for the child I once was, who didn’t believe I’d come back
©ESR 2026

I found her

at a circus.

Not the kind with grand lights or soaring music,

but a dusty country fair,

the kind where paint flakes from the carousel

and laughter echoes like it doesn’t quite belong.

She was small.

Smaller than I remembered.

Wearing my childhood hoodie,

torn at the sleeve from the night I learned

how silence can be sharp.

I walked toward her,

heart full of rehearsed softness.

I’d come to tell her

she was safe now.

That I’d made it.

That I came back for her.

But she saw me,

and her eyes turned to stone.

She didn’t run,

just stepped backward

like the air between us had teeth.

“I know who you are,”

she said.

Not like a welcome.

Like a warning.

“You’re an adult.”

And the word fell

like a door slamming shut.

I wanted to kneel.

To explain.

To swear I’d never raise my voice,

never turn away,

never become the fists and sneers she flinched from.

But she crossed her arms.

She shook her head.

And with all the finality of someone

who’s had too many promises broken,

she turned her back on me.

And I,

the grown woman who came to heal her,

stood in the dust

with my apology

rotting in my hands.

I wasn’t ready for the hatred.

I thought I’d show up

with soft words and open palms,

and she’d melt into me

like I was everything she needed.

But she didn’t want comfort

from someone with tall shoes and adult eyes.

She wanted me to suffer a little,

to stand there in the circus haze

and feel what it was like

to be the one not chosen.

And so I did.

I watched her disappear

behind tents that smelled like old popcorn and lost dreams,

and I whispered:

I’ll come back.

Not to fix you.

Not to convince you.

Just to be here.

Until you believe I mean it.

Because maybe healing isn’t a reunion.

Maybe it’s a pilgrimage.

And maybe,

just maybe,

every time I return,

she’ll stand a little closer.

Not ready to hold my hand,

but maybe ready

to let me stay.