The Kid

Dear Squeak,

Oh, Squeak, it’s been quite the couple of weeks.

For a long time, I’ve been trying—mostly impatiently—to get somewhere. But it felt like spinning my tires in heavy mud. Either nothing was working, or progress came in such tiny increments that it was almost imperceptible.

If I’m honest with myself—and with you—I was more comfortable with that than I wanted to admit.

Because the truth is, it’s hard for me to be seen.

I’m not afraid of failure. I’ve done plenty of that over the years. Failure makes you visible, sure, but only briefly. People criticize you, ridicule you, pity you, and then they move on to the next person stumbling. Besides, most of those critics stay safely on the sidelines to avoid failure altogether. I’ve learned not to internalize criticism from people unwilling to risk anything themselves.

Success is different.

Success plants you squarely beneath a white-hot spotlight. As long as you remain successful, that spotlight stays on, and so do the trolls, critics, and endless opinions of strangers. Every accomplishment seems to come bundled with someone eager to tear it apart.

So, for a long time, I unconsciously minimized my own success because I didn’t want that level of scrutiny.

But let’s rewind a few months.

I found myself standing at a crossroads, believing I had a decision to make. Once I got brutally honest with myself, though, I realized there wasn’t really a choice at all.

If I stayed where I was—remaining in an environment that was steadily damaging both my mental and physical health—I genuinely feared it would destroy me.

The position had never been a good fit because it echoed something much older: my childhood.

I wasn’t just going to work every day. I was reliving emotional flashbacks to the neglect I experienced as a kid.

The alternative was terrifying, but simple.

Walk away.

Save my own life.

For once, protect the little girl inside me who had never truly felt safe.

This time, I chose to listen to the kid.

I owe her an apology.

She spent her childhood without anyone consistently protecting her. Until recently, fate placed someone in my life who did, at least for a while. When that person left, she absolutely freaked out.

I don’t blame her.

Sometimes the only thing more painful than never having something is having it…and then losing it.

But here’s the harder truth.

I failed her too.

For years, I kept “selling us out” in the name of staying safe. Every time fear took over, I abandoned her needs to keep everyone else comfortable. Then, whenever she resurfaced in panic, desperate for reassurance, I responded by trying to silence her.

Essentially, I kept telling her to shut up.

Of course she became louder.

Of course she panicked.

She didn’t need to be controlled. She needed to be protected.

No wonder she wanted me to stay small. What could be more dangerous than allowing yourself to be fully seen and constantly evaluated? Especially in a world where strangers tear each other apart for entertainment and “likes.”

I think that’s one of the things I’m most proud of about our thirteen years together, Squeaky.

I protected you.

You never had to meet the darkest parts of humanity. Because of that, the world remained full of possibility.

One of my favorite things was watching you greet people. Whether you’d known them for ten years or ten seconds, your response was exactly the same. Tail wagging a million miles an hour, floppy ears flying, convinced every person was a potential friend.

If someone ignored you?

You simply moved on to the next person with the exact same enthusiasm.

You had absolutely zero concern about being seen.

The little girl I used to be never got that luxury.

Because no one was coming to comfort her, she learned very young to manage overwhelming emotions all by herself. Emotional regulation is heavy work for a six-year-old. So she made herself as small, quiet, and invisible as possible.

If she stayed hidden, maybe she’d stay safe.

And for years, I thought I was protecting us by continuing that strategy.

Instead, I was abandoning her all over again.

When she came to me frightened, I walked away too.

At forty-eight years old, I finally realized she didn’t trust me.

Honestly?

She had every reason not to.

But that’s where our story changes.

Going forward, I will listen to that kid.

I will protect that kid.

Because if she can’t trust me, then I’ll never fully trust anyone else. And that sounds like a painfully lonely way to spend the one life we’ve been given.

So I’ll protect her the same way I protected you.

I can’t undo the years I wasn’t there for her, but maybe I can give her enough safety now that she no longer has to scream every time life becomes uncertain. Maybe she’ll learn that someone is finally looking out for us both.

That’s my hope.

I think I’ve also learned something else.

You can’t skip steps.

As much as we’d like to, healing doesn’t offer shortcuts. You really do have to trust the process, even when it hurts like hell.

And somewhere along the way, you have to learn gratitude.

Gratitude for the good.

Gratitude for the bad.

Gratitude for the ugly.

Because every piece has shaped the person standing here today.

I don’t know exactly where this path leads, and surprisingly, I’m okay with that.

Knowing the ending of a book only spoils the magic.

So, for now, my job is simple.

Protect the kid.

Trust the process.

Believe in the magic.

And finally…

Learn to be seen.