Echoes of Silence: A Daughter's Return

Lena has spent years perfecting the art of isolation in Chicago—carefully crafted routines, unanswered calls, and enough distance to keep the past at bay. But when an unexpected voicemail from her estranged mother breaks through her defenses, the life she's built begins to unravel.

"I've been thinking... you should come home for a while. It's been too long."

What starts as a reluctant visit to her childhood home becomes a confrontation with the silence that has defined their relationship. As Lena discovers an old journal and faces her mother's familiar walls, she begins to see that healing isn't about fixing what happened—it's about facing the younger version of herself she left behind.

This psychological journey pulls you through rain-soaked streets and quiet confrontations where every unanswered call holds a story, and every silence carries weight. As memories surface and boundaries form, one question lingers:

What if the closure you're seeking isn't about changing someone else, but finding peace within yourself?

Chapters

• 0:00 The Journey of Unheard Voices
• 5:07 Facing the Past: A Return Home
• 9:49 Confronting Silence and Unspoken Words
• 15:04 The Weight of Family Expectations
• 19:52 Healing Through Connection
• 25:02 Reclaiming the Self
• 29:52 Breaking the Cycle of Silence
• 32:49 The Burden of Pain and the Quest for Understanding
• 35:05 Finding Freedom Through Forgiveness
• 39:11 Confronting the Past: A Journey of Self-Discovery
• 43:54 Rebuilding: Embracing the Present and Future
• 47:21 The Interplay of Forgiveness and Healing
• 1:02:09 Inviting Peace: The Path to Forgiveness

Transcript

Natalie Amey (00:02.784)
often do we find ourselves on the other end of a conversation that's already disconnected, longing for understanding, clarity, and closure? For so many of us, those moments don't just happen over the phone. They happen in life, in relationships that leave us unheard and unseen.

Welcome to Faith and Flow, where storytelling meets emotional wellness and faith. I'm Natalie Amy, your host, storyteller, former ICU nurse and family therapist, turned bestseller, author, actor, and thriving survivor. My mission? To walk alongside you as a companion on your journey, sharing stories that inspire healing, build resilience, and glorify God's redemptive grace in our lives. Today, I'm sharing a story that's close to the heart. It's about complexities of family relationships, specifically between a mother and daughter.

This story delves into isolation, emotional wounds, and the slow, tender path to forgiveness. But let me ask you this. Have you ever felt the ache of unmet expectations from someone you love or the weight of trying to heal a relationship while still carrying your own pain about it? If you're wrestled with these questions, you're not alone, and this episode is for you. Together, we'll explore how God's grace can bring healing even to the most broken places. Let's dive into this creative devotional where we uncover not only the power of storytelling, but the beauty of redemption.

you

Natalie Amey (01:35.832)
car horns in the distance, footsteps against wet pavement, a train bell chiming somewhere far off, and then a phone ringing, again and again. Lena sat in her apartment, the dim glow of candlelight flickering against unopened mail, an untouched glass of wine, a book with its spine cracked but never read. She held the phone to her ear, waiting, waiting for the voice that could cut her open in a single breath.

Hello? Hello? And then nothing. The kind of nothing that isn't empty but full. Full of everything left unsaid. The silence settled over her like an old blanket, scratchy and familiar. A silence that had followed her from childhood, whispering the same old refrain, you're too much. You're not enough. You should have been used to this by now. Every call was a gamble, a spin.

of the emotional roulette wheel. On good days, her mother's voice was sharp, but tolerable. On bad days, it sliced through her like glass. And then there were days like this, where there was nothing at all. The apartment around her told its own story. Blinds drawn tight, shutting the world out. A yoga mat leaning in the corner, untouched for weeks. A candle, its wax melting unevenly, burning longer than she ever intended to stay awake.

Chicago was supposed to be a fresh start, place to escape the weight of her childhood. Instead, it had become just another place to disappear.

Natalie Amey (03:15.522)
But running doesn't erase the past. It just stretches the distance between where you are and what's still chasing you. She was small, sitting in a chair too big for her, phone gripped in her tiny hands, her voice trembling as she whispered, it wasn't my fault. Her mother responds sharp immediately. Why didn't you tell me?

Natalie Amey (03:40.878)
told herself she had stopped needing her mother's approval a long time ago. But the truth was harder to swallow. Because every unanswered call, every clipped word, every empty pause still left her wondering, what did I do wrong? Why is her love always just out of reach? The neighbor's television bled through the thin apartment walls. A laugh track. Canned applause. A reminder that somewhere life was continuing.

Not here though, not in the space where silence had made its home. Lena poured herself a glass of wine, the motions slow and deliberate. Most nights were the same, a drink, or two, or three, mindless TV, a late night walk through the city, the streets swallowing her whole. She didn't call it loneliness, she didn't call it anything, but it wrapped around her like a heavy coat she couldn't take off.

She stepped outside into the Chicago dust, the cold air biting at her skin. The city pulsed, lights reflecting on wet pavement, couples laughing at outdoor cafes, a taxi honking in the distance, but Lena kept her head down, arms wrapped around herself. A habit, a shield. She told herself she didn't need anyone. Not her mother, not the strangers passing by, not the people she avoided meeting eyes with in the grocery store aisles.

But deep down, she knew. The silence in her laugh wasn't just hers. It was inherited, passed down like a family heirloom she never asked for. She didn't know it then. But this? This was the beginning of something. Change doesn't announce itself with fanfare. It doesn't come banging on the door, demanding to be let in. It starts as a whisper, quiet enough to mess unless you're listening. And for the first time in a long time, Lena was listening.

