How I Re-Connected with My 8-Year-Old Self and Came Back Home to the Earth
As a child, I spent countless hours exploring the woods around my home—barefoot more often than not, following deer paths that wound between the Georgia pines like secrets waiting to be discovered. I feasted on sun-warmed blackberries that stained my fingers purple, muscadines that burst sweet on my tongue, and wild plums hidden in thickets only I seemed to know about.
Raised by a single working mother whose primary focus was keeping food on the table and a roof over our heads, my little brother and I were allowed to roam freely, largely unsupervised. What might have looked like neglect from the outside became my greatest gift: a childhood spent in conversation with trees, a friendship forged with creeks that sang over smooth stones, an intimacy with the land that asked nothing of me but my presence.
I didn’t know it then, but those woods were raising me too. They gave me what I craved most—a sense of belonging so deep it lived in my bones. Among the pines and creek beds, I was never lonely. I was *home*.
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As I grew into a young adult, the reality of human life settled into my bones the same way cold gets inside you on a winter day—slowly, then all at once. The world told me to turn my attention elsewhere, to find warmth in more “practical” places. Like so many of us, I began looking for my worth in relationships, in achievements, in all the ways we’re taught to prove we matter.
And slowly, quietly, my connection to the trees and creek beds grew faint, like a radio station drifting out of range. The loneliness I’d never known as a child crept in. For years, I would try to return to the natural world, hoping to feel that old magic again. But it was like trying to remember a dream—I knew it had been real, but I couldn’t quite touch it anymore.
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In 2018, a year after the ending of a 21-year marriage, I found myself at the base of a waterfall in Costa Rica.
I had journeyed to those lush, breathing lands to help facilitate a retreat for women on the cusp of their wise woman years. We spent our days outdoors—playing like children, hiking to waterfalls to swim in water so clear it felt like liquid light, eating star fruit plucked straight from the trees, dancing together under vast skies, and co-creating rituals of remembrance that made us cry and laugh in the same breath.
It was a potent time in my life. I desperately wanted to heal and move forward, but I felt stuck, confused, achingly alone even in community. I had spent the better part of two decades trying to fix myself—practicing yoga, meditating regularly, reading every book, attending every workshop. But I was still sad. Still searching.
That day, I decided to hike to the waterfall alone.
My heart was wide open after a week of healing in community, raw as a wound and just as tender. As I began walking the familiar path, something shifted. I felt myself being *drawn* off the trail, the way a compass needle swings toward true north. Without thinking, I followed.
I climbed over moss-covered rocks. I sat with flowers, really *sat* with them, the way I had as a child—noticing the curve of their petals, the way light moved through them. Time became strange and soft. And then, I became acutely aware of her.
My inner child. My 8-year-old self.
She stepped forward into the forefront of my consciousness as if she’d been waiting patiently in a closet all these years for me to finally open the door. And when I did, she took the reins again—not forcefully, but gently, the way you might take someone’s hand to show them something beautiful they’d forgotten.
It sounds too simple to be true. But there, in the warm Costa Rican afternoon sun, dappled light dancing across my skin, my joy returned.
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Eventually, I made my way to the waterfall and sat down upon a soft, smooth boulder still warm from the day’s heat. I closed my eyes as the sun began to set, and felt its rays penetrate every cell of my body. I was so raw and vulnerable at that moment in my life—stripped down to nothing, humbled completely. From that surrendered place, I asked Spirit for guidance.
The wind began to blow, rustling the canopy above me.
As I sat quietly, barely breathing, I heard a voice—not with my ears, but deeper than that. It said:
*“Spend time with me and I will heal you.”*
In the next few minutes, a download of information flowed into my consciousness like water finding its way downhill. I remembered myself as a child of the earth. I remembered that I had never really left—I had only forgotten how to listen. Most importantly, I knew what I had to do.
Spend time with her.
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And I did just that.
Upon returning to the states, I made a commitment to the forest the way you might make a vow to a beloved. I showed up. I walked among the trees. I sat by creek beds and put my hands in the cool water. I listened.
It didn’t take very long. The forest welcomed me back as if I’d never left, the way a mother welcomes a child who’s been gone too long. My joy returned—not all at once, but in gentle waves. My sense of safety. My deep, bone-level knowing that I belong.
I have been walking with my 8-year-old self ever since. She takes my hand on difficult days and leads me back to the trees. She reminds me to look for the wild plums, to follow the paths that wind like secrets, to trust that the earth will always catch me when I fall.
She reminds me, again and again: I am home.