Healing is never a one-time event—it’s a journey.
In my last post, I shared one of the most profound moments from my inner child work—the moment I met my 10-year-old self, shrunken and small, as she struggled to reclaim her voice.
That session marked the beginning of a deeper exploration into the layers of wounds we carry and the ways they shape our lives.
But healing doesn’t stop at one revelation.
Each session peels back another layer, and this next story takes me to a different time, a different place—one that challenged me to confront the relationship between money, success, and safety.
This session began with a specific intention.
I wanted to explore the financial blocks that seemed to be holding me back—blocks I could feel but couldn’t quite explain.
What unfolded took me back to a moment when I was 8 years old, standing alone on a driveway, and it showed me that this block wasn’t just about money—it was about security, survival, and trust.
A Driveway and a Moment Frozen in Time
Reviewing the transcript of this session, I was reminded of how vivid yet unclear the memory felt at first—like stepping into a scene I couldn’t immediately make sense of.
I saw myself standing near the gate—inside the yard, with my back to the gate and the gate locked behind me.
I was looking down the driveway, facing the garage doors at the far end.
The yard was shaded, surrounded by trees that cast shadows over the area.
And then there was the stillness.
Not just quiet, but an eerie, almost unnatural stillness—a moment suspended in time.
I could see myself standing there, but I couldn’t immediately connect to what I was feeling or why this memory had surfaced.
The Truth of the Event
Even as the scene grew sharper, something about it still felt frozen, as if time had stopped.
I could see myself standing in the front yard near the gate, looking toward the garage. The gate was locked behind me. My body felt present, but my emotions were numb.
When my guide asked what I was feeling, I answered, “I’m literally not feeling anything.”
He reminded me that even that—not feeling anything—was still a feeling.
From there, we shifted focus to my body sensations. That’s when I noticed an unexpected tingling in my nipples. It was an odd detail, but it stood out—sharp, noticeable, almost at an eight or nine intensity.
We turned the sensation up, almost like adjusting a volume knob, until the energy peaked and then dissipated. And that’s when the scene sharpened further.
Suddenly, I saw myself more clearly—wearing a bathing suit, wet, with a towel wrapped around me.
And yet, I was still standing by the gate in the front yard—not the backyard where the pool was.
That detail didn’t make sense, and my conscious mind jumped in to question it.
“I wouldn’t have been allowed in the pool alone,” I thought. “So why am I here, wet, and no one’s around?”
Despite the clarity of the image, the stillness remained. It felt like I was stuck in that moment, unable to move forward.
Then the first message surfaced—not as a thought I consciously created but as something that rose up from within.
“I still thought I could leave.”
The words echoed, again and again:
“I still thought I could leave.”
Each repetition made it feel heavier, more urgent.
My guide asked me, “Are you alone?”
I said, “Yes.”
But my conscious mind jumped in again, arguing with the scene. “That doesn’t make sense,” I thought. “I wouldn’t have been allowed in the pool if I was alone.”
And yet, the feeling of aloneness stayed.
Then the message repeated one more time:
“I still thought I could leave.”
Finally, my guide asked, “What’s keeping you there?”
And that’s when the realisation hit me.
“There’s nowhere to go.”
And with those words, the truth broke through.
“I think this might have been the first time I ran away.”
The Messages Begin to Surface
As the realization settled—“I think this might have been the first time I ran away”—my guide asked me to explore the truth of the event.
The first message came through quickly.
“You had no control.”
It felt like a statement of fact. Not emotional. Just true.
Then another message followed almost immediately:
“Nobody could save you.”
There was no time for reflection between the statements—just truth after truth, surfacing as though they had always been there, waiting to be heard.
And then came the next realization:
“So you took your life into your own hands to keep yourself safe.”
It was a shift in tone.
Where the first messages had been heavy, this one carried a subtle sense of strength. It wasn’t a celebration, but it was an acknowledgement—an understanding of the resilience that had been there all along.
There was no pause to sit with it. The messages kept flowing, one building on the next.
“You never stopped trying to be safe.”
And then—the first connection to money emerged:
“Money doesn’t make you feel safe.”
This wasn’t a thought I consciously formed. It was another truth that surfaced, carrying weight I hadn’t fully understood until that moment.
The Contrast Appears
As the messages settled, my guide asked if there was anything else important to know.
