The Inner Child Healing Journey Is Not Soft

"Healing is not passive. It is an initiation. A return to the self that was buried beneath survival."

I stand at the precipice of darkness, staring into a pit of infinite abyss.

Something within it calls to me. I know what I have to do, but it won’t be easy.

If the darkness is calling me, surely it will devour me, right?

I hesitate. Am I ready for this? 

I close my eyes and place my hand upon my heart."You are brave," I whisper to myself.

A voice, barely more than a breath, echoes back,"Courage, Mars. Courage."

I envision myself in a futuristic suit of armor, reinforced from head to toe, my body encased in layers of protection. I inhale deeply. 

I step off the ledge and into the darkness.

I fall down, down, down into the depths of my subconscious. Through the abyss, through galaxies and solar systems, through the vast unknown of my own being. When I land, it is not with a crash, but with my breath caught in my throat, knees threatening to buckle, uncertainty coiling around my ribs like a vice.

I stand upon scorched earth. Everything is burning all around me.

Charred. Blackened. Ash and embers floating in the air.

Flames curl at my feet, but I remain untouched. My body carries me forward. 

Something is here. I can feel it.

I'm pulled deeper into this wilderness.

And then, through the smoke, through the embers swirling like ghosts, I see it. 

A creature of fire and rage, standing in my path. A demon straight out of The Fellowship of the Ring. The Balrog. Towering, powerful, unrelenting. My hand clenches into a fist, and with it, a weapon materializes. A spear, a lightsaber, a razor (Red Rising style), somehow a mixture of all three. My helmet engages.

It is war.

I fight. I strike, again and again, but make no headway against this thing. My blows do nothing. I slice and slash over and over to no avail. Frustration surges like molten lava through my veins. I am losing.

"What am I missing?!"

The realization hits me instantly.

I freeze, hand pressed against my chest as if trying to steady the storm inside me. The Balrog is mid-swing, its flaming weapon carving through the air, destined to strike. But as my hand meets my chest, as I surrender to stillness instead of battle, its blow never lands. The moment it should have made contact, it disintegrates, turning to ash before me, dissolving into the wind.

I close my eyes. Breathe.

I understand and lower my armor.

I am left standing in basketball shorts and a t-shirt, barefoot against the burning earth.

The battle is over before I realize it. The force I had been fighting with all my might is gone, reduced to dust.

And in its place, sitting within a pile of charred remains, is a five-year-old child.

Small. Terrified. Enraged.

Me.

Little Me recoils at my presence. They have never known softness, never known kindness without conditions. I can see it in the way their body tenses, the way they brace for the next blow—whether from words, neglect, or absence.

I lower myself onto my knees and speak gently.

"I see how much you have endured. How you have sacrificed yourself time and again. How you have shown up for the people you love, even when they did not show up for you. You are kind. You are gentle. And it is an honor to love you."

Little Me flinches.

I do not reach for them. I do not force them closer.

"I am here," I say. "Whenever you are ready.

Silence stretches between us.

Slowly, Little Me crawls into my arms and sobs.

I hold them. I hum gently to soothe them.

I whisper the words I have always needed to hear. The words no one has ever said to me.

"I love you. For who you are and for whoever you become. My love is unconditional. You are safe to express yourself in this world. You are loved."

I feel them melt into me, years of fear and grief unraveling in my embrace.

"You have carried this for so long," I tell them. "Thank you for protecting me. But I’ve got this now."

With that, I take the weight from their small shoulders and place it onto my own.

I let their pain move through me. Not with judgment, not with shame.

But with love.

The Inner Child Healing Journey is Not Soft. It is War. It is Reclamation. It is Love.

I used to think inner child healing was soft. Something delicate, filled with gentle affirmations and quiet journaling (it is at times). But the inner child healing journey is not always a path of ease; it is a descent into the depths of yourself, confronting the wounds that have shaped you.

It is descending into the depths of yourself and facing your greatest wounds.

It is knowing when to fight and when to surrender.

It is standing before the version of you that was never loved the way they needed to be and choosing to love them.

The inner child healing journey is not always soft.

It is bravery.

It is war.

It is coming home to yourself.

And it is the deepest, most powerful love you will ever know.

Reflection & Invitation

Healing is not passive. It is an initiation, a reclamation, a return to the self that was buried beneath the weight of survival. It is stepping forward. Not in search of who you were, but to claim who you have always been.

This is the work of meeting yourself in the depths, stripping away the armor, and choosing love over fear. It is not easy. It is not gentle. But it is the most important journey you will ever take.

If you are on this path, you are not alone. My Inner Child Healing designs are born from this truth. They exist as reminders, as armor, as declarations of the healing you are stepping into. Wear them as a symbol of the courage it takes to face yourself, to love yourself, to reclaim yourself.

So I ask you,

Are you ready to meet your inner child? They are waiting.

With love and fire,

Mars Moonwind - Impassioned Human