How One Small Moment Can Heal Pain From the Past

by | Mar 14, 2021 | Anxiety, Highly Sensitive Person | 57 comments

This story is for all of my highly sensitive readers who were teased or bullied growing up, which is possibly all of you. It’s a story of neighbors, of friendship, and how just one small daily act of kindness can heal old wounds.

Years ago, on a warm summer evening, I looked out my office window at the end of my work day and saw my neighbor looking intently at something across the creek. Although we had lived next door to each other for years, we were only cordial acquaintances – both of us caught up in the daily tasks of working, marriage-ing, and raising our two boys. But on this particular evening, all of that changed.

I was curious about what she was watching, so I stepped outside to join her. She smiled when I approached, put her finger to her lips and pointed to a mama bear and her two cubs. They were twenty feet away from us, just across the water, and we both stared for a long time, transfixed in the kind of awe that only happens in the presence of wild animals. After some time she said in a quiet voice (so as not to disturb the bears), “A couple of neighbors and I have been meeting on Friday mornings for coffee and conversation. Would you like to join us?”

My heart leapt. For years I had been telling my husband how lonely I felt in our neighborhood. As an introvert and busy householder, I had had a hard time forging inroads with neighbors. I had watched other neighbors connecting and had felt left out, triggered into that painful middle school place of feeling like an outsider. As I shared in this post, my middle school years were fraught with the heartache of feeling like I didn’t belong – a pain that nearly every client I’ve ever worked with has shared. So when my neighbor extended the invitation, it felt like she had just asked me on a date, which in a way she had: a date between neighbors. We said goodbye, I shared the encounter with my husband, and then I counted down the days until Friday.

On Friday morning, I walked next door feeling both nervous and excited. I always feel nervous in groups, which I’ve come to accept as another hallmark of being a highly sensitive introvert. But within a few minutes of sitting with these three lovely women, none of whom I had spoken more than a handful of words to in the ten years I had lived in our house, I felt at ease. Four women – two of us in our late forties, one in her sixties, one in her eighties – sitting together to share tea and stories. My soul beamed.

And share we did. We talked about children and grandchildren. We talked about gardens and husbands. We talked about things that mattered and things that didn’t matter. But in the space of open hearts and curious minds, it all mattered.

Shortly after I joined the group, I also joined another place that had intimidated me for years: Instagram. With my book slated for publication the following year, my marketing director advised me to choose one social media platform and pour myself into it. Never a fan of Facebook and reluctant to join YouTube because I save my video energy for courses, I chose Instagram. On this particular morning when we were supposed to have our Friday neighbor meeting, I had received a nasty comment on one of my posts. It rattled me, and I joined the meeting feeling off-kilter. I shared what was happening, and it led to a discussion about times in our lives when we had been teased or ostracized.

One neighbor shared:

I grew up in a rural town in the midwest. I never knew how to dress and we didn’t have much money so I would hobble together an outfit every day. I never fit in. I never had a sense of belonging. One day a group of boys drove past me when I was walking to school. I had a crush on one of them, and when he drove past he put his hand out. I thought he was waving at me, so I waved back, but he wasn’t waving at me. He was laughing at me. I was mortified. 

She cried as she shared the story, then apologized for crying. With tears in my eyes I said what I always say to people who apologize for crying: “Please don’t apologize for your tears. They’re a gift. They’re medicine.” Decades after the incident, it still ripped a hole in her heart, and we the four of us held that place with her.

Over time, our neighborly relationships ripened into friendship. When covid shutdown occurred almost exactly a year ago, it was my next door neighbor I called in a slight panic after returning from the grocery store where I had seen rows of empty shelves. Would there be enough food? She assured me there would and then said, with her Southern warmth and grit, “If we have to catch crawdads from the creek, we will. We’re not going to let anyone starve around here.” I burst into tears, of relief and also of solidarity. Whatever was going to happen, we would endure it together.

The meetings have fallen away this past year because of covid. We met once over the summer when we could gather outdoors six feet apart, and we’ve taken walks together several times. But, although contact isn’t as regular, the bond remains.

