When Was The Last Time You Hung Out With Your Inner Child?

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After I returned home to New York in the spring, I was experiencing an overwhelming lack of motivation. Getting out of bed, working, and even talking to people felt like a chore. This wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling, but I couldn’t pinpoint the source. Was it burnout? Or maybe I didn’t fully process my breakup? I had a lot of work and travel at the time, which felt like a good thing to keep me occupied, but maybe all the distractions had thwarted my cycle of grieving my first relationship. I casually mentioned it to my therapist in a session because I find it challenging to take proper care of myself when I’m in this state. It’s the tension between feeling the weight of all the shit I have to do and wanting to completely surrender to the listlessness. 

My therapist asked me a simple but unexpected question: what age do you feel like when you’re in this state? 

Without hesitation, age 11 popped into my mind.


Age 11 holds a certain weight in my life. Before then, my world felt bright, active, and fully engaged. But just a few months before turning 12, I experienced my first panic attack. It marked the start of what felt like an endless cycle of worry, fear, and isolation.

And so, we began to explore that inner child—what did 11-year-old me need?


This process started with my therapist guiding me into a meditative state through my breathing, followed by a visualization exercise. She prompted me to imagine I was stepping into an elevator. When the doors opened, I would find myself entering my childhood bedroom. 

As the elevator opened and I stepped into a former version of my bedroom, a pink shaggy carpet squished beneath my feet. I spotted the big Keroppi frog sticker on my window that overlooks our driveway. The walls were as clean as ever since I was never allowed to put posters on them. Instead, I pinned all my little keepsakes and photos on a corkboard. My twin bed remained in the same corner with a white headboard and a comforter with rainbow hearts. There were notebooks and magazines scattered on the floor.


When my therapist asked me to describe how the room looked and felt, I noticed an immediate shift in energy—even though I was doing this exercise in the same exact room. It felt colder, and a sense of loneliness weighed on me. Tears started streaming down my face.  



My therapist asked me to identify where the younger version of me was in the room and move toward her. I sat beside her on the edge of the bed. Even though this happened in my mind, she still felt like an autonomous being. She didn’t engage with me beyond resting her head on me, but I could feel loneliness radiating from her. She felt alone and like there was no one to pay attention to her or prioritize her. It hurt to acknowledge what she was feeling.  

“Ask her what she needs?” my therapist instructed me.

She wanted to go outside. 


She wanted to go to the park. The same park where I spent a lot of time in my childhood. My brothers both worked as lifeguards during the summer, and I don’t think anything made me happier than when I could hang out there all day, swim with my friends, eat chicken fingers and french fries, or get sugar high off of Fun Dip. 


So, I brought my younger self to the park. She wasted no time jumping into the pool. She didn’t need me to play with her; she just wanted me to watch her. She wanted to know someone was there for her, to witness her joy and playfulness in her happy place. Perhaps she needed that reminder of security my parents could rarely give me because they were always working. 


“You can visit her there any time,” my therapist told me as she pulled me out of the visualization. 

I didn’t really expect this exercise to create a significant shift for me—but acknowledging that loneliness felt like such a breakthrough. It wasn’t a feeling I lived with consciously— and that feeling had more to do with my relationship with myself than a lack of a romantic partner. Since then, I’ve felt more engaged with the little girl within me—and confident in my ability to protect her. No matter how old we get, that innocent child remains a part of us. We don’t simply outgrow the needs and desires of our younger selves. Connecting with my inner child has unlocked a whole new layer to my healing journey, especially in addressing my attachment wounds.

It’s coming to terms with the fact that the role our parents once played in keeping us safe, secure, and happy—something we often try to outsource to romantic partners—is ultimately a responsibility we must fully take on ourselves. I am the one with the power to soothe and heal myself. My happiness lies in my own hands and no one else’s. But it requires me to consistently show up for myself and maintain trust with that little girl inside me that even if someone else abandons or disappoints her, I will always be there for her.

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