You’ll Never Go Back
One of my most vivid memories from my childhood is from when I was five years old and had a terrible nightmare. I have no recollection of what this nightmare was, but trust me when I say that it had me in a full, albeit not very far, sprint from my room to my parents’ bed. Something fresh out of a Tarantino film, no doubt.
After my 40-foot dash from my room to my parents’ room (even if we’re counting the time it took me to descend the steps of my bunk bed, my time still would’ve been record breaking among the scared five year olds of the world), I jumped into my Dad’s side of the bed and pretty much planked atop his sleeping body whispering “hellooooo! Dad! Help, help, help - I had a nightmare” until he woke up. Of course, this transcript of how I woke him up is far from verbatim. I can barely remember what I had for lunch yesterday, let alone what I said to my father in a scared-shitless panic at five years old, so please forgive me for taking some liberties on the dialogue here. Call it creative faculty, if you must.
Once I had so charmingly interrupted my father’s sleep, he brought me downstairs into our kitchen. Half asleep and wholly at a loss for what to do with his terrified daughter at 1 o’clock in the morning, my dad did what any good father would do in this situation, and offered me a glass of warm milk. I’m rather certain that I’ve never been a fan of milk, especially luke-warm milk from my microwave, but in the moment it felt comforting and right. So we sat in the kitchen, and I drank my warm milk while directing him around the first floor, making sure he turned on every light to ensure that the closest darkness in sight was that of the night sky outside our windows.
When all of the lights had been turned on and my mug of warm milk had gone cold, my dad asked me if I was ready to go back to bed. I told him that I was too scared to sleep again, because what if I have another nightmare? He looked at me with those soft eyes that I still know today, and picked me up out of my chair. And then, he began to dance with me. The two of us waltzed around the kitchen — our own personal rendition of the waltz, that is, and we laughed and sang and by the time he got to our epic finale, I was practically falling asleep on his shoulder. He brought me upstairs, and put me back to bed. Sweet dreams he’d whisper as he gently closed the door to my room, leaving it just open enough where the sliver of light peeking in from the hallway made me feel safe.
My dad and I have always had a really beautiful relationship. No matter what season of life either of us were in, our connection has been unyielding. For as long as I can remember, he has been the one person in my life who I’ve allowed to see all of my heart. It has never mattered how shut off or cold I’ve been to everyone in my life — when I’m with him, it is only us in this world and I am safe, no matter how broken or lost I’ve felt.
I think I’ve made it clear that the past year of my life has been a remarkable, miraculous spiritual journey — that I’m an incredibly different person than I was in January of this year, or even in April. It has been life-altering in the best way. Well, just as I’ve been following my path and aligning with my highest self, my parents have been on their own journeys doing the same. It is a really, truly beautiful thing to watch my relationship with my parents deepen through spirituality. Beyond that, it’s really convenient to have two people living with me who really understand the spiritual experience. We exchange spiritual guidance in passing. “Full moon tonight!” my mom will tell me as I leave the house for work; my dad texts me things like “When unconscious minds meet... blog idea for you. Talk later.” I come downstairs in the morning to feel the rumble of four dogs in my kitchen being buffered by my father’s stillness in the room over, as he reads through Eckhart Tolle’s A New Earth. Clearly, I’m extremely lucky to be surrounded by spiritual people in my own home. We are all constantly learning from one another, sharing wisdom over dinner and recommending books or podcasts in our group chat.
So when my dad came into the kitchen the other night as I was cooking dinner, I was thrilled to see him. I spend half of my day with a one year old, and the other half staring at a computer editing content about nutrition for work. Needless to say, my day isn’t exactly full of the deep, introspective conversations that stimulate my mind, so when I get home and can talk to my parents about the profound wisdom I heard in a podcast or existential question I came up with that day, it’s very exciting.