Another truth surfaced almost immediately:
“They weren’t only rich. They were mean.”
And with that, the scene shifted.
I saw a flash—the home of my high school friend, the Chinyandas.
It wasn’t random.
The Chinyandas had been a safe space for me after one of the times I had run away.
They had welcomed me in and given me a place where I felt safe and cared for—even if only briefly.
And then came the message that tied it all together:
“It wasn’t the money that was the problem.”
Seeing the Chinyandas’ home made it clear.
Money wasn’t what defined a person.
Character did.
The contrast between the kindness of the Chinyandas and the meanness of my grandparents drove that message home.
“It’s not that they were rich. It’s that they were mean.”
This was never about money.
It was about how people choose to treat others.
And the Chinyandas were shown to me as a reminder—a reminder that wealth could be used to nurture and support just as easily as it could be used to control and hurt.
Their kindness reflected what my grandparents lacked.
And with that realization, the contrast between the two families became even sharper.
Closing Messages
With the scene still lingering, my guide asked:
“Is there anything else important to know?”
That’s when I tried to probe my subconscious, asking what had actually happened on this day.
But the answer that came through was firm:
“You don’t need to know what happened. Just know this is the day you knew you weren’t safe.”
It wasn’t about the specifics of the moment.
It was about the truth it had left behind.
After receiving that final answer, my guide gently brought me out of the scene and asked me to connect with my younger self.
The message that came through was simple but powerful:
“Congratulate her. She did okay.”
It wasn’t about fixing her or rescuing her.
It was about acknowledging what she had already done—surviving and protecting herself the best way she knew how.
But when I asked if I should take her with me—like I had done in a previous session—the answer this time was no.
Not yet.
I felt a conflict about leaving her there, but I trusted the process.
There was still more to learn.
Final Reflections
Before closing the session, my guide asked one last time if there was anything more to learn about my blockages around money.
The message came through clearly:
"Money isn’t everything."
It felt like something I already knew, something I had always believed, but I still sat with it for a moment—just to be sure there wasn’t more beneath it.
When I asked again if there was anything else left to uncover, the final answer was simple:
"Now you know."
And with that, the session came to a close.
With that final answer—"Now you know"—my guide gently brought me out of the scene, leading me back to the present moment.
As I returned, I carried those messages with me—the clarity that it wasn’t money that made people good or bad, but their character.
And the deeper truth that no matter how unsafe I had felt back then, I had never stopped trying to create safety for myself.
That realization stayed with me.
This session may have ended, but the healing continues.
The Body as the Gateway to Healing
What stood out in this session was how the body acted as the bridge to my subconscious, even when my emotions felt out of reach.
At first, I didn’t feel anything at all—no sadness, no fear, nothing that my mind could identify. Yet, my body told a different story.
The tingling sensation that surfaced wasn’t random.
It was a physical imprint of a deeper emotional truth, a sign that even when we disconnect from our feelings, our bodies continue to carry the weight of our experiences.
This phenomenon is well-documented in somatic psychology and trauma research.
Studies have shown that traumatic memories often bypass the logical, language-based part of the brain and instead become stored in the limbic system—the part responsible for emotional processing—and the nervous system itself.
Because trauma is stored physically, it often can’t be resolved through cognitive processing alone.
That’s why methods like somatic experiencing, EMDR, and breathwork are so effective—they engage the body’s memory to help release stored tension and rewire responses.
This session reinforced that healing isn’t always about uncovering new thoughts or changing beliefs directly.
Instead, it’s about reconnecting with the body and allowing it to lead.
The sensations that surfaced didn’t just reveal a hidden emotional wound—they acted as signposts guiding me to the root of the experience that shaped my fears around safety and stability.
The Power of Sensory Activation
The process of turning up the sensation was also key.
By focusing on the physical feeling and amplifying it, I was able to move through what was trapped, rather than bypassing it or pushing it away.
This method mirrors principles used in somatic therapy, where activating and intensifying sensations can actually help the body complete its stress response cycle.
Instead of staying frozen, as I had felt in the scene, the act of feeling fully allowed my system to release and reset.
What’s fascinating is that this practice is ancient.
Traditional healing methods like yoga, meditation, and dance therapy have long recognized the connection between movement, breath, and emotional release.
