks my heart wide open: The spirit doesn’t choose. It holds space for all of it. The boy’s terror and the man’s dreams. The hiding and the emerging. The darkness and the light.

Maybe that’s been the lesson all along: There is room for all of it

• Room for the boy who learned to disappear.
• Room for the man who yearns to be seen.
• Room for the fear and the hope.
• Room for the shame and the desire.
• Room even for not knowing what to choose.

Because in this space – this sacred, timeless space – nothing needs to be fixed. Nothing needs to be solved.

Everything, exactly as it is, belongs.

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