On Shame, Memory, and the Long Work of Healing
The Feminine Urge to Hug My Younger Self
There’s a trend on TikTok where people use AI to create a photo of their adult self hugging their child self. Every time I see it, I cry. The idea of embracing a younger me feels both tender and complicated, so I decided to participate too:
***And while the image doesn’t quite look like me after several attempts, it’ll do for the purposes of this post LOL.***
Sometimes I think I’m the most messed-up person. The older I’ve gotten, the more I’ve reflected on versions of myself that bring me shame. I can whisper mantras like, “forgive yourself for not knowing any better,” or, “you’re allowed to outgrow who people thought you were (or old versions of yourself),” but the truth is those versions still live inside me. I may not act the same or carry myself the same anymore, but I remember who I was in past seasons, and I can’t always escape the sting of those memories.
I’m grateful that I’ve grown into someone better over time, but my flaws and experiences haunt me. The chapters I’m not proud of make me feel small, like I want to curl up and disappear, like something is perpetually wrong with me. Being dishonored so young shattered my confidence and taught me that I was unworthy before I even had a chance to believe otherwise. That’s the trick of the shadow: it convinces you the lies are truth.
Still, I know I wouldn’t be the creator I am today without my past. My history framed concepts like worthiness, consent, boundaries, and autonomy with fear. It taught my young body the complexity of existing in harmful situations, to normalize secrecy and shame. I couldn’t process the trauma then, but my body remembered, lashing out in ways I didn’t understand. As a teenager and young adult, that memory lived in recklessness, irresponsibility, and hyper-sexualization. I’m not proud of it, but in hindsight I understand it as my body’s attempt to cope with what it had carried in silence.
Now, as an adult still peeling back layers, I’m learning that healing is not linear. The more I regulate my nervous system, the more I unearth. The more I move my body to release trauma, the more I remember. With each cycle, with each bleed, my body purges a little more.
How long will this last?
The letting go.
The remembering.
The rage.
The grief.
Am I meant to live like this forever? I hope not.
Even after years of talk therapy, this is a place I haven’t gone. I’ve unpacked mother wounds, abandonment, breakups, and blow-ups, but this deep stain… I’ve kept it separate, untouched. Maybe that’s why I fight so hard now to reclaim playfulness, childlike wonder, and creativity in its purest form. To give that version of me the chance she never had. Her creativity and innocence were stolen too soon, and I’ve carried the ripple ever since. Moving my body more has begun to release what I buried, and I’m both grateful and unnerved.
I hope the healing gets lighter with time. I hope my body and mind find peace. I’m not trying to escape what surfaces, but I pray I can integrate it, and that one day my testimony might liberate someone else. My deepest hope is that as I keep facing grief, trauma, and shame, they’ll loosen their grip so that the truest me can finally shine. I understand now that my irritability, my guardedness, so often mask the lack of safety I’ve felt inside. And in this season, that has to change.
Music has always been medicine for me, which is why I find the song “Know Who You Are,” and its corresponding scene in Moana, so powerful. It reminds me that when something is broken or stolen, repair can take a long, long time. But if we’re brave enough to face the “monster,” we just might restore what was lost.
And just because certain things have been kept secret or normalized, especially in Black families, doesn’t make them right. Many of us are confronting this now, and I pray that we continue with courage, grace, and strength.
Until next time, creatives.
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Aliya Cheyanne
The Feminine Urge to Create