Five is dangerous.

She is needy.

She is needing more connection and emotional regulation than she can possibly receive.


I wrote those words above this morning in the middle of a 5-mile run, frustrated I was feeling panicky and wishing I could be comforted, but judging myself for that.

I’d reached out, as a deliberate opposite action to my usual shutdown mode when this happens, and a couple hours later was welcomed into my therapists office with the arms I needed, and the most perfect fort covering where we usually sit on the ground. I felt unbelievably loved.

I learned today probably the most important thing I’ve learned in almost two years of being in recovery in that fort: Five is so valuable. Five is worthy of time and love. Five is a big part of me that is cared for, seeks connection, and won’t ever be abandoned. Five is the driving force behind much of my healing; Five asks for hugs and cries and lets people do things for her.

Five is much of the the reason why I need therapy in the first place, but Five shows up because she still knows she deserves to be loved. And she was showed love today in the most meaningful way.

Tears won’t stop showing up because I felt so safe. So loved. And like pieces of me were literally being put back together.

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