There’s something I keep learning, over and over again—both in my own healing journey and in nearly every session I have with clients: we’re not as broken as we think we are.
That’s not just a nice sentiment. It’s something I’ve come to believe in my bones, though it’s taken me years of unlearning to get here. Years of sitting with clients who cracked open in front of me. Years of staring at my own reflection wondering if I was too far gone. Years of trial and error, starting over, forgiving myself, and finally letting myself soften into something that actually felt true.
Just this past week, I sat with a client who had a moment of such clarity that I almost forgot to breathe. They were able to see themselves at six years old—really see that younger version, not just through the lens of adult judgment or memory, but with genuine compassion and love. And they said something like, “I wasn’t broken. I was just unseen.” That landed so hard. Because that’s it, isn’t it? So many of us weren’t really seen—not as we were. We were shaped and molded and managed by adults who were doing their best, but who couldn’t see past their own pain long enough to fully witness us.
When you can truly see your younger self—not with criticism, but with tenderness—you start to realize: you were never separate from love. You just forgot. You were conditioned to forget. And that’s not your fault.
I know this forgetting intimately. For 25 years, I worked in a manufacturing facility. It was steady work, and I was good at it. But deep down, I always felt like there was something else I was supposed to be doing—something that aligned with my heart. And yet, I stayed. For years, fear kept me anchored. Fear of failure, fear of disappointing others, fear that I’d be making a selfish or foolish decision by walking away from something secure.
But when I finally got quiet enough to listen to what my heart wanted—really listen—I knew I had to make the leap. I knew I wanted to help people, to sit with them in their darkest places and remind them of their light. And once that decision was made from a place of love—not pressure or performance—the fear didn’t even come with me. It was like it lost its seat on the bus.
And here’s what I’ve learned since: fear is almost never about the thing we think it’s about. It’s not really about the job or the relationship or the risk. It’s about disconnection. From our values, our worth, our deep knowing. Fear loses its grip when we remember who we are.
Of course, the remembering isn’t always clean or easy. Some of us carry wounds that still ache decades later. Betrayals. Absences. Words we can’t unhear. And often, we hold those hurts close, thinking that to let them go would be to let someone off the hook. But the truth is, choosing not to forgive is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to suffer. We know that. And still, we clutch our pain like it’s proof of something important.
But what if forgiveness wasn’t about them at all? What if it was the thing that set us free?
And just to be clear—because this part matters—you can choose to forgive someone, and that doesn’t mean the relationship has to stay the same. You’re allowed to forgive someone and still decide not to be in their life. You can forgive and still hold a boundary that says, you don’t get to hurt me again. You can forgive someone and still not want to see them at Thanksgiving.
Forgiveness isn’t about excusing harm or pretending it didn’t happen. It’s about what you’re carrying around in your own heart. It’s about putting down the weight of anger and resentment so you can walk lighter. It’s for your freedom—not their redemption.
One of the biggest shifts in my life came from reading The Untethered Soul by Michael A. Singer. I underlined and highlighted nearly the entire book, like it was a treasure map to a place I had forgotten existed. That’s where I first really understood that I am not my thoughts. I am not my feelings. I am the one who notices. The one who observes my inner world and my outer experience. That part of me—the observer—is steady, present, and free.
That understanding opened a door, but it was Internal Family Systems (IFS) that really let me walk through it. Working with IFS showed me that so much of my own suffering came from forgetting who I was at my core. I wasn’t broken—I was just disconnected from my Self. And I didn’t need to become someone new. I needed to come home.
Through IFS, I’ve been able to meet parts of me I once pushed away—my protector parts, my critics, my worriers—and instead of trying to silence them, I’ve learned to be with them. And in doing so, I’ve come to know the deeper part of me that was never wounded, never defensive, never ashamed. Just present. Just whole. Just…me.
This kind of inner work is not for the faint of heart. It’s courageous, sacred, and often uncomfortable. Some of the bravest people I know are my clients—the ones who notice the fear but choose to go inside anyway. Who sit with the vulnerable parts of themselves they’ve spent decades avoiding. Who return to painful childhood scenes—not to relive the trauma, but to offer something those young parts never got: presence, safety, kindness, a do-over. Sometimes they change the ending. Sometimes they help their younger self walk right out of that scene altogether.
It’s not easy. It can feel disorienting, even terrifying at first. But it’s also the most liberating feeling I know—this healing from the inside out.
Every single part of you is longing to be connected to you—to feel your genuine presence and your willingness to be with it. Some parts may feel broken, yes. But what if they’re not broken at all? What if they’re just tired of being misunderstood?
So here’s the deal:
You don’t need another five-step plan. You don’t need to light a candle and chant under the full moon (unless you want to—no judgment). You just need to choose one thing from this whole rambling post and actually remember it.
That’s it.
One sentence. One breath. One gentle pause in the middle of your everyday chaos that says: “Oh yeah… I’m still here.”
Because healing isn’t about becoming a brand-new person.
It’s about finally giving yourself permission to stop pretending you’re not already whole.
And if that sounds a little rebellious—it is.
The old you wasn’t wrong.
She was surviving.
But this you?
She’s ready to live.
Peace my Friends,
~Travis
PS. Feel free to share your one sentence with me that you will be holding onto.