Lina sat at her kitchen table, phone in hand, staring at the screen. The glow of the missed call notification flickered like a question she wasn't ready to answer. She had gotten used to ignoring them, letting the messages pile up like unopened letters from a past she had no interest in revisiting. But something about this one felt different. A single voicemail, just under 15 seconds. Her thumb hovered over the play button, hesitating, but then, before she could talk herself out of it, she pressed it.

Natalie Amey (06:08.546)
Her mother's voice, crackled, through the speaker, strained, controlled, but just beneath it, something Lena couldn't quite name. I've been thinking, you should come home for a while. It's been too long. Then silence, no follow-up, no explanation, not even a goodbye. Lena set the phone down and exhaled, staring at it as if expecting the message to change.

She wasn't sure what unsettled her more, the fact that her mother wanted her home or the fact that, for the first time in a long time, it sounded like she actually meant it. She leaned back in her chair, running her hand through her hair, but the words settling inside her like a weight. This wasn't new. Her mother had a way of making everything feel like both a demand and an invitation. But there was something different this time. A hesitation, a crack in the usual sharpness of her voice.

And then there was the journal. It had been buried for years, shoved into the back of the closet like an old ghost she didn't want to deal with. But as she packed, her fingers brushed against its worn leather cover. She knew she should leave it alone, but curiosity or maybe something deeper won. She flipped it open. The pages were jagged, messy, filled with the kind of words people only write when they think no one will ever read them. And there it was in her handwriting, raw, unfiltered.

Why did she stop it? It wasn't my fault. The words blurred. She snapped the journal shut. The rush of emotions hit her like wave, knocking the air from her lungs. For years, she had told herself she was fine, that none of it mattered anymore, that she had moved on. But sitting there staring at that journal, she knew she had been lying to herself. She shoved it into her bag before she could change her mind. She wasn't going back to fix anything. She wasn't going back to smooth things over.

She wasn't even sure why she was going back at all, but something inside her whispered, though. The train station was cold, the kind of cold that seeped through layers, sinking into her bones. Nina pulled her coat tighter, gripping the strap of her bag as she stared at the tracks stretching endlessly in both directions. She could still turn back, she could delete the voicemail, go back to her apartment, pretend she never heard it. But she didn't move.

Natalie Amey (08:31.393)
The train screeched to a stop in front of her. The doors slid open without thinking, without letting herself hesitate for even a second she stepped inside. As the doors shut behind her, Chicago began to disappear, swallowed by the horizon. She told herself she wasn't sure why she was doing this, but deep down she knew the truth. She wasn't running away anymore. She was going back where it all began. And for the first time, she wasn't just racing for impact.

She was listening. She was finally ready to find out what had been waiting for her on the other side of silence. The trained speech to a heart melting, grinding against metal. The momentum jolting Lena forward. She tightened her grip on the strap of her bag, bracing herself.

But the doors slid open, releasing a rush of cold air and the muffled chaos of the station. Flipped conversations, hurried footsteps, the rolling wheels of suitcases echoing against the concrete floor. She stepped onto the platform, feeling the weight of her decision seeping deep into her chest. The scent of stale coffee and damped pavement hung to the air. Everything around her was in motion, people rushing to their destinations with purpose. Meanwhile, she stood still.

like a traveler who had just realized she had taken the wrong train but had come too far to turn back. Lena inhaled slowly. It was just a visit, she reminded herself. A few days at most. But the further she walked, the heavier the bag seemed to grow. Filled with more than just clothes. Old ghost. Unanswered questions. Unspoken words. She had told herself this was a mistake.

that coming back would only reopen wounds that had never been fully healed. But she was here now, walking through the streets that should have felt familiar, but instead felt haunted. She turned the corner and there it was, the house. The shutters were slightly crooked, the paint peeling in places, the yard was overgrown, the swing set in the corner rusted and forgotten. It was smaller than she remembered, but somehow the weight of it felt heavier.

Natalie Amey (10:45.995)
She stopped on the sidewalk, staring at the door, her feet frozen in place. Her thoughts spiraled. Why am I here? What am I hoping to find? She won't change. She never changes. This is pointless. Her hand hovered over the doorbell. It wasn't too late to turn around, to go back to the station, buy a ticket, leave before she had to step inside. But something, maybe curiosity, maybe something deeper, had made her press the button.

The chime echoed through the house, distant and hollow. The door creaked open. Her mother stood in the doorway, expression unreadable. you actually came. No warmth, no embrace, just that familiar, careful detachment. Well, don't just stand there. Come in. The house smelled the same. Old wood, a faint trace of lavender, like it had been sprayed just before she arrived. An attempt at covering something stale.

Nina set her bag down near the door, glancing around. The furniture hadn't changed. The wallpaper was the same. The silence between them, just as thick as she remembered. Her mother busied herself in the kitchen, asking questions that sounded more like polite obligations than genuine interest. How's work? Still in Chicago? Dating anyone? The answers barely mattered. The conversation felt like

filling empty space rather than bridging the years between them. Dinner was much of the same. The clinking of silverware, the ticking of the clock on the wall, the words unspoken sitting between them, louder than anything being said. Then, you're so quiet. You used to talk more. Lena set her fork down. Maybe you used to listen more. A pause. Her mother blinked, her expression momentarily unreadable. Then with a sharp clatter,

She dropped her fork into the plate. Silence. That was always how it went. Conversations weren't conversations. They were walls. Walls Nina spent years trying to climb, only to be met with silence and dismissal on the other side. That night she lay awake in her childhood bedroom staring at the ceiling. The bedroom was indifferent. Bare. Stripped of the posters and pictures that once made it hers. Now it felt like a stranger's place.

