This week’s guest blog is by Kheyala:
“Who, me?”
Right. Whoever would have the nerve to admit such a thing? Yet, if we deny our own experience of inner rage or hatred, if we repress it… then guess what? It comes out anyway. And it comes out as the unmistakable (especially to our children), hateful undercurrent of whatever we say or do in that moment. It’s as if we’d told them that we hated them directly, only it’s far more confusing.
Thankfully, there is another way. It’s called compassion. For them? No, not yet. For us. You see, the truth is that we don’t ever really hate our kids. What we are hating is what it’s like to be us in that moment when our children inadvertently step on the inner landmines of our own unfinished business. What I’m referring to by “unfinished business” is all that subconscious material: the old wounds, traumas, and other “little lovelies” that our body/minds never forgot but that hadn’t yet had such a magnificent opportunity to reveal and, with enough consciousness, to free.
This week’s guest blog is by Kheyala: