Try This Instead…

Sometimes, you just want to be told why you do the things you do, and what to do instead. “Try This Instead” is self-help that doesn’t s*ck — it’s an advice column written by me, Sam Dylan Finch, a neurodivergent writer and lived experience advocate who’s passionate about sharing what I’ve learned.

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Hey Sam, I joined a support group that’s focused on healing the inner child. However, in our very first group, the prompt we were given by the therapist was to locate a happy memory as kids — she called this “the door” we would open to meet our younger selves.

I completely froze because, as a complex trauma survivor, accessing happy memories from childhood feels impossible. I’m not even sure I have any. Does that mean this inner child stuff isn’t for me?

—

First off, I want to celebrate your decision to pursue this kind of healing, especially in a supported setting.

While the idea of inner child work can seem frivolous to some, it’s actually very tender work, especially for those of us who didn’t have the childhood we needed and deserved.

Like you, when I first tried to engage my inner child through therapy, the prompts I was given didn’t resonate with me as a survivor.

A lot of the more typical prompts associated with inner child work can feel far removed from the experience of a child who has only ever known abuse or neglect.

Finding a happy memory, for example, can feel impossible to access when it’s drowned out by pain and fear.

And frankly, it can feel threatening, too, if a part of us still believes that having even momentary happiness as a child invalidates or contradicts our experience of abuse.

You might have tried searching for alternatives online, only to discover one of the other very common suggestions: to find a photo of our younger selves and display it somewhere prominently, speak kind words to them, or include them in a collage or art project.

This sounds nice in theory, but for some of us, this can be a fraught exercise in practice.

I personally don’t have any photos of my younger self because I’m estranged from my parents.

Being asked to find a photo feels like a painful reminder of who had ownership over me, and by extension, still has ownership over much of the “evidence” that I even existed as a child.

I’ve spoken with adoptees and folks who were unhoused who also don’t have access to photos, folks who lost everything in a natural disaster, and transgender people for whom their dysphoria outweighs any potential benefit of engaging with an old photo. The list goes on.

All that to say, I really empathize with feeling alienated by these types of prompts. In some ways, it feels like it assumes something about our past experience that just isn’t true.

When our history is this painful, being asked to search for a glimmer can feel like an outright betrayal of our younger selves and what they endured — and it can serve as a reminder that some folks were born into a kind of privileged existence that we did not get to experience.

And that’s incredibly painful! Whatever feelings emerge alongside that pain are valid, and I hope you’re being gentle with yourself as you process them.

I’m sad that a therapist described this as ‘the door’ rather than one of many doors to meet your inner child.

Even therapists that identify as being “trauma-informed” don’t always realize that the door they’ve offered us as survivors is locked from the inside.

If that door is locked, you don’t need to keep jiggling the handle, hoping that it finally opens for you someday.

It doesn’t mean that inner child work isn’t for you, or that you’ll never get to connect with your younger self.

It also doesn’t mean that there’s something “wrong” with you (with shame being so common for survivors, I had to make sure I mentioned that possibility, just in case it’s coming up for you).

This is a good opportunity to remind anyone who’s reading that if you’re working with a therapist and they’ve given you a tool that isn’t helpful or accessible to you, you can ask for another tool!

I get that it can be hard to self-advocate, especially in a group where everyone else seems to be getting on just fine (and when so many of us are people-pleasers already!).

But you deserve to have a truly empowering and therapeutic experience, and your therapist is responsible for facilitating that (and in all likelihood, wants to know what they can do to support you better!).

With that said, I’m going to offer three other doors that might be worth trying out (ideally with support).

I offer these with the caveat that if those doors don’t want to budge, either? It’s okay to step back and shift to other more accessible forms of healing.

There’s no rush or proper timeline for this work, except that which honors your needs and your process.

I’ll also be sure to explain what we might uncover behind those doors, because inner child work, in my experience, is often not well-explained.

I’m autistic, so the “why” of something needs to be very clear to me, so I’ll be weaving in examples from my own life to help connect the dots (and, ideally, to make opening those doors feel a lot safer!).

So, without further delay, let’s try this instead:

1. Start with shame and retrace your steps.

One of the big objections I have to the prompt of recalling a happy or playful memory is that many survivors of abuse were shamed for things like pleasure, play, and joy.