Natalie Amey (13:07.257)
She turned onto her side, her eyes landing on her back. The journal peeked out. She reached for it hesitantly, fingers brushing over the worn leather cover. She had promised herself she wouldn't open it, that she had already made peace with the past. But the truth? She had never really faced it. She flipped through the pages, jagged messy handwriting covered every inch. Words written by someone desperate to be heard. Why didn't you stop it?

Why didn't you believe me? Her throat tightened, memories stirred, disjointed fragments like a puzzle missing too many pieces. A locked door, a muffled voice, a sound of a child crying. She snapped the journal shut, her breathing shallow, a voice from the hallway. Lena? You awake? Her mother's voice. She didn't answer, she couldn't. Instead, she turned her back to the door, pressing herself into the mattress as if she could disappear into it.

Silence settled over the room. She told herself it was fine, that she was fine, but the weight of the past pressed down on her like a stone, heavy and inescapable. And in that moment, she knew this visit wasn't just about seeing her mother. It was about facing the parts of herself she had buried along with the past. But not yet. For now, she let the silence swallow her.

a cafe smelled of roasted beans and warm cinnamon. A welcome refuge from the cold city air, Nina sat at the corner table, absently stirring her coffee, the tiny whirlpool formed in the cup before disappearing. The rhythmic clinking of the spoon against the ceramic felt like a clock ticking away the seconds. A quiet reminder of the time slipping by. Her bag sat heavy beside her. The worn leather journal tucked deep inside. An anchor, a weight.

A piece of her past she had no idea how to carry. And then, Lena? She looked up. The voice was familiar and for a moment she thought, was she imagining it? But standing in front of her was the same bright eyes and warm presence she remembered. Was Jasmine. Lena blinked as if trying to confirm she was real. Jasmine? The name felt foreign on her tongue after so many years. I can't believe it's you.

Natalie Amey (15:34.423)
Jasmine's smile was steady, like she had been waiting for this moment all along. She slid into the seat across from Lena with ease, as if no time had passed between them. You look like you've seen a ghost. Jasmine teased, her voice light, but her gaze knowing. Lena exhaled a small laugh, shaking her head. Maybe I have. A pause. What are you doing here? Jasmine leaned back slightly.

I moved back last year and started working at the community center down the street. Lena nodded, processing this new version of Jasmine. Same warmth, same calm, but somehow even more grounded than before. What about you? Jasmine's tone was gentle. How are you? A simple question, but something in the way Jasmine asked it with genuine curiosity and no expectation made it feel heavier than it should have. Lena hesitated.

She could lie, say she was fine, say life in Chicago was busy, say something easy, but the truth sat so close to the surface it felt impossible to bury. She swallowed, tightening her fingers around the coffee cup. I've been better. Jasmine didn't rush to feel the silence. She just nodded, giving Lena space to continue. Lena let out a slow breath. It's my mom. Things have been complicated, but lately, I don't know.

It feels heavier, like all these things I thought I'd moved past are still there, just waiting. Jasmine studied her for a moment, then leaned forward slightly. The things we carry from our parents don't just disappear, they settle in, grow roots. Sometimes we don't even realize how deep those roots go. The words landed like a stone in Lena's chest, a lump rose in her throat.

She wasn't going to cry, not here, not now, but something about hearing someone else say it. Someone who wasn't inside her head, who wasn't tangled in the same history made it all feel suddenly undeniable. Lena shook her head, voice barely above a whisper. It's like, no matter what I do, it's never enough. I spent so much time trying to fix things to make her see me, but...

Natalie Amey (17:56.651)
Nothing changes. I just... I feel like I'm failing. As a daughter. As a- as a person. Jasmine reached across the table, her hand wrestling slightly. It's like... No matter what I do, it's never enough. I've spent so much time trying to fix things to make her see me, but nothing changes. I just... I feel like I'm failing. As a daughter, as a person.

Jasmine reached across the table, her hand resting lightly over Lena's. Lena, listen to me. Sometimes healing isn't about fixing the relationship. It's about fixing what it broke in you. The word cut through her, lean, precise, like they had been waiting all this time to be spoken. Lena stared at Jasmine, unable to find a response. What if I don't know where to start? She finally admitted.

Jasmine's expression softened. You start here. She tapped lightly against the table as if to ground the moment. You start with yourself, with the parts of you that are still hurting, still waiting to be seen, the parts you've been avoiding because they're too painful to face. Leena's gaze dropped to the table. But it's not just about me, she-

can't just walk away. You don't have to. Jasmine's voice was steady, but you do have to let go of the idea that you can make her into someone she's not. You have to let go of the guilt, of the responsibility that isn't yours to carry. Lena felt her breath hitch. The weight of those words, the truth of them, settled over her, pressing against all the places she had been holding so tightly for so long, and then before she could stop them.

The tears came, hot and unbidden, slipping past the walls she had spent years fortifying. She wiped her face quickly, embarrassed. But Jasmine didn't look away. She just gave Lena's hand a gentle squeeze. You're not broken, Lena, she says softly. You're bruised, maybe. But bruises heal.

Natalie Amey (20:15.693)
so will you. For the first time in what felt like years, Lena felt the flicker of something she hadn't dared to feel in a long time, hope. They sat there for a while. The conversation shifted to lighter things, memories of high school, stories about people they used to know. But Jasmine's words stayed with her, replaying, unraveling, sinking in. And as Lena stepped back into the cold city air, she realized something.