Modern science is only now beginning to explain why these practices work—linking them to the vagus nerve, the polyvagal theory, and the body’s natural ability to self-regulate when it feels safe enough to process.
Money, Safety, and the Psychology of Worth
One of the most striking revelations from this session was how my early experiences of safety—or the lack of it—shaped my relationship with money.
Psychologists have long recognized that our belief systems about money are deeply rooted in our childhood experiences.
These beliefs aren’t just about dollars and cents—they’re tied to survival, self-worth, and even our sense of identity.
For example, studies in attachment theory suggest that when our early environment feels unstable or unsafe, we may grow up associating security with external factors like wealth or material possessions.
On the flip side, if wealth was connected to negative experiences, such as being around people who were controlling or uncaring, we may come to fear success—worrying that becoming financially secure could somehow make us like them.
In this session, my subconscious made it clear—money wasn’t the issue. It was the behaviour
I witnessed.
Seeing the Chinyandas’ home as a safe space helped me reframe my beliefs, showing that financial stability and kindness can coexist.
The Weight of the Unseen Wound
The event that surfaced in this session unearthed a profound and multifaceted wound—a wound shaped by emotional abandonment, misplaced assumptions, and the distortions wealth can create in relationships.
I was eight years old, standing by the gate of a large, pristine house that should have represented safety and success.
Instead, it felt like a cage, locking me inside a life where my emotional needs were overlooked.
This house—immaculate, orderly, and isolated—was a sharp contrast to the humble homes I had known before.
I came from spaces that were cluttered but alive—filled with the sounds of laughter, shared beds, and people who were always nearby.
Those earlier homes weren’t polished, but they were warm.
They were surrounded by family within walking distance, so I was never truly alone. If I needed comfort, I could simply go next door or down the street.
But here, in this wealthy home, the very thing that was supposed to elevate my life—money—became the source of my isolation.
The message from my subconscious—“You had no control. No one could save you.”—perfectly captured the helplessness I felt.
If I left, there was nowhere to go.
Yet, this isolation didn’t stop with my grandparents’ household.
It began to spill over into my relationships with the rest of my family.
They assumed I was better off in this rich home and chose to overlook the signs that something was wrong.
When I began running away, it wasn’t seen as a cry for help but as rebellious behavior.
My grandparents, in turn, demonized me, painting me as a problem child to justify their actions.
This narrative stuck, and the rest of my family accepted it—choosing to believe the image of success and wealth over the reality of my experience.
Suddenly, the people who had once been emotionally available to me became distant.
Even when I visited my cousins, I was treated like I was a snob—as if the wealth of the home
I lived in had somehow changed who I was.
The wound deepened when I realized that the people who finally saw me—the Chinyandas—were strangers, not family.
They were wealthy too, but they were kind.
When I ran away to their home as a teenager, they immediately recognized that I needed help.
They took me in, cared for me, and made sure I was safe—something my own family had failed to do for years.
This experience left me with two powerful and conflicting beliefs:
Wealth can isolate and hide pain. Instead of being protective, it can create a barrier where appearances matter more than reality, leaving struggles invisible and unacknowledged.
Trust is fragile. If even family could turn a blind eye, how could I trust others to truly see me and stand by me?
It wasn’t just about money.
It was about emotional betrayal—about feeling unseen by the people who were supposed to know me best and finding comfort from outsiders instead.
This dynamic planted the seeds of another limiting belief—that closeness with others can’t be trusted and that even in relationships, I might always feel alone.
This emotional fracture has echoed through my life, leaving me wary of connections with family and hesitant to fully open up.
It’s a pattern shaped by the very moment I realized that no one was coming to save me—a wound carried forward in how I relate to safety, wealth, and belonging today.
How It Showed Up in My Life
The wounds uncovered during the session didn’t stay buried in the past—they showed up repeatedly in my life, shaping the way I viewed relationships, security, and stability.
At the core of it all was the tension between wanting safety and fearing the cost of it—
emotionally, financially, and relationally.
Money Wounds and Emotional Disconnect
The financial aspect of the wound planted seeds of mistrust.
Growing up in a home that was wealthy but emotionally unsafe left me deeply conflicted about money.
I associated financial stability with emotional isolation, hidden dysfunction, and a lack of authenticity.
It created an internal push-pull dynamic with money—wanting it for stability but also pushing it away out of fear of what it might bring with it.