That means our starting point may not be to try to remember a time when we were happy. Instead, we might need to remember a moment in which we felt shame or embarrassment, and work our way back from there.

This can be really difficult to do, so I recommend either doing this with support, or setting a timer for yourself for just a few minutes at a time, to remind you to take breaks and check in with your body.

In my experience…

Embarrassment is actually the first door that I opened to reconnect with my inner child.

I remembered a time one summer when I was on a swing set as a very young kid, and I was singing to the sun.

When I came back inside for lunch, I was surprised to find my grandfather standing there waiting. He smiled and remarked, “I saw you out there. You have such a pretty voice.”

I remember feeling so… violated.

Not because my grandfather had ever harmed me, but because in that private and serene moment — such a rarity for me as kid — I had no idea that someone had been watching, and that a very sacred moment for me was turned into a performance for someone else.

That wasn’t his intention, but because of the types of trauma I had already experienced, being surveilled was a very triggering thing for me, especially when I was expressing my emotions through something like music.

But before I got completely lost in the swirl, using that moment as further evidence that there was never any joy, I was able to pause and realize that before I was interrupted, I was actually experiencing joy.

In fact, I had just described that moment prior as serene.

It was rare, it was disrupted, it was tinged with pain, but it still happened.

And when I revisited my younger self on that swing set, I realized something that was true about him: He was a curious, creative, kind, and even spiritual child.

He was singing to the sun because he had learned in science class that the sun was what kept the earth warm and every living thing alive. So, he was singing to express his gratitude and awe for the sun.

I blocked out that part initially, too, because as an adult, it felt silly and vulnerable to remember that I was in conversation with the sun, of all things.

But something amazing happened when I was able to disentangle that sense of humiliation and the self-criticism from the serenity that preceded it all: I felt incredible tenderness toward my younger self.

And that small flicker of admiration for him was a big moment for me — for us! — and our healing.

So, try this:

If you can’t locate a happy memory, that’s okay. Instead, consider that the joy you may have felt is being masked by something like shame, self-judgment, or embarrassment.

It may take time to shed those layers (and each layer has something to teach you!), but that’s exactly what healing is about — retracing our steps, and discovering who we are underneath the conditioning that rendered our joy and pleasure shameful, “sinful,” or wrong.

2. Remember what you wished or longed for, especially if it’s ‘cringe.’

I have yet to meet a survivor who didn’t have a “moat” of powerful defense mechanisms surrounding their inner self.

One of the more common defense mechanisms we have as adults is self-criticism and judgment.

It often shows up to direct us, thinking that it can steer us away from the criticism, judgment, and rejection of others by anticipating it first.

A common way this shows up in the context of inner child work — and really, for all of us as adults, not just survivors of abuse — is viewing our younger selves as naive, silly, or even “cringe.”

This can happen so quickly that we often don’t even realize it, but if we can endure the cringe and approach ourselves with gentleness, that “cringe” can actually be another door to meeting our inner child.

I’ll use my own example as a starting place.

In my experience…

I spent a lot of time wishing on stars as a kid. And one thing I wished for over and over again was that I wanted to be a famous musician.

As I got older, though, I became mortified by the fact that I would wish for fame, of all things — something that seemed so self-centered.

So I started to avoid thinking about that wish altogether, and tried to push it out of my mind.

But a couple years ago, when I was writing in my journal, that memory drifted into my mind again. And instead of pushing it out, I thought to ask myself, “Why did I want that so badly?”

I had always been a dancer and musician and, by extension, a performer — and because it was the one context in which praise was a much more likely outcome than punishment, it was rewarding in a tangible way (and is probably where some of my fawning comes from, frankly).

But as I thought about it more, it went much deeper than that.

I could remember listening to Queen on the car radio growing up, and in particular, the song “Somebody to Love” moving me to tears every time I heard it (and it still does to this day!).

Feeling so seen — like someone had reached into my body and touched my tender and pained soul — was such a profound and powerful comfort.

And that’s when I realized, I wanted to be a famous musician like Freddie Mercury, because I wanted to make people feel seen, the same way that song had touched me so deeply when I otherwise felt so alone.

To be clear, wanting to be seen and enjoying performing would have also been a completely valid thing to desire!