She didn't feel quite as alone as she had when she walked in. Lena sat on the floor of her room, her legs crossed, her hands resting on her knees. A single candle flickered besides her. It's soft glow casting long shadows against the walls. Adrenal lay open at her side, untouched, yet heavy with unspoken words. She inhaled deeply.

Exhaled slowly, it started as a whisper, a faint voice, distant but familiar. She closed her eyes, listening, not sure if she was ready for what it had to say. A voice, soft and hesitant, broke through the silence.

What should I call you?

Lena's breath caught in her chest. was small, chod-like. She knew that voice. She swallowed barely above a whisper. Lena works just fine. And you? A pause, then. Hina, the name, hurled into the space between them like a memory coming to life. You used to call me that when you were little. Lena's eyes fluttered open staring into the dimly lit room.

Natalie Amey (22:01.919)
As if she might see Tina there, the air around her felt charged, heavy, but not suffocating. It wasn't just a memory, it was a reckoning. She hesitated before asking, how are you feeling, Tina? The voice was quiet, small, scared.

Natalie Amey (22:25.609)
Hale steadying herself, she pressed a hand over

I understand. I've been carrying that too. For a long time she had drowned that voice in wine, buried it under distractions, ignored it when it whispered in the back of her mind. But now, she stayed. She listened. She didn't run. Her voice softened. Can I show you something? She glanced around the room as if offering it to an invisible presence before her. Look, this is where I live now.

Natalie Amey (23:05.613)
And I take care of myself now. A flicker of something unspoken moved through the air. She didn't know if Tina could see it, feel it, but she wanted her to. We are safe here. You are safe here. Lena reached for her journal, flipping to the blank page. With slow, deliberate strokes, she wrote the words, You're safe now. She stared at them for a long time, her fingers tracing the ink.

There was no response, but she felt the presence linger, watching, waiting. And for the first time in a long time, she wasn't afraid to listen. Lena sat, curled into her couch, phone in hand, scrolling through old photos without really seeing them. A familiar pang sat heavy in her chest, the ache of memories she hadn't yet figured out how to let go of. Then the screen lit up with a voicemail notification. She hesitated.

Her thumb hovered over the play button before she finally pressed it. Her mother's voice cut through the quiet, sharp and impatient. I don't know why you just can't answer the phone. I was just calling to check in, but I guess you're too busy. Whatever, call me back if you feel like it. Lena exhaled slowly, setting the phone down with more force than necessary. Her jaws clenched, her knuckles whitened around the mug in her hands. It always comes back to this.

Her mother's voice slicing through her resolve like a dull blade, blunted by repetition, but still sharp enough to wound. The guilt holds in her chest familiar and suffocating. Later, she wandered through the city, her headphones in, music playing, but she wasn't really listening. Her mind was elsewhere, drifting between past and present. A little girl at the kitchen table, her mother pacing behind her, throwing words into the air like stones.

You're so dramatic, always crying about something. Why can't you just toughen up? Lena's breath caught in her throat. She stopped walking. She pulled out her journal and flipped through an old page where she once crawled. You're too sensitive. For a moment, she stared at it. The words glared up at her like an accusation. Then slowly she wrote beneath it, I am sensitive and that's okay.

Natalie Amey (25:31.487)
It wasn't a rebuttal, not exactly, just a whisper of defiance, a small act of reclaiming the parts of herself she had been told to hide. That night she sat at her desk, her journal open in front of her, but she wasn't writing. She was staring at the blank page, lost somewhere in the past. And then the dream came again, not in scattered fragments, not in whispers, but clear, vivid.

She was standing in a dimly lit room and so was she. A younger version of herself. Small arms wrapped tightly around her chest. Eyes wide. Tear fill. The sound of a locked door clicked somewhere in the distance. The younger Lena lifted her chin, voice trembling. You know what happened wasn't your fault, right? The lump rose in Lena's throat.

She took a slow, steadying breath before stepping forward, kneeling to meet her younger self's gaze. Her voice was quiet but firm. I know that, but I didn't then. I carried it for so long, too long. The younger girl's lips trembled. It hurt. It still hurts. Lena swallowed.

Natalie Amey (26:55.981)
I'm so sorry. Everything you had to carry. For all the ways I ignored you because I didn't know how to face it. She reached out, not sure if the girl would let her. Not sure if she deserved to, but after a moment, her younger self lifted her chin. Promise you won't leave me again. Lena's breath hitched. I promise.

She squeezed the small hands in hers. I'll check in. I'll listen. You don't have to go through this alone anymore. And for the first time, the little girl believed her. When Lena woke, there were tears on her pillow. Her breath was uneven. Her chest felt hollow, heavy, but lighter somehow. Something had cracked open. She grabbed her journal.

For the first time in a long time, the words poured onto the page. You deserved better, but you made it through and you're still here. The next morning she met Jasmine at the usual cafe. The warmth of the space surrounded her, the smell of roasted coffee, the low murmur of conversation, the steam curling from her cup. But inside she was still quiet. Jasmine noticed.

She always did. She sat down with her cup, tilting her head slightly. You've been quiet today. What's going on? Lena hesitated and then let the words tumble out. I had a dream about my younger self, about everything I've been carrying. It felt so real, like I was finally talking to her, listening to her. Jasmine studied her thoughtfully. And how did that feel? Lena traced the rim of her cup.

Strange. Hard. But good, I think. Like I'm starting to understand what I need to heal. It's not about fixing the past. It's about being here for her now. For me. Jasmine smiled softly. That's a big step. And it's brave, Lena. And it's brave, Lena. Healing isn't linear, but...

