Healing is never a one-time event—it’s a journey.
In my last post, I shared one of the most profound moments from my inner child work—the moment I met my 10-year-old self, shrunken and small, as she struggled to reclaim her voice.
That session marked the beginning of a deeper exploration into the layers of wounds we carry and the ways they shape our lives.
But healing doesn’t stop at one revelation.
Each session peels back another layer, and this next story takes me to a different time, a different place—one that challenged me to confront the relationship between money, success, and safety.
This session began with a specific intention.
I wanted to explore the financial blocks that seemed to be holding me back—blocks I could feel but couldn’t quite explain.
What unfolded took me back to a moment when I was 8 years old, standing alone on a driveway, and it showed me that this block wasn’t just about money—it was about security, survival, and trust.
A Driveway and a Moment Frozen in Time
Reviewing the transcript of this session, I was reminded of how vivid yet unclear the memory felt at first—like stepping into a scene I couldn’t immediately make sense of.
I saw myself standing near the gate—inside the yard, with my back to the gate and the gate locked behind me.
I was looking down the driveway, facing the garage doors at the far end.
The yard was shaded, surrounded by trees that cast shadows over the area.
And then there was the stillness.
Not just quiet, but an eerie, almost unnatural stillness—a moment suspended in time.
I could see myself standing there, but I couldn’t immediately connect to what I was feeling or why this memory had surfaced.
The Truth of the Event
Even as the scene grew sharper, something about it still felt frozen, as if time had stopped.
I could see myself standing in the front yard near the gate, looking toward the garage. The gate was locked behind me. My body felt present, but my emotions were numb.
When my guide asked what I was feeling, I answered, “I’m literally not feeling anything.”
He reminded me that even that—not feeling anything—was still a feeling.
From there, we shifted focus to my body sensations. That’s when I noticed an unexpected tingling in my nipples. It was an odd detail, but it stood out—sharp, noticeable, almost at an eight or nine intensity.
We turned the sensation up, almost like adjusting a volume knob, until the energy peaked and then dissipated. And that’s when the scene sharpened further.
Suddenly, I saw myself more clearly—wearing a bathing suit, wet, with a towel wrapped around me.
And yet, I was still standing by the gate in the front yard—not the backyard where the pool was.
That detail didn’t make sense, and my conscious mind jumped in to question it.
“I wouldn’t have been allowed in the pool alone,” I thought. “So why am I here, wet, and no one’s around?”
Despite the clarity of the image, the stillness remained. It felt like I was stuck in that moment, unable to move forward.
Then the first message surfaced—not as a thought I consciously created but as something that rose up from within.
“I still thought I could leave.”
The words echoed, again and again:
“I still thought I could leave.”
Each repetition made it feel heavier, more urgent.
My guide asked me, “Are you alone?”
I said, “Yes.”
But my conscious mind jumped in again, arguing with the scene. “That doesn’t make sense,” I thought. “I wouldn’t have been allowed in the pool if I was alone.”
And yet, the feeling of aloneness stayed.
Then the message repeated one more time:
“I still thought I could leave.”
Finally, my guide asked, “What’s keeping you there?”
And that’s when the realisation hit me.
“There’s nowhere to go.”
And with those words, the truth broke through.
“I think this might have been the first time I ran away.”
The Messages Begin to Surface
As the realization settled—“I think this might have been the first time I ran away”—my guide asked me to explore the truth of the event.
The first message came through quickly.
“You had no control.”
It felt like a statement of fact. Not emotional. Just true.
Then another message followed almost immediately:
“Nobody could save you.”
There was no time for reflection between the statements—just truth after truth, surfacing as though they had always been there, waiting to be heard.
And then came the next realization:
“So you took your life into your own hands to keep yourself safe.”
It was a shift in tone.
Where the first messages had been heavy, this one carried a subtle sense of strength. It wasn’t a celebration, but it was an acknowledgement—an understanding of the resilience that had been there all along.
There was no pause to sit with it. The messages kept flowing, one building on the next.
“You never stopped trying to be safe.”
And then—the first connection to money emerged:
“Money doesn’t make you feel safe.”
This wasn’t a thought I consciously formed. It was another truth that surfaced, carrying weight I hadn’t fully understood until that moment.
The Contrast Appears
As the messages settled, my guide asked if there was anything else important to know.
Another truth surfaced almost immediately:
“They weren’t only rich. They were mean.”
And with that, the scene shifted.
I saw a flash—the home of my high school friend, the Chinyandas.
It wasn’t random.
The Chinyandas had been a safe space for me after one of the times I had run away.
They had welcomed me in and given me a place where I felt safe and cared for—even if only briefly.
And then came the message that tied it all together:
“It wasn’t the money that was the problem.”
Seeing the Chinyandas’ home made it clear.
Money wasn’t what defined a person.
Character did.
The contrast between the kindness of the Chinyandas and the meanness of my grandparents drove that message home.
“It’s not that they were rich. It’s that they were mean.”
This was never about money.
It was about how people choose to treat others.
And the Chinyandas were shown to me as a reminder—a reminder that wealth could be used to nurture and support just as easily as it could be used to control and hurt.
Their kindness reflected what my grandparents lacked.
And with that realization, the contrast between the two families became even sharper.
Closing Messages
With the scene still lingering, my guide asked:
“Is there anything else important to know?”
That’s when I tried to probe my subconscious, asking what had actually happened on this day.
But the answer that came through was firm:
“You don’t need to know what happened. Just know this is the day you knew you weren’t safe.”
It wasn’t about the specifics of the moment.
It was about the truth it had left behind.
After receiving that final answer, my guide gently brought me out of the scene and asked me to connect with my younger self.
The message that came through was simple but powerful:
“Congratulate her. She did okay.”
It wasn’t about fixing her or rescuing her.
It was about acknowledging what she had already done—surviving and protecting herself the best way she knew how.
But when I asked if I should take her with me—like I had done in a previous session—the answer this time was no.
Not yet.
I felt a conflict about leaving her there, but I trusted the process.
There was still more to learn.
Final Reflections
Before closing the session, my guide asked one last time if there was anything more to learn about my blockages around money.
The message came through clearly:
"Money isn’t everything."
It felt like something I already knew, something I had always believed, but I still sat with it for a moment—just to be sure there wasn’t more beneath it.
When I asked again if there was anything else left to uncover, the final answer was simple:
"Now you know."
And with that, the session came to a close.
With that final answer—"Now you know"—my guide gently