Chap. 9 — The Loss of Self: Where Did I Go?
“Smooth seas do not make skillful sailors.” — The Awakened Way Daily Message by Suzanne Giesemann & Sanaya
Last night at an ACA meeting, I was reminded of the importance of cultivating a relationship with my inner family—my little girl, my teenager, and the critical parent. This morning, I took time to speak to each of them and to truly listen.
I’m learning that awareness of my body is the entry point. What am I feeling? Who—what part—is speaking to me right now? And can I listen without judgment?
Suzanne Giesemann, a former Navy Commander who is now an Evidential Medium, offers a daily message of hope. After reading today's message, I felt its resonance. That single line, “Smooth seas do not make skillful sailors,” gave me a deep exhale. Yes—of course. The seas aren't yet calm, but there is no storm. I’m learning to navigate these waters not by mastering control, but by remembering that I am already being held. I am healing. And in that moment, words fell away.
Later, while brushing my teeth, I received what I call a download—a knowing that arrives outside of thought. It drops gently into awareness and is always followed by gratitude and relief.
The download was this: The terror that surfaced more than a decade ago wasn’t new. It had always been there—a low, persistent hum beneath everything. When it finally broke the surface, it wasn’t a failure. It was a signal. It was the first layer that needed to be seen, felt, and cleared. It was the beginning of what I once described as burning off the dross.
And then I understood something else: I haven’t grieved most of the losses in my life. Not truly.
Yes, I’ve cried deeply over the pain of how I abandoned my children—those tears have come in waves, pulling up memory after memory, and more tears still. But I’ve never cried for all I lost as a child.
Not for:
My dream of dancing.
My dream of going to college.
The loss of my mother when she died.
The loss of my father when he died.
The loss of my brother when he died
The loss of innocence when my mother poured fear into my psyche.
The loss of myself
And all the other losses I’ve yet to remember.
When I think about my mother’s death, I realize the grief I’ve carried wasn’t about losing her love—because I never truly knew it. The real grief lies in the moment I first realized she didn’t love me in the way I longed for. Of course, now I understand that she did love me, but she had no capacity to show it. As a little girl, I turned to her for safety and found none.
When fear first infiltrated my innocence, that should have been a moment for tears. But the fear was too big, too invasive. It swallowed up the space where tears might have lived.
I don’t remember crying until I was a teenager, confined to my room for something my mother decided was “bad,” or one of her imagined lies. I would cry—not because I was hurt by her, but because I was going to miss something I loved. An activity. A moment of freedom.
By then, I had already learned that she was not a safe person. I have no memory of ever turning to her for help when I was a child.
I did ask her for financial help when my daughter, at the age of 15, was diagnosed with cancer and being treated at NIH. The trip for her care was about a two hour drive. My car was old and needed new tires. I was a single mom with two children and worked full-time. I didn't have the resources so I went to my mother hoping she would provide the dollars to take care of this need. It didn't happen. She yelled and said "they" didn't have the money. I knew they did. I put the cost of tires on a credit card. I don't recall ever asking her for any kind of help again.
And so, no—I didn’t cry out of betrayal. There was no betrayal, because there had never been trust. What I could count on was her fear. It ruled her. It ruled our home.
And I was doing everything I could—my little girl self, my teenage self—just to survive.
Love had gone quiet.
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🕊A Living Memoir
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