And something else remains. Every day when I drive my boys to school, I see the neighbor who shared the story about the boys making fun of her walking her dog. We leave at the same time for school every day and she walks at the same time every day. And when I pass, I roll down the window and wave at her.

But I don’t just wave. I smile with all the warmth in my heart, a smile that says, “I see the young you who used to walk alone and was made fun of when the car drove past. This is a different car and a different era, but I’m waving to that young you. I see her and I love her. And maybe every morning when I wave at you, a piece of your heart is refilled.” When she waves back, it’s with a smile that could outshine the sun. It’s the smile of a fourteen year old who only wants to be seen and loved. Who longs to belong.

I’m not sure if it’s her wound that is being healed or mine. When I wave at her and see her smile, I see both her as a young teen and me, and I wrap us both in the warmth of our older selves who can time travel back to those painful experiences and meet the pain with love.

It’s just one small moment – the exchange between us takes one second – but it contains the universe. It contains the universality of our pain as humans and the healing power of love. It contains a reminder that, in some sense, we all carry the same wounds and needs: the wound of being rejected and made fun of, sometimes even bullied; the wound of wondering if we’re good and worthy and loved; the wound of heartache and heartbreak; the wound of loss. And underneath it all, the need for, as Brené Brown says, love and belonging. We need to know that we’re seen and that our voices are heard. We need to know that we matter.

As I sit in an overstuffed chair watching a blizzard fall across our land here in Colorado on this Sunday morning, know this:

The wave and smile I extend to her each morning is the same one I extend to all of you through these weekly posts. It’s my way of saying…

I see you.

I hear you.

You’re not alone.

And always, always, you are loved. 

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57 Comments

  1. What a truly beautiful post in so many ways x

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      • Yes I could feel that last statement throughout the post

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        • Thank you so much for sharing such a beautiful post.

          I have tears in my eyes for it has spoken to me so deeply.

          I am so grateful for your work and see you and feel your words. Thank you.

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  2. What a beautiful post, Sheryl. I grew up feeling different from others, not a “real man. “Too sensitive.” Those certainly were the painful messages from my chaotic family and early caregivers. And those messages stuck. I always felt like others fit in and I don’t. But your post is powerful and reveals that many of us struggle with that feeling different.

    So my little inner kid says thanks to you. I do too. 👏👏

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    • I’m so glad that the post affirmed that you’re not alone, Don, and that your little kid feels seen!

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      • This made me cry. My 14 year old felt seen and loved and cared for. Thank you Sheryl.

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  3. This made me tear up. What a beautiful post. Thank you ♥️

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  4. I am so very happy & grateful that you exist to write these beautiful stories. It carries me through

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    • Thank you, Maria. Big smile upon reading these words :).

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  5. Beautiful post as usual, dear Sheryl. Thank you for sharing this beautiful story with us <3

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  6. This made me cry big time, highly sensitive person. I especially loved this part, I burst into tears, of relief and also of solidarity. Whatever was going to happen, we would endure it together., because I recently experienced this and it meant so much to me! I’ll have to revisit this post! 🌸 Thank you

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    • Highly sensitive person here*

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  7. Thank you for bringing tears to my eyes. I always look forward to your posts, but I really, really related to this particular one on so many levels. Thank you for being you Sheryl! <3

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  8. Sheryl, thank you for sharing this truly heartwarming story. You and the work you do is truly a gift to me <3<3 Sending love from Denver as I listen to the wind blow and watch the snow stick to all of my windows, haha

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    • Sending love right back to you. What a storm!

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  9. This absolutely brought tears to my eyes. That longing for connection, that feeling that as we love others we are actually living ourselves, that we are all one interconnected whole. Thank you Sheryl – your words are a consistent healing balm and I feel less alone having known a sliver of you through your expression.

