Tonight my daughter struggled to fall asleep because “bad thoughts” were scaring her. This has happened a few times over the past year. She won’t tell me what the thoughts are so we talk about ways for them to have less power, for her to feel less afraid. We practice noticing where we are and what’s happening in the moment. We tell those thoughts we don’t need them and pretend to blow them into bubbles that float away into the night. Eventually she falls asleep and I’m left reflecting on fear, mind chatter and modeling a life lived in trust.
I studied attachment theory in grad school before she was born. I knew what I was aiming for in her early years. Other than her brother’s stillbirth which rocked us all for different reasons, her world has been safe and loving, and she walks through it with visible confidence.
I wonder about these thoughts that scare her. Are they something she’s seen or heard coming back to haunt her the way a television show I watched fifteen years ago still visits me? Are they the typical monsters-in-the-closet fears of childhood or is there more to it? She’s sensitive to energy and it’s possible her fears are being triggered by something outside of her that she doesn’t understand yet.
I slip out of the bedroom and consider my own relationship with trust. This past Monday marked the third anniversary of Ben’s death and during the tender days leading up to it, the experiences of my pregnancy with him were on my mind. There were lessons on faith, on belief, on fighting for what I wanted and on surrendering and letting go. Since the moment I found myself alone and hemorrhaging in a hospital room, surrounded by a magical golden light and deep peaceful love, turning toward trust again and again and again has been my path.
Sometimes I am afraid.
I trust in the inherent good of human beings, while understanding that good can be horribly twisted by pain.
Sometimes I doubt.
I trust in expansion, in the soul’s desire to grow. I trust in a universe that has my back, because despite my fears and the yuck I’ve lived through, I’ve never known otherwise.
Sometimes I rage.
I trust the fact that I’m here living this life for a reason, even if some days I can’t see past the end of my nose.
Trust gives me space to breathe. It allows for forgiveness. It reminds me I don’t have to rush while encouraging me to keep moving. Trust lifts the weight off my shoulders and points me toward peace, toward joy.
Trust rocks my world.
At 41 I have yet to get a tattoo. If I ever do, the first one would say, Yes. The second, Trust.
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