Uncomfortable Truths - When your baby hurts

If you want to wake up, to assume yourself, a child forces you. In the gentlest way possible. An obligation that you can enjoy or let it nibble on you. It forces you to make order, to make peace, to reconcile and to forgive.

You look at the piece of human being with eyes like lanterns, ready to illuminate anything unknown. His curiosity jumps, hops, growls, trots and presses all the keys of your discordant piano.

Yes, if your kid’s giddiness hurts, your piano is out of tune. You feel like screaming, you press, you hurt too. Do this to him too. Pay him with the same currency. Shame on him, isn't it? Shame on him for obsessively pressing the same old keys. It's going crazy and it hurts. Your baby hurts.

A traumatized, unloved, injured child with unhealed wounds (the 'invisible child', the one in you) comes into conflict with your own child. The inner child carries a heavy baggage of patterns, rules and restrictions. Like a malignant tumor that spreads throughout his life as an old child turned young parent. When your own child becomes, even for a very short time, one of your sources of agitation, nervousness and frustration, that is the cause. In your luggage.

If you choose to anoint the flaps, wipe the dust, take him by the hand on this journey without forcing him to contain you with all your blisters and wounds, well, that may mean you woke up too. And it's your chance, no matter how selfish and opportunistic it sounds. It's your chance to become a conscious parent.

Let your child live outside of your wounds. Let him increase, decrease, tear, break the mirror that you put in front of him.

You, that undermined, dominated, humiliated, powerless and cornered child. Dressed in the heavy, stinking coat of inherited patterns and programs. If you don't clean, you perpetuate a plague and spread it, letting your child drag a piece of luggage that is not his. A piece of luggage that you often look at with the judge's hammer in your hand, without realizing that you are witnessing your own judgment.

A piece of luggage that your child does not know but that sticks to his hand and consumes him, although he may tacitly refuse through rebellion.

Wake up! Your child is not you. You just hold between your fingers a fine pen, a feather, in fact, with which you can calligraph live words that he may contain: to be!

Let him be! Free him from the burden of your heavy luggage!