Natalie Amey (29:22.561)
You're doing it, piece by piece. That night, Lena sat on her yoga mat again, her adrenaline beside her. She closed her eyes and just like before, she was back in that space with her younger self. But this time, they weren't standing alone. They were standing together, both staring at the locked door. Lena glanced at the girl beside her. I was so scared.

I didn't know what to do. The younger version of her took a shaky breath. I did what I could. Lena nodded. You survived. And now we can do it differently. The younger girl hesitated. Then slowly she reached for Lena's hand. Fingers curled around her fingers. A promise somewhere in the distance. A key turned in the lock. The door cracked open. The light flooded through. Lena opened her eyes.

Her breath was steady, her heart beat calm. The tests didn't stop. The memories didn't fade overnight. But something had shifted. The guilt, the doubt, the fear. They didn't hold the same power they once did. She wasn't just surviving anymore. She was learning to live. Lena sat on the edge of the worn couch. Her hands laced together in her lap. Knuckles tight, the living room hadn't changed. Same faded wallpaper, same aging furniture.

Same hum of the old clock ticking on the wall. But the silence between her and her mother, that had never felt heavier. Her mother sat across from her, arms folded, her gaze flickering between the window and the clock. Avoidance. It was always avoidance. Finally, she broke the silence. So what is this about? Her voice was brisk and patient. You're awfully quiet for someone who came all this way. Lena took a steady breath.

She knew if she hesitated too long the moment would pass, swallowed by old patterns and unfinished conversations. It's about us, she said, keeping her voice steady, about everything we'd never said to each other. Her mother's expression hardened. Everything we've never said. She let out a short, humorless laugh. I don't know what you're talking about. I've said plenty. That was the problem. Her mother's words had always been sharp, designed not to reveal but to wound, not to open but to shield.

Natalie Amey (31:50.881)
They weren't weapons, they were armor. Lena leaned forward slightly, her voice soft but unwavering. I know, but you never listened. The tickering of the clock filled the space between them. Her mother's lips pressed into a thin line. Listen to what exactly? All your complaints? Your dramatics? I'm done, I've done the best I could, Lena. I'm not perfect. Lena nodded, exhaling softly.

I'm not asking you to be perfect. I'm asking you to hear me. To hear how I've felt all these years. Her mother's gaze flickered. A flash of something. Anger maybe, or fear. I've had my own struggles, you know. I didn't have time to coddle you. Life isn't easy, Lena. You think I had it easy? And there it was. The deflection. The twisting of the conversation.

until Lena's pain was framed as an inconvenience, a burden, rather than the truth that deserved space. Vy had expected this, but she was done shrinking. Her voice remained steady. You don't have to understand my pain for it to be real. It's real, Mom, whether you believe it or not. Her mother didn't speak. She just stared at her, face unreadable. Lena didn't expect an apology. She wasn't even sure she wanted one.

But she did want, needed to release the weight of carrying it all alone. Her voice softened. I forgive you. Not because you deserve it, but because...

I need to let it go. I need to relate to you in a way that I can feel good about. Her mother's expression didn't shift, didn't soften. The words didn't land the way Lena might have once hoped. And yet, she felt lighter. After a long pause, her mother let out a slow breath. That's a lot to put on me, Lena. Lena nodded.

Natalie Amey (34:04.799)
I know, but I'm not putting it on you. I'm taking it off me. The silence stretched. A part of Lena still longed for something. A crack in her mother's armor. An acknowledgement. Even just a flicker of warmth. But she knew that wasn't the point. The point was her own freedom. She strained her shoulders. There are parts of me that still want to relate to you. Parts that...

want the weight of this friction to disappear. Hearts that want justice. But I've realized I can't get those things from you. I have to find them for myself. Her mother looked away, arms still folded. I don't know what you want me to say. Lena stood, smoothing out the fabric of her jeans. You don't have to say anything. I just needed to say this for me. A long pause. Then...

Just as Lena reached a door, her mother's voice came quieter this time. Take care of yourself, Lena. Lena glanced back. It wasn't an apology. It wasn't what she wanted. But maybe, in its own way, it was enough. She stepped outside. The late afternoon sun was warm against her skin. The air smelled of autumn, crisp and sharp, filling her lungs as she took a deep, steadying breath.

And as she walked down the street she felt the tension ease from her shoulders. She hadn't been searching for closure. She had been searching for a way to let go, as she just had. Night has a way of unraveling us and the quiet when distractions fade and the world slows. The truth we've been avoiding starts to whisper. It was late. The kind of late where the house was still and

Even the city outside seemed to have exhaled into silence. Rain tapped softly against the window, steady and rhythmic like a heartbeat. stood barefoot in the front of the mirror. The only light coming from the small bedside lamp beside her. She looked at her own reflection, unmoving, unblinking, like a challenge. She gripped the edge of the dresser. Knuckles turned white, her breath fogging up the small patch of glass. And then almost to herself,

Natalie Amey (36:27.469)
She whispered, why does it still hurt? The mirror held no answers, it never did. It only reflected back the woman standing before it. A woman fractured by years of silence, by blame, by the ache of longing for something that never quite arrived. But tonight, for the first time, she didn't look away. She couldn't. And then, she saw her. A flicker in the glass, a trick of the dim light maybe, but there.

In the reflection, small, wide-eyed, trembling was the girl she used to be. Are you still there? I've always been here. Lena's breath stilled. She raised a hand, fingers trembling as they met the cold surface of the glass. This wasn't a ghost. This wasn't a hallucination. It was her. Every buried memory, every egg she had numbed, every broken piece she had spent years trying to outrun, and now...

She was asking to be heard. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry for ignoring you. For pretending you didn't matter. It hurts. It always hurts. I just wanted you to see me. And for the first time, she did. The voice wasn't angry. It wasn't accusing. It was longing. Longing to be acknowledged. To be held. To be given the love she never knew how to ask for. I see you now.

I hear you and I'm so, so sorry for everything you went through. I just wanted someone to tell me it wasn't my fault. It wasn't. None of it was. You didn't deserve what happened to you and you didn't deserve to carry it alone. The words felt foreign on her tongue, but they were true. She wasn't just speaking to the girl in the mirror. She was speaking to herself.

girl in the reflection reached out, pressing a hand against the glass. Lena lifted hers in response. Their fingers aligned perfectly. Past and present meeting in a single unbreakable moment.

Natalie Amey (38:42.541)
Promise? Promise me you won't forget me again? I promise. You're a part of me and I won't ignore you anymore. It wasn't an instant fix. The scars were still there. The pain wouldn't vanish overnight. But something had shifted. For the first time in years, she wasn't running anymore. The younger reflection faded, leaving only Lena staring back at herself.

And for the first time, she didn't see the cracks in the glass as flaws. She saw them as proof that she had survived. Lena stepped back from the mirror, wiping her face. She walked to her bed, pulling her journal into her lap. And this time, as she picked up her pen, the words didn't stick in her throat. They flowed freely, spilling onto the page. You were never broken. You were always enough.

The ordeal wasn't over, but it no longer consumed her. She had faced a swarm within herself and emerged, not unscathed, but stronger. The city hadn't changed. The same streets stretched before her, the same towering building, the same hurried strangers moving through their morning routines, but something inside her had shifted. And because of that, everything looked different, brighter.

softer, more alive. Lena stood by her apartment window, the early morning light casting long gold streaks across the floor. She closed her eyes, letting the warmth touch her face. There was a time when mornings felt heavy, when the weight of the past clung to her like a fog that wouldn't lift. But today, today was different. She laced up her running shoes, tying the knots firmly. Once running had been her escape.

A way to outrun the thoughts she couldn't quiet. The memories she wasn't ready to face. But now? Now each step felt deliberate. Each step felt intentional. She wasn't running away anymore. She was running toward. The city hummed around her as she moved through the streets. Pedestrians weaved past. A man held the door open for her at the cafe. A woman gave her a knowing nod as they crossed paths on the trail. She wasn't invisible.

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And for the first time in a long time, she didn't want to be. Later, she sat at the small cafe table, her journal open beside her. She flipped through the pages, lingering on old entries. Words written in moments of pain, of doubt, of longing. And then pen in hand, she wrote something new. You're allowed to set boundaries. It's okay to want more. You're worthy of love even when it feels hard to believe.

She had learned to speak to herself the way she wished others had spoken to her. With kindness. With patience. With love. And in doing so, she began to hear a voice she had silenced for years. Her own. Back in her apartment, she rolled out her yoga mat. The sunlight spilled across the floor. The poses were familiar, ones she had abandoned long ago.

But today they felt different. Each movement, each inhale, each stretch felt like a quiet declaration. I am here. I am whole. Rebuilding wasn't about erasing the past. It wasn't about pretending the cracks didn't exist. It was about finding beauty in the brokenness. About learning to live with both the shadows and the light.

She reconnected with old friends, laughter filled spaces that once felt empty. The city once a source of isolation now felt like home. And then, there was her mother. The sharpness in her tone still lingered, the distance still there. But Lena had learned something. Her mother wasn't the source of all her pain. She was a woman shaped by her own wounds. And while the hurt was still there, so was compassion. You don't have to understand me, mom, but I hope you know I-

Her mother glanced at her, something flickered in her eyes, something unspoken. She didn't respond, but she nodded, and it was enough. Boundaries weren't walls, they were bridges, and Lena had finally learned to build them. Not to keep her mother out, but to keep herself whole. She ran along the lakefront at sunrise, the city skyline glowing in the golden light. The waves lapped against the shore, steady and rhythmic.

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mirroring the beat of her own heart. She didn't need the city to change. She didn't need her mother to change. What had shifted was her. Her heart, her mind, her perspective. She carried the past with her, but it no longer weighed her down. It had become part of her, not the whole of her. The reward wasn't in some grand moment of triumph. It was in the small things, the warmth of the sun on her face.

The sound of laughter filling the room, the steady rhythm of her feet against the pavement. It was in the quiet knowing that she was enough. She had started to rebuild, not in defiance of her past, but in acceptance of it. And in doing so, she found something she thought she had lost forever. Herself. The weight she had carried for so long was at gone, but it was lighter now.

she had unpacked, piece by piece, only keeping what served her. The rest, she left behind. Lena sat at her desk, hour lights

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Today, she wrote something different. Today I ran by the lake and felt the sun on my face.

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and smiled when I made a joke. It's not perfect, but it's mine. And that's enough. Her journal wants a repository.

for hope. She no longer wrote about what was missing, she wrote about what she was creating. Growth, connection, resilience. And as she tapped her pen against her chin,

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survivor. She had spent so much of her life searching for her mother's love for her younger selves.

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saw the truth. It was never about finding wholeness in someone else. It was about discovering that she

Inside her window, children laughed her, blended with the hum of the city, the skyline stretched before her, the same one she had once

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she once avoided. Lena stood stretching her

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So, that's exactly what she did.

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city's evening melody rising

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street musicians drumming the soulful tune

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of the setting sun. She had returned not to who she was.

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She had started to rebuild

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Listening to faith implode, and creative devotion excel. As today's story comes to a close, we're left with a reminder. God's grace is always at work, even in the broken, messy parts of our lives. This story touched on themes of forgiveness, resilience, and healing. through the lens of the five pillars of emotional wellness, we can see it reflects the importance of the in pillar, our inward journey to confront our wounds and self-compassion, and the out, it's the grace we extend to others, even when it feels impossible.

I'm to say right here, forgiveness doesn't erase the past. Yet I find people wanting to forgive. if it's like there's a call, like a strong desire in there, yeah, forgiveness is a great topic. want to, I want to forgive. I want to learn how to forgive as if it's something that is supposed to be like a button you press or an ability you have to just like, okay, I'm going to forgive. And the reason why we can't forgive is because it's not logical to us. In our minds, it doesn't make sense to forgive. It's like,

Once you forgive that, it's like you're accepting this injustice that happened to you. And it doesn't quite correlate because I think it conflicts with your moral beliefs and fiber, especially because it's done against you, you know? And I agree with this psychiatrist who says that you have to heal before you forgive. And I believe that wholeheartedly, that there has to be healing around that event, that situation, that experience before you can truly heal.

Cause that's when you're coming from a place of, okay, I've healed from this experience. am better, stronger, wiser, more in tune with myself. However, that healing and the outcome of that healing has brought you just like the story, how the outcome of her healing, her addressing the actual event, her going back to that tender place of when it actually happened to her. That, and then you stay there and you address, I mean, some of the limiting beliefs. Sometimes we have these, these

that are going on inside of us that are part of the child or the person that we were at that moment. Because what happens is we experience something, something traumatic, something negative or whatnot, and it actually creates this chasm, if you will, and we end up stuck at that place where that place, that event, sometimes it's a unfinished story. Sometimes we walk away with

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limited beliefs or understanding or how we understand it. And then we come up with ways to deal with it. Depending on our age, we respond to the experiences that we have, age appropriately. So if you have something that happened to you at seven and usually that's about, you know, self-identity, then that experience will tell you and feed into something that you believe about yourself. And when we as adults go back into that time and take the time to flesh it out, and take the time to just explore.

that seven-year-old, if you will, you get to actually, you get to uncover some of the beliefs, the feelings, the emotions. And what you can do here is, you know, like the story did when it, you know, you reintroduce yourself as the adult, you take that seven-year-old, for example, and you bring them into the present. But this is not a, a.

It's not something you say, okay, I'm, you know, I'm in my thirties and I'm a forties right now, whatever. You have to take your time and actually, honestly, authentically stop and recognize, okay, where is this seven year old right now? What is, is she or he feeling right now? What's going on right now? And you have this dynamic, this dialogue with this person. And this is where a lot of mindfulness comes in. This is where.

And I've studied this just to let you guys know, I've studied this. I've studied this with renowned psychiatrists, psychologists, family therapists, because I'm still, you know, I still have my foot in the continuing education and cutting edge therapy techniques that are really, really effective. And one of them affords this type of approach. And I found it to be very, very effective compared to a lot of the other ones and having, you know, gone through my own journey and trying to heal from past stuff and trying to get over things that I just can't kick.

Or how about even trying to be a good Christian, right? Or not even a Christian, but just being a spiritual person, just being somebody who is good, somebody who wants to live biblically and follow Christ. But you can't because of the conflicts of, you know, you're upset or you're pete off about something and you're like, you know, going off.

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And you're like, and then you turn around and you're like, well, what, where did that come from? How could I have acted that way? And you start to think that you just don't have it in you if it happens enough times. And this I want to say also lends to neuroplasticity. All of those things that you may hear about talking to your inner child and journaling and all those things. It's neuroplasticity. Our prayer, I believe is neuroplasticity. The Bible, I feel like if you really think about it, it's a Bible. The Bible is really a beautiful story about a family.

right? The love of a father. Our mindset, it's about mindset. And the beautiful part about it is that this neuroplasticity is a gift that our brain can create new neurons, new experiences, and lessen some of the ones that are detrimental to us, especially the ones that have come from bad experiences in our past. So I want to say coming back to forgiveness and healing, healing is possible based on what healing is possible.

And people will talk about generational wounds, societal wounds, things that come from our family that we just can't quite kick and things like that. But I want to say it is possible and that this healing process of taking the time to use mindfulness, to go into your past and not reliving the experiences. Nothing comes of that. Let me just preface that. You're not reliving experiences. What you're doing is you're being mindful.

of these different parts of you. And it's a beautiful evolution when you can tap into times and feelings and things like that. And there's a whole, it's a whole process to it. And I would recommend a book called No Bad Parts by Richard Schwartz. He's a pioneer in this approach. There's also other modalities like EDMR, which is really great in healing, in healing trauma, because it goes into the brain and it helps lessen some of the severity of these.

experiences that we may have in our lives. And one of the things I want to say about forgiveness as well is that the blanket statements that you hear a lot, especially in churches, religious leaders, that blanketly says, just forgive, just forget about it. If it were that easy, we would all do it, right? But it's not. And if we haven't gotten to a place of wholeness, then it will be very, very hard to truly, truly forgive. Where you can truly see the other person for who they are, you can start to relate to them.