This showed up in patterns of financial instability, cycles of earning and then spending quickly—almost as if I was trying to rid myself of the money before it could bring harm.
It also left me carrying the burden of self-sufficiency, feeling that I had to create my own security rather than rely on others.
That drive to protect myself kept me from fully trusting in partnerships or sharing responsibilities, even when I was in committed relationships.
Familial Disconnect and Emotional Isolation
The disconnect with my family ran just as deep.
The belief that no one could save me became a reality when family members failed to see the signs of distress.
Their assumptions that I was fine—because of the wealth surrounding me—meant that my struggles were overlooked and minimized.
That sense of abandonment made it difficult to lean on people later in life.
Even when surrounded by people, I often felt emotionally isolated, hesitant to share my struggles out of fear that they’d be dismissed or misunderstood.
Embracing Isolation as a Form of Safety
Over time, isolation became a shield.
What had once felt unsafe became a space I grew comfortable in, even to the point of thriving in it.
But that comfort also had its costs. I pushed people away and struggled to form deep connections, always keeping parts of myself hidden.
At the same time, the need to control my surroundings—especially my physical space—reflected this tension.
Cluttered spaces felt safer, mirroring the chaotic but loving homes I had known in my early years, while pristine spaces reminded me of the coldness and perfection I had once associated with emotional neglect.
These patterns—financial instability, emotional disconnect, and isolation—wove themselves into every aspect of my life, shaping how I approached relationships, stability, and even my own sense of self-worth.
A Relationship That Brought It All to the Surface
My last relationship didn’t just highlight my wounds—it exposed them in ways I couldn’t ignore.
The push-pull dynamic in this relationship began after I initially walked away from the relationship out of fear of being a burden on him, and then later deciding to give us another chance.
And then the dynamic shifted, I wanted this relationship to work and I felt the need to prove that I wasn’t a burden.
I went back to school, determined to create stability—not just for myself, but for us. I wanted to be sure that no matter what, I could hold my own and build a life we could depend on.
The Breaking Point
For a while, it felt like I was making progress.
I finished school, landed a job, and finally felt ready to move forward. We had our daughter, and for a moment, it seemed like things were starting to fall into place.
And then COVID hit.
The job I had worked so hard for disappeared almost overnight.
Suddenly, all the stability I’d been trying to create was gone.
I was right back in the place I had always feared—unstable, uncertain, and completely exposed.
To make things worse, postpartum depression followed, magnifying everything I was already feeling.
I spiraled into a mental health crisis, and instead of standing by me...
He left.
He left me for someone else—someone with a good job and the financial stability I no longer had.
The Final Blow
The irony is, all that time I’d been pushing myself to create stability for us, he had already had the resources to do it.
I just didn’t know.
I never expected anything from him.
While I had been focused on building, he had been squandering money—on partying, on women, and on everything except creating the foundation I thought we were working toward.
And yet, when I hit rock bottom—when I needed support the most—he walked away and chose someone who already had the financial security he claimed to want.
The Patterns Exposed
Looking back, it’s clear how deeply this mirrored the patterns I had been carrying for so long.
It reinforced the belief that I couldn’t rely on anyone, that safety depended entirely on me, and that love—even when it felt real—wasn’t enough to overcome financial insecurity.
It also forced me to confront my complicated relationship with money—how I had been so focused on building stability myself that I never even asked for support, never demanded partnership, and ultimately ended up feeling abandoned all over again.
Most of all, it made me realize how these patterns had seeped into every part of my life—my finances, my relationships, and my sense of self-worth—and just how much work I still had to do to break free from them.
In the process of recognizing my patterns—both conscious and subconscious—and how they shaped my beliefs and behaviours, I’ve also developed a deeper understanding of the people in my life.
Even in situations where their behaviours weren’t ideal, I can now see that they too were likely acting from their own patterns, wounds, and fears.
This doesn’t excuse their actions any more than my understanding of my own patterns excuses my past harmful behaviours.
But in the case of my ex, I can’t ignore the mirrored nature of our wounds—how we seemed to reflect each other’s insecurities and how those insecurities shaped the push-pull dynamic between us.
The pattern really started when I ended the relationship out of fear of being a burden, projecting the belief that he wasn’t capable of supporting the relationship.
