Be Still My Child
Tre L. Loadholt

My god can I relate to this. I still nurse my inner child who rebelled because before school and after school, I had to drop off kids and pick up kids. I was changing diapers by age 7. Making bottles even younger. Babysitting up until the day I went to college and hated every second of it. I made dinner. I helped w homework i didn’t wholeheartedly understand. My niece was getting threatened at school and I walked her to and from school for a month like I was that grown. I wasn’t. On weekends I planned outings. My nephew’s 1st bday party I took him to chuck e cheese (my sisters oldest kid is only 2 yrs younger than I am, we’re very close in age).

One of the little ones fell down the stairs in one of those walker death traps of the 80’s, from the 2nd floor. I slept through it. Man, did I get it when my sister got home.

This is a tough piece to read, I can’t imagine what it is to write. i ended up w a toddler because of conditioning to fix it & bail out the kin. It’s a tough call to make, to stop when you know nothing else but fixing it.

At this exact moment and days proceeding this one, I’ve been chasing my niece because I got a feeling. Those feelings have always meant something. letting go is a challenge. I haven’t completely. I’ve set boundaries over the years. And many times, I have to set more.

I hope writing helped bring some sort of peace. It is not easy to let others grow up when you had to do so much for such a long amount of time to help them.

Something happened one day, years ago. I was living in dallas. I couldn’t help. I worried. Anxiety kicked in. I kicked myself for being so far away. But it got worked out. However it did, it most definitely got worked out, without me. Moments like that showed me they are more capable than I gave them credit for.

In the meantime, take care of you until you can properly let go. It sounds like you may be getting closer.

Good work. As usual. This, I was feeling. A Yolanda Adams song I don’t know? Let me step my game up. Thanks.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.