Earlier this week an ex slipped into my texts, sending a little video of a band we loved in our time together. He sent the video with familiar words—how he’s been really sick, misses how we shared a love of creativity and music, hopes I’m doing well.
For whatever reason, I took the hook. There’s still this whisper of inner child, so precious and so loving, who always wants this ex to get better, to heal. This ex with the drug and self-harm addictions, the endless lies to cover them, the childhood trauma that’s never been self-seen or healed—my inner little girl still whispers, after all these years,”Maybe he’s better now. I just want him to be okay. Maybe if I respond to this bid for connection, I can make sure he’ll be okay.”
When I dated this boy in my early 20s, he was my karmic puzzle piece. My struggle for worthiness become material. This beautiful boy who everyone wanted, who chose ME. My father wound come alive. The choosing came with a push-pull constant struggle to be worthy of his love, through dieting and over-exercising, through assuaging every mood-swing, through sweet-talking him as he screamed at me. Taking him back when he calmed down, when the charismatic, whip-smart, sweet one of him finally surfaced again.
So I texted back (with boundary, with distance) and mentioned that I’m 5 months pregnant.
He texted his shock and then - HE CALLED. 8 years without voices exchanged, and here he was.
He called while I was in a session with an amazing Alchemical Alignment practitioner (the work I’ve been studying and offering for two years now), and we allowed my guides to build a sea wall of boundary between me and the ex. I got to be with the sensation the call sent through my body, in real time—a shrinking of solar plexus and self, body bracing for impact.
My empowered adult turning queen in my mind’s eye as my male guides took care of the danger. My body filling in, luscious. Me filling with me.
He texted again and posed a question: “Who’s the guy? Are you doing this alone or with a partner?”
So hard not to answer, because what he’s asking of me here is to prove something, and oh, the bait of wanting to prove something. And I know no matter what my answer, he will not see me in my answer. It’s a trap. If I list who my partner is: wild, caring, sweet, sexy beyond measure, safe, hilarious, open, fair, trusting, adaptable, built by caring parents with the most delicious, healthy nervous system, and did I mention so fucking sexy—if I let the hook bite me, and say, of course I have a fucking partner, I would not do this without the most present man by my side, that is not a life I will ever build again—god, I don’t even think my ex would understand what the fuck I was talking about.
Furthermore, he wouldn’t believe me. Because a part of him still thinks I am forever his. Forever a 20 year old trying to prove herself worthy of “love.”
Answering is a ticket to a conversation where I have to prove myself.
Answering is a signal that I buy his reality.
Answering is not worth my time.
Every time I fail to answer, I heal that little girl inside, the one who reached to heal dad, to heal the dirtbag boyfriends of my 20s. Every time I choose silence, I choose her. Everytime I choose my empowered adult self, who doesn’t have to save or caretake or assuage or take responsibility for any adult, ever—I heal that sweet, precious little girl who learned that’s what love was.
Check in with yourself when someone toxic from your past reaches out.
Which part of you wants to respond? Is it your inner child, or your empowered adult self?
Do you gain anything from the interaction, or is it just a hook into self-doubt, old patterns, or painful memories?
Respond (or don't!) accordingly.
Where can you give yourself the delicious grace of not fucking answering?