Hello to the little girl that was me

years ago,

before I got older, grew up,

and did the things you’re supposed to do.

.

Hello to that girl, who stayed with me,

living quietly in my brain most times –

but sometimes moving to my stomach:

shaking, and trembling

(“Oh, my nervous stomach,” I always thought).

.

Hello, to the girl that would also sometimes migrate down

to my chest and, in moments of panic,

cause my heart to beat wildly.

I would have a feeling that something was trying to tear its way out of me

(that “thing” was her, trying to reach me).

.

Hello, girl.

Sitting in my mind.

Observing all, experiencing all. Giver of frequent feedback,

supplier of contributions. Collaborator in my every moment

but never recognized.

.

Except one day I saw her.

A moment of blind panic, locked in a bathroom stall at work.

I closed my eyes and suddenly

she was right there. Eyes wide. Terrified.

Hair tangled in a ponytail, lip quivering, breathing heavy.

I hadn’t known she was there.

But even so, something kicked in. I did what I would do with my own daughter.

I knelt down and held her.

The way any mother would.

She seemed to lean into me a little.

.

Hello, you. Hello, you-that-was-me, you-that-is-me.

Hello, dear sweet girl.

I see you, now.

I know it was you all along – quivering in my stomach, raging in my chest,

sometimes even whispering in my head.

I know you were alone, and you were doing your best,

since I didn’t see you.

I can see you now. I can hold you now.

Hello.