when your inner child shows up in the bedroom

I remember exactly where I was standing in our new house — in our bedroom, the place that was supposed to hold our slow, sacred moments. The room was still fresh with possibility, but looking back, it also carried piles of unspoken insecurities in each corner.

We stood face to face, both of us turned on, both of us ready to connect. No words were spoken, but I thought we were speaking the same language: Let’s be intimate. Let’s celebrate this new home we’ve worked so hard for.

I wanted to savor it — to move slowly, to feel into the energy building between us. I reached for his belt, ready to undress him piece by piece.

But he stopped me.

In an instant, he stripped off all his clothes, hopped into bed, and patted the sheets like, Come on, let’s get this started.

The energy shifted. My body froze. My heart cracked a little. I wasn’t ready. I needed more time together. I needed our hearts to connect before our bodies did. I needed to feel held, seen, cherished — not rushed.

And yet, I said nothing. I walked toward the bed, slipped under the sheets with a grimace hidden on my face, and pushed past my own boundaries. We connected physically, but inside, I felt stripped down and raw — like I had given something sacred without the safety I longed for.

On the outside, it might have looked like a good experience. Pleasure was had. Release was achieved. But afterward, I felt hollow. Empty. Alone.

The truth is, I wasn’t moving from my adult self at all.
I was moving out of survival. Out of fear of rejection.

If I shared my truth, he might leave me. He might not love me. He might like me less. If I said what I was really feeling, our whole life might blow up. No more security, whispered my primal, reptilian brain.

I wasn’t moving from a woman grounded in choice — I was moving from a child.
A child who wasn’t allowed to speak her truth without being punished.
A child who learned silence as safety.

And of course she showed up here.

She showed up inside my most intimate relationship, because that’s what I believe partnership is meant to do: reflect back what’s unhealed inside us. To let us see ourselves. To call us closer to wholeness.

I didn’t want to see it at the time. I didn’t want to interrupt the picture-perfect version of marriage and family I thought would finally make me acceptable, finally make me matter.

But it turns out — I already mattered. And so do you.

Because this is where self-trust after heartbreak begins: in the smallest moments.

The tilt of your head when something feels off.
The breath you hold without realizing.
The pit in your stomach when you say yes but your body is screaming no.

These are not failures. They are invitations.

At first, it feels terrifying. Your nervous system wants to keep you safe, to repeat the old pattern: stay quiet, don’t rock the boat, keep the peace. But confidence doesn’t come from staying quiet.

Confidence comes from risk. From interrupting the pattern. From choosing to pause, get curious, and listen to yourself.

Maybe you’ve already started noticing these shifts in your body — the flinch, the freeze, the longing for something different. That’s how you know you’re ready.

Ready to risk disappointing someone else in order to finally stop disappointing yourself.
Ready to build trust with the only person who can never leave you: you.

Looking back, I can see what I needed in that moment.

I needed to pause. To feel what was actually present instead of bulldozing past it.

Because the truth is — I was confused. It was the head-cock for me. The sudden mismatch between what I had imagined and what was unfolding. I had an expectation that wasn’t being met, and when it shifted so quickly, I got flustered. Embarrassed. Scared.

Embarrassed for me — that I suddenly felt so awkward in my own body. Embarrassed for him — that I didn’t know how to tell the truth without wounding his pride. Scared, because the story I had written in my head about how this night would go wasn’t panning out, and I had no map for what to do instead.

In that split second, I was carrying the weight of the entire experience on my own — holding not only my feelings, but the vibe and emotion of what sexual connection “should” be.

What I needed was to stop carrying all of it in silence. What I needed was to describe what I was actually experiencing: the confusion, the pause, the fear. To put words to what my body already knew.

And we needed to start talking more about sex — openly, vulnerably, without shame.

But the foundation for that kind of honesty wasn’t there. It never grew into the kind of connection I longed for. And eventually, the relationship ended.

Unfortunately — or maybe fortunately. Because it was in that ending that I finally began to see the truth: self-trust after heartbreak begins in the smallest moments. In the breath you release. In the pause before you override yourself. In the choice to name what’s real, even when it’s hard.

And from those moments on, everything can change.

It’s taken me years to understand this truth — that relationships are mirrors for your inner child. I wasn’t aware of the power of a mirror like that, how a loved one could reflect so clearly what I couldn’t see in myself. It’s humbling. It’s terrifying at times. And it’s also the most loving way to notice where the work is waiting to be done.

Now that I am aware, I hope I get to help others notice much quicker than I did. To save them years of untangling, thousands of dollars in classes and certifications, and the ache of carrying what was buried deep under layers of conditioning.

Because you already matter. And your body is already speaking. The invitation is here.

And the rest will reveal itself.