This particular day, I had been just beating myself up over things I’ve done in the past. People I’ve hurt, lies I’ve told, decisions I’ve made. It was like my current self was in the ring with my past self, but my past-self had nunchucks and a sledgehammer and was absolutely pummeling my current self’s state of peace. And truthfully, I was really caught off-guard by this day of negative thinking. I hadn’t been this frustrated with listening to my brain’s chatter in months. So before my dad even got the chance to ask his routine “how was your day, Cail?” I looked at him and said “So weird. I was beating myself up mentally all day” and explained to him how I’d let my unkind, limiting thoughts about who I was in the past really get to me and make me feel like the incredible life I am living now is fraudulent — like I don’t deserve it or maybe it’s not real.
We talked more, all of his words slow and deliberate, and he asked me if I was scared of the prospect of returning to a life that I’m unhappy with. He followed this question with another, asking “Do you think maybe you’re afraid to live a life you’re not so happy with because you fear that you’ll become that person you were in the past?” To which my answer was, without a doubt: yes. Yes, I know that I’m afraid to live a life I’m unhappy with because I know that I couldn’t live with myself if I went back to being who I was in the past. The person who hurt people because she was hurt inside. The person who was dishonest and tried to lie herself into a different identity because she didn’t feel like who she was was enough. The person who led people on simply to feel admired, but never loved. The person who felt entirely broken but was too afraid to admit it to herself. I never want to be her ever again, I explained. And while I preach living a life free of fear, I know for certain that my greatest fear is returning to that place of darkness that I once knew so well. I know I’m not her anymore. I know how much I’ve changed. She wouldn’t even recognize me now. I know I need to forgive myself for the things that happened in the past. I know I need to forgive her, and keep moving forward.
My dad listened intently through all of this, and then he held my hand. With those same soft eyes of his that have always made me feel like I’m the only living, breathing person in the world, he looked at me and said “Cailin, you have to forgive yourself. You are a completely different person now. You are not her. Release that pain. I promise you, you’ll never go back.”
“You’ll never go back.”
Upon hearing these words, my eyes filled with tears and I began to sob. My dad was, reasonably, confused. This whole conversation, I hadn’t shed a single tear and now suddenly I was bawling. In between sniffles I thanked him, “That was the only thing I think I’ve ever needed to hear. I think you just rounded out my healing process.”
My dad smiled and admitted “I don’t even know what I said!”
Barely able to get the words out because I was half crying and half laughing, I told him “You said I’ll never go back, and I know you’re right. I’ll never go back. Thank you so much, Dad.” I pulled him into a hug and squeezed him tight. I must’ve thanked him at least ten times in that minute, and even that didn’t do justice to the amount of gratitude I felt for the simple sentence of assurance he spoke to me.
As he held me in his arms in our kitchen, my tears creating puddles on his shoulder as I softened into his hug, I was comforted by the familiar scent of that warm cotton shirt and cologne that I’ve known since I was a child. I was reminded of the little girl who once had a nightmare and woke up her father in the middle of the night. I recalled fond memories of a grown man dancing with his restless daughter in the middle of the kitchen, offering her a glass of milk and spinning her around despite the interruption she made to his night of sleep.
From the twirling me around in the kitchen at 1 am to relieve my fear of the monsters I dreamt of, to tucking me in every night of fifth grade when I was certain that something absolutely horrible would happen if he didn’t, to driving halfway across the country to see me because he felt in his innermost knowing that I needed him — my father has always made me feel like a princess. But in speaking those words to me, assuring me that I had found my way into the light for good, he made me feel strong. He made me feel safe. He took a weight off of me that I’m not sure I could’ve removed myself.
I have, and will always be my father’s little girl. And he has always, and will always be my hero.
And he was right. Once we grow, we will never go back. We will never go back because we wouldn’t even fit into the life of who we were in the past. That life would be too small, too dark, too limited. That life, and that darkness, doesn’t deserve to know us. Only the present does. So I am releasing the person I was — or really, the many versions of myself who dwelled in darkness — and committing to falling further into stride with my highest self on this path of becoming. I encourage you to do the same.
Forgive. Release. Move forward. You are not who you were yesterday, and tomorrow you will be new again. Embrace this growth and forgive the versions of yourself that proved too small for you.
With love,
Cail