The Inner Child I’m Still Learning to Love

There’s a version of me that still hides sometimes.

She doesn’t show up in my emails or my work meetings. She’s not on my social media, and she doesn’t wear confidence like a second skin. She’s the quiet part of me that flinches at rejection, that still waits for permission, that shrinks when she feels too seen.

She is my inner child.

And I’m still learning how to love her.

Where She First Showed Up

I didn’t always know she existed. For years, I just assumed I was "too sensitive," or “too emotional,” or “too much.” I swallowed those labels like medicine and carried them like weight. I didn't understand that beneath the woman I was trying to become lived a little girl who never fully felt safe being herself.

The signs were always there—my fear of disappointing others, my tendency to over-explain, my habit of apologizing even when I hadn’t done anything wrong. These weren't quirks. They were coping mechanisms.

They were hers.

The First Time I Noticed Her Voice

One evening, after a particularly hard conversation that left me feeling small and unheard, I curled up with my journal and wrote something I hadn’t expected:

“I just wanted to be chosen.”

The words startled me—not because I hadn’t felt them before, but because I didn’t know they belonged to her. That sentence wasn’t coming from my adult self. It was her voice, finally speaking.

And once I heard it, I couldn’t un-hear it.

She began showing up in more moments than I’d expected: when I felt left out, when I needed reassurance, when I braced myself for abandonment in places where I was actually safe. She wasn’t trying to sabotage me—she was trying to protect me, in the only way she knew how.

But I had never really listened to her.

Meeting Her With Compassion

When I first started to connect with my inner child, I felt grief.

Grief for how many times I had ignored her needs. Grief for the way I tried to rush past her pain. Grief for how often I judged her instead of held her.

She was the part of me that once felt unseen, unheard, and unworthy. And instead of making space for her to heal, I had buried her under achievements, distractions, and perfectionism.

But healing doesn’t come from silencing that younger self. It comes from turning toward her—with curiosity, not shame.

What It Means to Love Her

Loving my inner child isn’t some poetic concept. It’s the daily practice of choosing softness in a world that trained me to be hard.

It means:

Pausing when I feel triggered and asking what she needs.

Soothing her with the words I once wished someone would say.

Letting her play, rest, and exist without needing to earn it.

Being patient when old wounds surface, instead of rushing into “fixing” mode.

Sometimes loving her looks like putting my hand on my heart and whispering, “You’re safe now.”

Sometimes, it looks like saying no to something—even if others don’t understand—because it honors her boundaries.

And sometimes, it’s as simple as giving myself permission to feel without explanation.

She Still Needs Me

Some days, I forget her. I fall into old patterns of pushing, proving, and performing. I tell myself I should be stronger by now. I get frustrated when I cry over things that seem too small for adult grief.

But then I remember: she is not “in the past.” She’s still here, living in my body, breathing through my insecurities, shaping my choices.

And she still needs me—not to be perfect, but to be present.

What She’s Taught Me

If I’m honest, she’s taught me more than I’ve taught her.

She’s shown me how deeply I long to be seen. How love doesn’t always need words—sometimes it just needs presence. She’s reminded me that being “high-functioning” doesn’t mean being healed, and that self-worth isn’t measured in productivity.

She’s made me gentler with other people, too. Because now, when I see someone reacting out of fear or overcompensating with confidence, I wonder what their inner child has been through. I wonder what they never got to say. I wonder who silenced them before they could speak.

Still Learning

I wish I could say I’ve figured it all out. That I never abandon her anymore. That I always know how to soothe her. But that’s not true.

Some days, I still feel too much. Too messy. Too behind.

But on those days, I try to remind myself: she is not a weakness. She is a map. She is the key to understanding myself on the deepest level—not through logic, but through love.

Loving her means loving the girl who didn’t always feel chosen. It means choosing her now, again and again.

And when I do that, something quiet and powerful happens:

She begins to trust me.

Final Thoughts: She’s Still with Me

The journey of self-love is never about becoming someone new. It’s about remembering who you were before the world told you who to be. It’s about coming back to the soft, unfiltered part of you that only ever wanted to be seen.

That’s what I’m still learning: to see her. To hold her. To speak to her with the tenderness I needed back then—and still need now.

So, if there’s a younger version of you inside, waiting to be acknowledged—don’t rush her. Don’t shame her.

Sit with her. Ask her what she needs. Listen with your whole heart.

Because she’s not gone.

She’s just waiting for you to come back home.