My childhood wounds ripped open when I became a mother—

spilled out like guts from a carcass.

Ugly.

Unavoidable.

Everywhere.

Before that,

I didn’t think about my childhood.

Not really.

It was bad, sure.

But I got through it.

That was that.

Or so I thought.

Then—

I saw her.

My daughter.

Hazel eyes like mine.

Same face.

Same softness.

Untouched.

Still whole.

And I cracked.

Right there—

holding her.

Because I saw what I never got.

What I should have had.

And all of a sudden,

it hurt to breathe.

Because how the fuck do you hold something

so precious—

when you were dropped?

She looked at me like I was safe.

And I felt like a fraud.

That’s when the little girl I buried

started screaming again.

The one I locked up

so she wouldn’t ruin everything.

The one who cried too loud,

needed too much,

loved too hard.

I opened the door.

She didn’t run.

She just looked at me

with tear-stained cheeks

and said,

_“It still hurts.”_

So I held her.

I let her shake.

I didn’t tell her to be quiet this time.

I didn’t tell her to be strong.

I just let her fall apart

in my arms.

Because I finally could.

And you know what?

It was my daughter

who brought her back.

Who made me look.

Who made me feel it all again.

Hazel eyes.

Same as mine.

But filled with love.

Not fear.

**She is mine**.

She saved me.

Not just the me you see now—

the one trying her best—

but the one no one ever came back for.

And now,

every time I kiss her forehead,

I’m kissing that little girl too.

Every time I rock her to sleep,

I whisper,

**_“You’re safe.”_**

And maybe—

just maybe—

I believe it now.