N8tivegirl

Becoming Whole

The integration of the child, the woman, and the soul

There comes a moment when healing stops feeling like work

and starts feeling like home.

You are no longer chasing what was lost.

No longer trying to prove what was missing.

No longer fighting the ache of what never was.

Instead, you gather every version of yourself—the little girl who waited,

the woman who survived,

and the soul who endured—and you say:

You belong with me now.

Becoming whole doesn’t mean the past didn’t matter.

It means it no longer gets the final word.

You learned to re-parent what was neglected.

You allowed yourself to grieve what never came.

You created joy where there was once only survival.

You chose love—not as performance, but as presence.

You stood in truth without shrinking.

And now… you rest.

Wholeness is not perfection.

It is alignment.

It’s knowing you are not broken—

you were becoming.

It’s understanding that God did not waste a single tear,

a single detour,

a single silent prayer whispered into the dark.

You are no longer trying to go back and fix the past.

You are living forward—with compassion, boundaries, and peace.

This is the holy work of becoming human and healed.

This is what it means to be complete.

Closing Benediction

May you walk forward carrying only what is yours to hold.

May peace guard your heart, truth steady your steps,

and love—rooted in God—be the place you always return to.

Amen.

A Letter to the Child I Once Was

Dear Little One,

I see you now.

I know there were days you felt invisible—

days you waited to be chosen, noticed, protected.

I know you learned early how to be quiet, how to be strong,

how to figure things out on your own when someone should have held your hand.

You didn’t imagine the loneliness.

You didn’t make up the ache.

And you were never asking for too much.

I want you to know this first:

None of it was your fault.

You were a child doing the best you could with what you were given.

You didn’t fail anyone—you survived.

There were moments you believed love had to be earned,

that attention came with conditions,

that being “good” meant being small.

So you learned to perform.

You learned to wait.

You learned to hope quietly.

I’m sorry no one told you sooner how beautiful you were—

not because of how you looked,

but because of how deeply you felt, how bravely you endured,

how gently you loved even when love wasn’t always returned.

I wish I could go back and sit beside you,

brush your hair, listen longer,

tell you that you were safe—even when you didn’t feel it.

But hear me now:

I am here.

I choose you every day.

I protect what you needed protected.

I speak up when you once stayed silent.

I rest when you had to keep going.

You don’t have to prove anything anymore.

You don’t have to chase love or settle for scraps.

You don’t have to stay in rooms where you shrink.

You are allowed to take up space.

You are allowed to be soft.

You are allowed to be joyful.

God never turned His face from you—

even in the seasons you felt forgotten.

He was present in every tear you didn’t know how to explain,

carrying you when you didn’t have the words to ask.

We made it.

Not untouched—but whole.

I promise to keep you safe now.

To love you gently.

To live honestly.

To choose peace over performance.

You are home with me.

Always.

With love,

The Woman You Became