Day Three - "Meeting Your Inner Wild Child"

Healing isn't just about navigating the chaos of now—it's also about reconnecting with the raw, playful, and vulnerable spirit within us: our inner child.

Today, give that little badass a name—a name that embodies their wildness, dreams, mischief, and unapologetic authenticity.

Journal Prompt-

Who is this fierce inner child of yours? How do they show up when you're manifesting, mourning, or indulging your deepest pleasures? What does your inner child need you to remember, reclaim, or honor right now?

Grab your journal, meet them face-to-face, and let them speak…

When I think back to myself as a kid – a tiny, curly haired ball of nerves living in the chaotic heartbeat of New York City– I remember being… scared.

Like, frightened-to-my-core scared. I was small. The city was massive. And apparently, according to my parents, I was out here navigating the city solo like a stray cat in Times Square on more than one occasion.

Who let me outside? Unattended? Multiple times??I guess we will never know.

It’s wild to me – considering how skittish I still am. I wasn’t one of those asshole children you hearing yelling in Target for a toy .

I did it once, learning my lesson real fuckin' quick after a swift backhand to my mouth. My mom had no shame discipling my brother and I when we were younger. There was no such thing as 'gentle parenting'.

And I surer than shit never got that snack I cried out for in the supermarket.

Once. That’s all it took to never speak back to her. At least until I was fourteen-years-old and truly gave no fucks regarding her rules and shit punishments.

Prior to that, however, I was the quiet one, the good one. The “Don’t make mom give you that look,” BRIAN—whenever my dumbass brother would start acting up.

And listen, let’s clear this up before CPS knocks on my parents door– my mom didn’t beat us. She just parented like every other Puerto Rican mom – with love, loudness, judgement, and occasional phantom threats of chancletas flying across the room.

Yet, she has always been my safe space. Even when we argued – because when I tell you we argued, there were screaming matches to be heard down the street- showing her no mercy as I grew into a teenager.

Even when she was angry and giving me the silent treatment, she would eventually come around with some unsolicited advice about life, with a cherry-topping comment about how I should fix my face.

FYI— ‘Resting Bitch Face’ originated with Puerto Rican women—

In truth, I believe it was losing a sibling a year and a day prior to my youngest sister's birth that shifted the family dynamic drastically. I saw my mom love my sister with a fierceness that made me feel like forgotten background noise. Now, as a mother myself- along with a whole lot of deep thinking and soul searching. I get it. I really do.

That kind of grief reshapes you. And while I resented my sister back then, I also understand, now, that my mom was just trying to protect what was so harshly taken away from her a year prior.

I wonder if those early wanderings, those “OH-MY-GOD!! I’m lost again??” moments, planted some deep seated seeds within my being. Because babe… I am STILL scared of everything.

The unknown? Terrifying. The known. Somehow fucking worse.

And as much as I’m trying to just let it ‘go with the flow’... it’s not fucking FLOWINGGGGGGG.

THE FLOW IS DRY. The flow is clogged. The flow needs therapy and a glass of Spanish Chardonnay.

I’m out here walking my dog like a clueless toddler in an alley. No spatial awareness, vibing to sad girl playlists, just waiting to be snatched. Unfortunately my new puppy has my airy,"go-with-the-flow", SQUIRRELLLLLLL...

… persona and will do nothing to protect me in a dangerous situation.

Now, when I think about my inner child- this curly-haired, coddled, cunty, emotionally crippled, deeply wounded, little girl…

…I tear up and wish I could reach back and give her the embrace and instill the courage inside of her to know it’s going to be okay.

Because I’m not exactly sure where her mind was at during some of the SHIT she put us through…

Why did she often feel alone? Why did she think getting pregnant at sixteen was going to unlock some kind of deep, unconditional love she was missing?

Why did she often look to men for a comfort that lasted a mere forty seconds– just long enough for my ex-husband to nut.

As I’m ready to face that CRAZY, CURLY, CUNTY little bitch, listen up…

Never beg for attention from anyone. Most of all from a man who isn’t willing to make the necessary and conscientious efforts one needs in order for our relationship to thrive— not just survive.

I am SCREAMING…trust in the intuition your Hoe-liness gifted you.

Utilizing empathic ability isn’t as easy as one thinks while healing. It’s difficult to distinguish my Nana’s blaring ‘run-in-the-opposite-direction’ warning signs from the — what-I-thought-were— BUTTERFLIES, for sad, pathetic, narcissistic men.

At the mere ripple of whatever-fucking-color flag is waved, you communicate your feelings on the subject, and if that mother fucker isn’t willing to improve on that behavior to ensure you are comfortable in all aspects of your relationship— then you peace-the-fuck-out.

DO NOT continue to give warnings and empty promises of “never speaking” again just for you to find yourself underneath him yet once more.

Because YOU, my beautiful hot mess of a soul, deserve someone who shows up, shows out, and hypes you like their life depends on it.

Not because you need them to… but because they want to.

Someone who loves your wild, crazy, curly, cunty self and isn’t afraid to speak about it. Someone who is willing to show up for you when it means the most. Someone who is willing to support your dreams, be your biggest hype-man, and willing to go to the ends of the UNIVERSE to ensure YOU make those dreams happen. The right person will be there for you, supporting you, the entire way through.

You are worth so much more than any of those men were willing to give you. So much more than a lousy fuck and empty promises of ALL NIGHT sex romps and fake ass ‘big-dick’ energies.

Never give up, never dull your voice, and never feel like forgotten background noise again, Crazy, Curly, Cunty– you still have so much story to be told