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    • Thank you, Kate. Yes, all one interconnected whole, like one piece of fabric. x

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  10. Very helpful for me to read this, and a beautiful story. I’ve felt the pain of not fitting in for as long as I can remember. Finding several strong female friendships and my ever-deepening relationship with my husband in the last few years has helped ease that pain of aloneness and feeling left out. Leaving Instagram has helped – I’m not confronted with all the things my friends are doing I’m not invited to. But investing time in my local friendships, I realized I don’t get as sad when I see friends doing things without me. Keeping up with the people that live 10 miles from me is hard enough, let alone making plans with friends that are 2+ hours away. Now that I have more local friendships, I understand why my very extroverted friends who live far from me are “too busy” to hang out – we all make plans easier when geographically closer, it’s not me!

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    • The words about introversion from last weeks email in the Break free from anxiety course are still resonating within me, and then I read that you – Sheryl describe yourself as introvert and not comfortable in larger groups and I think: No, not Sheryl — Sheryl is a people person… and then I realise that I think I am the only one “broken”. How strange!! since I read your posts every day and I know of all the other sensible humans in that course. But maybe this way of not realising that I think everyone is having fun, is easy going etc. except of me let me feel so lonely? Maybe I am not able to see others truely becayse I am absorbed in me feeling wrong?

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      • There’s nothing wrong about being an introvert, Anne! It’s the message we absorb from our extroverted culture, but introversion has so many gifts. If you haven’t read the book Quiet I strongly recommend it. Sending love :). x

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    • What a loving action, Ashlee: to make your social life local and get off of Instagram!

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  11. I loved this. Thank you.

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  12. Thank you so much for this beautiful story. The eternal longing for connection and belonging that is not easy for me to sit with when covered with feelings of shame and being not enough – it is such a relief to know that all of us are in this together. Shared this with my teenager who is dealing with the pain that comes inevitably at her age. Thank you again – your words are truly a balm.

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    • I love that you shared it with your teenager. Sending love to both of you.

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  13. This touches my heart and soul Sheryl. Thank you.

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  14. Im in tears. This is so healing. I felt my 14 year old being seen and loved. Sheryl, what a gift you are to all of us. Thank you.

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    • Yes, your 14-year old is seen and loved!

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  15. Thank you so much!

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  16. Crying over here. This post means so much. The loneliness of not feeling like you belong anywhere is such a hollow, sad feeling. Thanks for waving to me too. I’m waving back xxx

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  17. Sheryl, your posts always touch my heart, but this one has resonated deeply and as I sit here with tears rolling down my cheeks (thinking of my younger self), I also have a real feeling of warmth and connection and I thank you for that. 🙏x

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  18. I empathise a lot with what you said about social media. It can be unforgiving, especially when you dare to go against the grain. x

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      • there are always corners of kindness there though too. We need to cherish and gravitate toward those.

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  19. This is just a beautiful post. Resonated with me so much. Thank you for sharing ❤️

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  20. brb crying… love this so much

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  21. Wow, well I just cried for about 5 minutes.

    I grew up with being bullied by females most of my schooled life, now as a 31 year old adult, I have amazing husband, amazing friends, and a wonderful life.. I’m a photographer and get to meet and learn about many clients.

    People like you “see” me, “hear” me and “love” me now.. thank you for being one of them.

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    • I’m honored to be one of them, and how wonderful that you’ve cultivated a loving community of people who get you.

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  22. So so beautiful, thank you for sharing these wonderful words.
    We recently moved to a new area and my boys just started a new school.
    When you described the feeling of loneliness I thought ‘yes!’ this is exactly how I’m feeling at times. Thank you, your words mean so much.

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  23. This post touched a number of heart places for me, Sheryl…even more than usual, though it hardly seems possible. Thank you. I’m waving right back, wildly, and with the joy of belonging!

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    • I feel the joyous wild wave of belonging and togetherness! It just landed in my heart here in Colorado.

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  24. This is so beautiful Sheryl! It made me tear up, especially in this time of lack of human connection. ♥️

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  25. This is beautiful. And I’m forever grateful that you joined Instagram, I don’t know where I would be right now if I hadn’t found your wisdom. Thank you from the bottom of my heart ❤️

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  26. Crying. Thank you for this, Sheryl. This post is my way of waving back at you: I see you. I hear you.

    You’re not alone. Your writings and teachings have helped me embrace and love my sensitivity.

    Reply

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