Even when we got back together, I continued to act as if it was entirely on me to carry the relationship—never checking in to see if he wanted to share that responsibility or if he was even ready and willing to step into it.
I made assumptions about his capabilities, and in doing so, I unintentionally overlooked and alienated him.
While I thought I was protecting us, I was actually reinforcing the idea that I didn’t need his support—even though, deep down, I actually did.
And in response, it seems he started seeking validation elsewhere, spending money and investing in places where he might have felt seen, appreciated, or valued in ways he didn’t feel with me.
In hindsight, it’s not hard to see how we were both acting out patterns—patterns rooted in unspoken fears and unmet needs—that kept us disconnected even when we were trying to build something together.
What makes it even harder to process is knowing how much we loved each other and how much we wanted it to work.
We kept coming back to each other, hoping we could fix it, but because neither of us was consciously aware of the underlying wounds driving our behaviours, we stayed stuck in cycles that ultimately caused more harm than healing.
And then, when everything fell apart, he left—for someone who was more financially secure.
That decision didn’t just reopen old wounds—it reinforced them, making me question whether I was enough or whether security mattered more than love.
It’s heartbreaking to only come to this awareness now, when the relationship is over.
But at the same time, it allows me to move forward with clarity—not just in my own healing, but in my work to help others recognize the patterns keeping them stuck and give them the tools to heal before it’s too late.
It’s also given me permission to hold space for the love I still feel—without shame, without judgment, and without needing to justify it.
I’ve come to realize that love doesn’t just disappear because a relationship ends, even one that had its share of unhealthy patterns.
And maybe that’s because, in understanding the ways we mirrored each other, I also see how much we were both trying, even if we didn’t know how to get it right.
So while I continue to heal, I’m allowing myself to feel that love—not as a contradiction to my growth, but as part of it.
Because healing isn’t about erasing love; it’s about learning to hold it differently, with acceptance, compassion, and grace.
And that’s where the shift began.
It wasn’t enough to simply recognize the patterns—I knew I had to do something with what I’d learned.
Turning Pain into Purpose
Recognizing these patterns and wounds wasn’t the end of my journey—it was the beginning of transforming them.
The process of uncovering what lay beneath the surface, layer by layer, gave me clarity on how deeply these experiences shaped my mindset, relationships, and approach to money and self-worth.
But more importantly, it revealed a path forward—one where those wounds could be transformed into wisdom.
Healing through Awareness
Awareness is often the first step toward healing, and that’s exactly where my journey began.
By allowing my subconscious to surface the messages and patterns hidden beneath my conscious thoughts, I was able to observe what had been operating in the background for so long.
This wasn’t about revisiting or reliving painful memories.
Instead, it was about listening to what my body and subconscious were communicating—giving space to sensations, insights, and emotions that had been locked away.
I began to see how my subconscious had been trying to protect me—keeping me isolated to avoid disappointment, pushing me to overcompensate so I wouldn’t feel like a burden, and fearing financial stability because of the false connections I had tied to wealth and inauthenticity.
Breaking Cycles with Intention
Through intentional work, I’ve started to challenge those beliefs.
I no longer let the fear of appearing vulnerable prevent me from asking for help or expressing my needs.
I’ve learned that true stability isn’t something I have to build alone—it’s something that can be co-created in partnership and community.
This process has also fueled my passion for helping others.
My work as a trauma-informed coach is rooted in these very experiences—the understanding that healing is layered, non-linear, and deeply personal.
Guiding Others through Their Healing Journeys
Whether it’s through lunar-aligned coaching, trauma-informed conscious parenting coaching, or intuitive guidance sessions, my goal is to create a safe space for others to explore their own wounds and patterns.
I know what it’s like to feel stuck in cycles that seem impossible to break.
But I also know the power of shining a light on those patterns, of naming them, and of reclaiming the narrative.
From Wounds to Wisdom
Every part of my journey—the struggles, the setbacks, and even the heartbreak—has become part of my purpose.
It’s what allows me to meet my clients where they are, to sit with them in their stories, and to guide them as they find their own paths to healing and growth.
I’ve learned that pain doesn’t have to define us, but it can absolutely shape us in meaningful ways—if we allow it.
And that’s the invitation I extend to everyone I work with: to see their wounds not as barriers, but as doorways to transformation.
Comments