365 Love Notes To Myself
Healing trauma-unburdening-one letter at a time.
I sing the body electric, I celebrate the me yet to come. I toast to my own reunion, when I become one with the sun. I Sing The Body Electric by Dean Pitchford and Michael Gore
Chapter One: What The Body Remembers
It begins each year around October, the primal recollection of shorter days, lower sun, longer shadows; the expectation of chill, dampness, a graying sky and autumn hues. My body remembers the suburban New York fall and the turn to winter. It recalls falling asleep in pink footed flannel pajamas after hearing WRKL announce the impending blizzard, hoping tomorrow would be a snow day, waking up, looking out the window, touching its cold glass, seeing unspoiled white snow banks, a blanket of flakes falling from the sky, feeling the thrill of knowing I didn’t have to get up. School was definitely cancelled.
Since 1992, I’ve lived in Los Angeles — more than half my life — and yet, still, my body longs for that change of seasons, for the shift to a hibernal existence, one that gives permission to laze around in fuzzy socks and sweaters. Even after all these years, lacking that change short circuits my system, like I’m programmed to hibernate and all this sunshine fucks me up.
Sometimes I wonder if I have a reverse Seasonal Affective Disorder — I suffer from too much sun, too much daylight, too much warmth, too many opportunities (expectations) to get outside and exercise, take advantage of this Southern California climate some love to brag about.
It’s been worsening with age, this longing, which makes me wonder if somewhere in the aging process, there’s a sort of homecoming. Like we return to the best of our little selves through a pre-determined loving of our inner children and remembering.
I was born in January, 1968 during the coldest Arctic freeze in New York City history; my birth mother died one day before my 27th birthday, before I found her.
My body holds the trauma of maternal-child separation, three weeks in the NICU, the transfer to foster care followed by the loving arms of strangers I was told were my parents. And my body holds the trauma of a violent home, unwanted touches and unheard cries. If my autoimmune diseases are unwelcome reminders of all my vessel experienced, perhaps this longing for Jack Frost is a reminder all it loved. Perhaps its the womb I’m returning to. Perhaps.
So many of us survivors of complex childhood trauma — and most adoptees — are capable of holding contradictory memories and feelings. I can feel the heat of my father’s hand, the sting of my mother’s silence, the violation of my adoptive brother’s body; and I can feel the radiating joy of my father’s smile and my mother’s delicate finger nails tickling circles on my bare back. I can no longer feel the goodness I once knew with my brother, some traumas are just too big, too damaging. That’s okay, we’re allowed to forget.
But best of all, I can feel innocent little me. And I want to tell you how I learned to give her what she deserved all along: safety and unconditional love.
Chapter Two: What The Body Deserves
On January 1, 2024, I cracked open a new journal and committed to an idea: 365 Love Notes To Myself. I had spent 2023 working through the trauma caused by my brother’s disclosure of molesting me, memories I had long buried and wasn’t prepared to face. Therapy, meditation, journaling, walking in the woods, sharing the story with my closest friends and family, it all helped. But by the end of the year, I felt there was something else I had to do: I had to talk to little me, that adorable blue eyed, curly haired, tan skinned girl roller skating on the hot asphalt in pink Dolphin shorts. I had to let her know she’s safe, that I’m here now, that she’s okay, and none of it was her fault. She deserved so much better.
I knew I’d miss days — no chance I’d journal every single day of the year — that was okay, the whole idea was to be gentle with myself. For this to be an exercise in radical self-love, there could be no judgement or pressure, only compassion and commitment.
So one year ago, I ordered a pack of my favorite Hanku colored pens, placed them in a pink bubbly Glossier bag, bought a new journal, placed them all by my bedside, and on January 1, 2024 — 11 days shy of 56 — I endeavored to love myself like never before.
At the end of every journal entry, I write a note to Little Mindy. Sometimes I tell her she’s safe and loved, that she’s got this, that we’ve got this; sometimes it’s a musing on gratitude or sharing a funny memory; sometimes it’s just, “I love you.”
Here I am, 349 days into my project, changed. Unburdened. One of the most unexpected shifts I’ve experienced is the melding of Little Me and Me. We are one now, like I’m (unapologetically) the me I was meant to be. Somehow, the the near-daily process of writing to myself silenced toxic voices, stifled unhealthy expectations and judgements, eviscerated the ghosts and sutured the wounds. I’m not sure how it worked, only that it did.
By the last day of 2024, I will have filled two full journals with love notes.
I’ve lived my adult life listening to my inner voice, trusting my instincts, doing the hard work to heal. But my brother’s disclosure, and all that it brought up, challenged my hard-earned coping skills and optimism. It left me raw, turned inside out. I never could have imagined that something as simple as writing loves notes to myself could effect so much change but it did. I’m better, healthier, whole.
I’ve always been a believer in change and transformation, that anything is possible, my life proves it: despite sealed records, I found both my birth parents; despite childhood trauma, I found true love. Perhaps the last thing I needed to find was me. For that reason, I’m grateful to my brother. Examining those buried memories lead to examining other buried memories and all that examination emptied me out, created space so that these days, I’m a believer in me — in my goodness, my grace, my worth.
On September 15th, 2024, I wrote some lyrics in my journal. I sing the body electric, I celebrate the me yet to come. I toast, to my own reunion, when I become one with the sun. For days, that song from the movie Fame, “I Sing The Body Electric,” was an ear worm. It dawned on me then, that 365 Love Notes To Myself is a toast to my own reunion, to my becoming one with the sun (even if I wish it was snow). Below is the Love Note To Myself written after that journal entry:
Dear Little Mindy,
The journey will be long, arduous, your feet will bleed and heart will break; you will grieve again and again, but you will never be alone. I am holding your hand as we take this walk (again)— this time, observing from a distance, from a flat paved path surrounded by blooming wildflowers, bright blue skies, and the promise of freedom up ahead. I am holding you, you are safe now, and you have — we have — the courage to make this journey. The looking, seeing, making sense of it all, the speaking out — that’s the healing. Here we are, so close to the summit and my god it’s beautiful up here. Look at that view, how far you’ve come, how it all makes sense now. Look at your strength, courage, determination; just look at you, living in truth, free as a bird.
Go live the life you deserve. I love you so much,
Mindy
It’s not lost on me that I wrote that around the eight-and-a-half month mark of the year, the end of the human gestational period. The long walk home is a rebirth, a liberation, a letting go. My autoimmune diseases still flare and memories still flood, but they look and feel different now — more like the unwanted houseguests Rumi encourages us to invite in, then enemies to cast out.
I’m pretty sure I’ll continue this epistolary project, that it will remain just a part of how I journal, but it’s okay if it doesn’t. Because what I learned in my 56th year on this earth is that I’m not alone. That actually, I never was.
Happy New Year. I hope you find a way to love yourself.