Today I discovered a new part of me. Well, actually, it’s a very old part, but I saw it in a new way.

This often happens when I’m journaling. I’m writing, then a thought pops into my head that I suddenly, DESPERATELY want to act on. Today, I have to pay rent. This part REALLY wanted me to get up and check if I had enough cash in my wallet, so we would know if I had to go to an ATM first. 

I am going to have to do this at some point. But, I remind this part, it doesn’t matter whether we check now or later, and actually, it would disrupt the journaling, which I’d already decided was the most important thing right now. 

I have been practicing for a while now, not getting up and immediately responding to whatever thought pops up during something I committed to focus on. 

How’s that going? …I use the verb “practice” for a reason. 

Anyway. Today, I stayed with this voice. I didn’t get up to check my wallet. I listened. I talked to it. I felt what was happening in my body. Here’s what I wrote:

As I sit with you, I feel you getting processed and my stomach starts to digest and I have to poop. There is a feeling of sadness or disappointment, like we’re giving up or failing somehow. I sit with that. Now it is more in my neck. Pulsing. A lump of tension in my throat. “What do you want?” I ask. I don’t get an answer. I place my hands gently on my neck and keep listening. 

It is very distant, and it is a young child, crying unconsolably.

I let go of trying to get an answer. Crying unconsolably doesn’t usually yield that. So I just keep my hands on it and breathe. My mind races for a solution. But when I’m crying, I just want to know someone is there. So I start repeating, “I’m right here.” 

I’m right here. I’m right here. 

I start to stroke my neck and chest, and notice how soft the skin is. I continue to remind it of my presence, while soothing myself from the outside. 

I’m right here. I’m right here. 

Eventually, we relax. My shoulders drop and my stomach settles. It starts to be able to talk to me. It is scared. It wants to do everything right. It wants to make sure we get everything done. It is panicked. 

“I understand. There is a lot to do. But there is time. And it’s not as important as being with you right now.” It shies away and doesn’t believe me. I assure it. “Being with you right now is the most important thing I can be doing.” 

I am firm about this. I know there’s s a lot to do, but I’ve lived too many days racing through my to-do list thinking that relief was around the corner to fall for this trap and let this part of me down. This part of me thinks it needs to take extreme responsibility for getting everything done and being perfect. 

I am absolutely positive that the best thing I can do is spend a few minutes soothing this tender, tired child. 

Once it knew that I really was there, and wasn’t going to leave to do something “more important,” I heard a tiny, clear voice: “I need you.” I start to cry at this vulnerable confession from a part of me that never felt entitled to say this before. It needed me. It would try to get my attention with anxious reminders, probably hoping to be rewarded for taking care of us, soothing the fear of missing something important. But the list is endless, because that’s not really what we need to be cared for or soothed.

We just need each other. A moment to breathe together. A moment to be the most important thing.

“I need you,” it said. Gently crying, I tell it, “I’m right here.”