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in a whole different way, in a much more open way, in a much more evolved way, in a higher place when you look at them. You can even see their hurt parts as a result, because now you're clear. Now you're not looking from the victim or the one that sustained the behavior or the action from them. It reclaims your power in the present. And it allows God to really use you in a better way, to fill the spaces.

of the pain, right? This is the healing process. It does make space. It takes that person out of taking up so much energy and area in your mind and in your being and where pain once lived. Now God can come in and flow in your life. Now you can have a lot more of the things that you do want, the qualities that you do want. So I think that's probably one of the things that I recently learned and that made a lot of sense to me was that

Healing has to come first. So this message or this story reminds me of Matthew 5, 9. Blessed are the peacemakers for they will be called children of God. Forgiveness is not about forgetting. That's another point. It's not about necessarily forgetting. I don't think that you want to forget. It doesn't serve you to forget. I said it. doesn't serve you to forget because

You're honoring that part of you that went through that experience and you develop a love. Like at the other end of healing, you come to a place of peace, a place that should feel a whole lot better. A place, either peace, either strength, either courage, whatever the outcome is for you on the other side of that healing, whatever you're bringing in as a result of that, you know, getting over what happened. You want to hold that. You want to keep that. You want to become to.

integrate that into who you are. You want it to make sense. You want it to not be a part of your brain that you shut off. You want to be a whole person because while we have suffered bad experiences and we don't forgive, it's almost as if you are cutting off some good parts as well, as well as that experience. But there are parts of you that have to be cut off. That's because if you think about going through certain situations and especially as a little kid, you start to think to yourself, well,

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If they're going to yell at me like that, if they're going to treat me like that, I'm never talking to them. I'm never getting close to anybody. I'm never going to, you know, connect. You end up being a person who is very guarded in your relationships. And what does that do? That's not only stunts your ability to connect with others, but it also takes away your free loving characteristic, your, your openness, your jovialness, whatever is attached to connecting with others for you, you've cut off from that. And it doesn't do you any service. It's, it's, it's a total disservice to, to yourself. And that's why I feel like.

that self-love, that going in and loving yourself is definitely worth it. a lot of it, and I don't think that God wants us to not come to a place of healing. I believe that God does want us to communicate with him, take our hearts to him, be open to him. Prayer is a really great place in order to do that, right? You can open up yourself and you can talk about these things because it's not a secret.

your emotions, your feelings, the raw humanity, the human things that you feel, it's not a secret to him. The experience is not a secret to him. The emotions, the hurt, the pain, the vulnerability is not a secret. But I think that prayer gives us a framework, a structure, a place, a covering that makes it safe because you know that God being from a higher power who is loving and good intention towards you will allow

that space, that safe space for you to explore. So trusting him to transform our hearts through that process is also very important as well. That trust is something difficult to have. For a long time, it was like, well, if I can't trust other people, sometimes we can't even trust ourselves. Because if we ourselves, especially if we're little, we didn't.

wasn't there for ourselves. And that's going a little bit deep because it's just sometimes it's difficult to trust God blindly when your trust has been violated or broken. And that trust can be reestablished. It is difficult to trust God when our own trust from a vulnerable place has been violated. And I believe that the violation is mostly from ourselves violating who we are, not violating who we are, but violating the reliance on

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Ourself, especially if we lost trust in people that who were supposed to be there for us, but also losing trust in ourselves being able to be present or to stay whole and integrated and to be in touch with our soul our spirit and there is a There is a splitting that happens when we experience trauma as a little as a little child and that that

the separation from your spirit, your heart, and your body becomes even more distant. And that in itself also feels very saddening as well. And so that's when trusting God becomes a little bit more difficult. taking a look at the parts that have been hurt, taking a deep dive into where we're stuck.

bringing it to prayer, to writing, to expression, to surrendering it. It is worth it because the other end of it is not pain, but with a little guidance, with good wisdom and understanding, you can come away with it with something beautiful as you release it. And again, I have to bring up this, this, I can't help but to think of this neuroplasticity because

You can tell yourself a different story. can revisit a bad experience and say, what should I've done? You redo it in your imagination. You redo it in your mind. But you can't, this is not something that you can force onto yourself. You can't do that. You have to meet yourself right where you are. You have to meet yourself right where you are. So if this part of you that has been stuck there is angry, angry, angry, you just have to be right there in that anger and understand that anger. Look at that anger and say, I'm here for you. And I know you're angry and I thank you. If that part of you,

has been doing things like numbing, drinking in order to not feel pain. You have to actually be grateful for that because it's not only, you know, we tend to look at it as, it's a bad thing, but it really is a way to protect yourself, right? It's a way to not feel the pain. And so we have to stop demonizing the way we respond to bad experiences in this world because it's just our psyche doing what it does, survival. And...

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again, with the right structure, guidance, and understanding, we can reverse that and help that by really giving those aspects of us what it really needs, which is love and connection. When we're able to use our spirit to connect that spirit side of us, the whole side of us, which was not hurt, we can use that part of us to connect with these hurt parts. The spirit of us, which is connected to God,

we begin to feel closer to God. So going back to forgiveness, I just want to say that it's a process and that with God there with you walking alongside your spirit, the trusting him to transform our hearts, not only in our relationships, but also within ourselves. Healing and forgiveness are healing and forgiveness.

are intertwined. strengthens the other. So as you carry this message into your week or weekend, I want to leave you with a question. Is there a relationship in your life that's calling for forgiveness? Are you willing to work backwards and find out ways to heal and care for yourself and acknowledge yourself and allow love and to connect with that aspect of you to start heal and so you can begin to feel forgiveness? And how might God be inviting you to bring peace into that space?

Even if it's just within your own heart. Thank you for spending this time with me today. If this story resonated with you, don't keep it to yourself. Subscribe to the podcast, share it with someone who might need it and leave a review to help people find this. Finally, as always look up in out and around seeking God's guidance, embracing his healing and shining his light into the world until next time. is Faith and Flow, flowing in faith, creating the perfect.