childlike tendancies

do we remember what it feels like to tap into our unfiltered visions of the world?

the idea of the inner child fascinates me.

as a term that is often heard (and for some even over-referenced now)— it brought a whirlwind of change into my life the moment I heard it. in a world that glorifies emotional disassociation, strength and resilience, and the more masculine traits; it felt like an act of redemption to be able to sit and just simply think about the idea of little sam.

The truth is, it is impossible to make it through a day without bumping into our younger selves.

Little Sam has never existed for me. I have no memories of her, I hardly recognize her in the faded photographs I find in frames. I’ve never seen a home video of my siblings and I, though I know they exist somewhere in a container in the dark office closet. I wonder if it would help fill in the holes. Who is the girl with the bleached curls holding her purple bunny rabbit? What does she like to do? What is she scared of? How does she see the world?

“One of the main components of Inner Child Work is the idea that we all have younger parts within us with different ages, difference experiences, and different needs. As we grow up into bigger bodies and more logical, conscious brains, our younger selves don’t just disappear over time. When we get triggered and can’t understand why, it’s likely a younger part of us is online and very present, screaming for our attention.”

Inner child work becomes about accepting the whole parts of a person, not just the shiny pieces the world glorifies and rewards. My 12 year old self shows up when a best friend is short with me or answers a text in a way I don’t expect, preparing to have to over-explain or people please because my teen self is terrified of being bullied again.

My five year old self shows up while baking a cake for a friends birthday: my mom tells me I would spend hours in my play kitchen, making recipes with the leaves and water outside. She is also there when I lose track of time snuggled up with a good book and end up reading half of it in one sitting, enamored by the world she was just dropped into. Her imagination knows no bounds. Five year old me is always squealing in delight each and every time I step into the studio and touch the many colors of paints and brushes and pastels…she loved sitting with her dad at his own drawing board, long before he packed it away for the basement.

My 17 year old self shows up in a fury and is always ready to lunge, kick, fight or hide. She is defensive because she was never able to be back then, and she does not let vulnerability anywhere near her body. She is combative, she is angry, she is terrified. She visits me when my anxiety spills over the form of my body and begs me to sleep with the light on; because the dark holds too much unknown. But she is also there with me when hiking a mountain top across the world, smiling ear to ear— or when she sits down to write these passages like a journal for safe keeping. She is tender. I hope one day I can see her more.

Our inner child is the part of us is very much connected to our natural enthusiasm, love for life, curiosity, and creativity we experienced as actual unsuspecting children.

When we sit and notice them— and then sit and listen to them— we are bridging the gap between the past and present. We are creating space for healing in our adult life by becoming less wounded, less reactive, and less ashamed.

The personal self exploration I am also digging at shows up in the studio whether I plan for it to or not. It’s why without noticing, I’ve begun a new collection surrounding the nuance of childhood and what is left for us to find there, if capable of returning to it and eager to look for it.

I love that even though I do not have many specific memories of little sam, I am starting to recognize her more and more now.

I see little me everywhere now: in the way i peel oranges slowly, trying my best to not rip away the skin without leaving it in one piece. the way she presses her face against the window when the plane reaches 30,000 feet…still amazed to be flying amongst the clouds. little me comes to visit when I smile at a stranger on the street or throw my body carelessly into the waves during a sunset swim. She's with me when I stand at the kitchen counter in the late hours of the night, scooping ice cream into a bowl with extra whipped cream…when I'm getting a new tattoo to showcase little acts of rebellion…and when I laugh too loudly at a joke in the middle of a crowded restaurant without holding back. I see little me the most when I bake a cake for someone I love, or make a wish alongside them when blowing out the candles, or when I'm standing too close to a painting at a museum, spilling over the brushstrokes…

I see little me in the moments I am the most fearful of: asking for help, resting, needing attention, holding a boundary, asking for forgiveness.

coming home to little me looks like doing those things anyway—and sprawling my paints and charcoals and pastels across the living room floor at 2am, knowing there's no one to yell or blame or perform for because little me brought me to this moment..

where I'm safe— and one where I get to see her again.

Little Sam gave me the life as an artist and a writer and a women’s advocate. But I had to dig for her, and coax her out of her shell… learn to sit and listen and protect, fight for, and prioritize the things that she truly wanted, and could not live without.

She still reacts poorly sometimes, throws a tantrum or cannot access her emotions the way maybe a 32 year-old adult woman should. But Little Sam reminds me that these shoulds found in life often perpetuate shame. Little Sam has no shame for who she is just yet, she is raw and unfiltered and compassionate towards herself.

But she’s finally here with me, doing the work. I’m so glad I get to protect and fight for her now.