There are days when I feel that healing does not happen only when I look back. It is true that we need to embrace the child we once were, give voice to what was lived in silence, and look at old wounds with more love. But perhaps there is another dimension of healing. Perhaps our future self is also calling us. Perhaps some intuitions, restlessness, and signs are echoes of a more whole version of ourselves, trying to remind us of the way. The version from the past carries the pain. The version in the present carries the choice. The version from the future carries the calling. And often, these versions do not speak to one another. The child says: “It is not safe to change.” The woman of today says: “I understand now, but I still cannot sustain it.” The future version whispers: “I am here. I only need you to take one step in my direction.” Creating a compassionate bridge between all of them means no longer using awareness as a form of pressure. It means no longer expecting the child to understand what only the adult can comprehend. It means no longer calling the woman of today weak simply because she still returns to what is familiar. It means no longer turning the future into a demand. The bridge begins when we say to the child: “I see you. I will not abandon you in order to grow.” It continues when we say to the woman of today: “You do not need to change everything at once. A small step is also collaboration.” And it becomes stronger when we say to the future version: “I heard your calling. I am still afraid, but I no longer want to use fear as my home.” Perhaps healing is this: honouring the past without remaining trapped in it; embracing the present without condemning it; listening to the future without turning the calling into a burden. Because healing is not a war between the versions of ourselves. It is when they finally sit at the same table and ask: “What step honours our pain, respects our rhythm, and still brings us closer to the truth?” The bridge is not built with grand promises, but with small gestures of love. A boundary respected. A truth spoken. A page written. A fear crossed without violence. A yes given to the soul. A no given to self-abandonment. Perhaps our future self does not need us to be perfect. Perhaps she only needs us to stop betraying the woman we are becoming.

Sometimes, we become managers of other people’s emotions. We measure our words. We swallow our desires. We postpone decisions. We say “yes” when the soul wanted to say “no.” All so we do not disappoint. So we do not make someone sad. So we do not hurt anyone. So we do not let anyone down. And without realizing it, some adults become the center of our lives. Everything starts revolving around what they will feel. Their reaction. Their approval. Their expectations. But while we protect other people’s emotions so carefully, we leave our own abandoned. We avoid another person’s sadness, but become sad inside. We avoid their disappointment, but end up disappointed in ourselves. We make sure no one feels rejected, while rejecting our own truth. And no one sees it. No one sees how many times we silence ourselves. How many times we make ourselves smaller. How many times we betray ourselves just to keep the peace. But loving someone does not mean preventing them from feeling. Sometimes, love also means allowing the other person to feel disappointed. Allowing them to be sad. Allowing them to process. Allowing them to grow. Because when we protect adults from all their emotions, we turn them into eternal children who are not allowed to cry. And we end up carrying pain that was never ours to carry. Maybe freedom begins when we understand that we are not responsible for controlling everyone’s emotions. We are responsible for acting with truth, respect, and awareness. But we are also responsible for not abandoning ourselves. Because I exist too. I feel too. I need care too. And maybe growing up is this: giving adults back the responsibility for their own emotions, and finally returning to our own.

Sometimes, a person’s wings are not cut by enemies. They are cut by those who love them, by those who want to protect them, by those who believe they are being prudent. And maybe that is why it hurts so much. Because it does not arrive as an attack. It arrives as advice. As care. As “I only want what is best for you.” As “I don’t want you to suffer.” As “don’t get your hopes up.” And little by little, the child learns that dreaming makes people uncomfortable. That wanting more is dangerous. That shining may lead to rejection. That, in order to be loved, they may need to make themselves smaller. Until one day, they stop waiting for others to cut their wings and learn to cut them on their own. They silence themselves before speaking. They give up before trying. They hide before showing up. They convince themselves that maybe they never had wings at all. And this is how one of the quietest wounds of adulthood is born: we no longer know how to distinguish prudence from inherited fear. Many families taught survival, not expansion. Many fathers did not teach their children how to fly because they were never allowed to fly either. Many mothers did not encourage their children to shine because they, too, were taught to dim their own light. But there comes a moment when the soul begins to reclaim its wings. And maybe healing begins when we realize that not every voice inside us truly belongs to us. Because growing up also means this: to stop asking for emotional permission to exist in our fullness. Maybe many wings were cut with love. But healing begins when we realize that love can also be relearned. What part of you is still living as if it needs to stay small in order to remain loved?

Many times, we stop following what our soul truly wants because we feel afraid. But maybe fear is not always assessing the real risk. Maybe it is simply repeating an old pain. In risk management, we look at probability and impact. What if we did the same with our fears? Because sometimes the probability of something happening still exists. People may criticize us. We may fail. We may not be understood. But is the impact still the same? The wounded child within us may experience criticism as destruction. But the conscious adult can look at it and say: “It may hurt, but it does not define me.” “It may require adjustments, but it does not erase me.” “It may touch a wound, but it no longer gets to decide my worth.” Sometimes, the risk does not disappear. But our capacity to deal with it has changed. And maybe this is what we need to update within ourselves: to show the wounded child that today, there is already an adult present. An adult who can assess. Choose. Protect. Begin again. Respond. And continue. Fear can alert us. But it does not need to govern us. Because not every fear is material. Sometimes, it is just an old memory trying to stop a new life. Who within you has been assessing the risk: your wounded child or your conscious adult?

Many times, we speak of boundaries as if they were fences meant to keep others from crossing. But we often forget a deeper truth: how many times are we the first to cross our own fence? When we say, “I can’t take on any more,” but still say yes. When our body asks for rest, but we keep pushing through. When something hurts us, but we stay so we don’t disappoint anyone. When our soul asks for distance, but we keep negotiating our peace. Setting boundaries is not only about saying “no” to others. It is about learning not to abandon ourselves after that “no.” Because a boundary can only protect us when we respect it too. And perhaps true maturity is this: to stop crossing our own fence just to fit into places where we no longer belong. What is the fence you also need to respect?