Yet, when I was able to set down the armor of self-criticism and judgment, I found so many more layers that helped me feel connected to my younger self.

So, try this:

You might start by contemplating something lower stakes that you longed for as a kid — meaning, if at all possible, something not vividly connected to the trauma you experienced.

It could be something you would have wished upon a star for. If your household had a “Santa,” maybe it’s something you asked Santa for, or just daydreamed about.

As you think about this, allow any self-criticism that may come up to drift by like a cloud or a leaf carried by a stream.

Self-criticism and judgment has been a set of protective armor for most of us, but we can practice setting it down, even for just a moment!

Stay present, looking for the tender truths about why this wish was so meaningful to you, and what is worth treasuring about this child who wished for it.

Could it represent your kindness? Your creativity? Your courage? Your spontaneity? Your delight and appetite for excitement? Your playful spirit and sense of humor? Your desire to connect or lift up others?

3. Recall the big questions that persisted in your mind.

What questions kept you up at night as a child? This could be literal or metaphorical.

What questions fascinated you, delighted you, confused you, or tugged at your heart?

To ensure we’re not going anywhere too activating, I’d avoid questions that outright horrify you or leave you feeling unsafe.

Your question may still be adjacent to your trauma, but we don’t want to go anywhere too intense to start with, so pay close attention to your body for signs that you may be too overwhelmed or starting to check out.

Maybe you were a kid that delighted in dinosaurs, and often wondered how they could all be gone when so many used to walk the earth.

Maybe you were obsessed with history, and insatiably curious how humankind arrived in this place, or troubled by what you learned about how humans have treated one another.

Maybe you had a lot of questions about the solar system, wondering what connects us all with the stars, fascinated by how small we really are.

Or maybe you wondered what your family pet was really thinking, and pondered what they might say if they could speak with you?

In short: What questions left an impression on you?

In my experience…

One question that kept me up at night (literally! I was a kid with pretty wicked insomnia) was a hypothetical that popped into my head at a really young age.

I don’t know where it came from, but I spent a lot of time asking myself: “If I had a microphone or megaphone that every person in the world could hear and understand, what would I want to say?”

It’s an oddly specific question, I know, but when I learned about the existence of war, this question came up a lot.

And my answer was usually something like, “You aren’t alone. And we don’t need to fight each other. There has to be another way.”

Sometimes I would use a tape recorder and practice what I would say over and over again, imagining myself as a radio broadcaster (yes, I am cassette-tapes-old) or as an author, like the self-help tapes that my dad used to listen to.

Of course, you could argue that this was my younger self trying to work through what was happening in our home by externalizing it, and that’s how I wrote it off for a long time as an adult.

But when I revisited that question later on, I realized that there was still something incredibly earnest and real about wanting to reach all of humanity, and reassure them that there were other ways to engage with pain.

And when I was able to set down the part of me that wanted to dismiss that memory, and really engaged with the younger me that was grappling with that question, I felt connected to myself in a way that I hadn’t been in a very long time.

The spirit of “there has to be another way” still gives me chills to think about.

Because how would I know that, as a very young child? Yet I believed it with my whole heart — and I still do — which is why I repeated it night after night when I couldn’t sleep, like a mantra of hope, or maybe even preparation for something to come.

I believed that not only was there another way for my family, I believed there was another world possible for us all.

And how could I not love and empathize with a child who believed in that, against all odds and all evidence?

So, try this:

What questions did you find yourself gravitating toward as a kid?

They could be about the universe, about history, about animals, about music — start with something that fascinated you, or something that you repeatedly returned to, refusing to put it down until you could answer it.

When you ponder that question again, be gentle with the urge to invalidate your younger self’s curiosity. Try to stay open to the beauty inherent in your questioning.

The Big Why: We’re not just looking for your child self — we’re looking for your timeless self.

When I look at these three memories, side by side, I don’t just see my younger self anymore. I see me.

And more specifically, I see the “me” I’ve always been.

The child who was singing his gratitude to the sun went on to become the optimistic, sincere adult who continues turning toward the light, even and especially when life becomes incredibly dark.

The child who wanted to be a famous musician like Freddie Mercury — so that he could help others in pain feel seen and feel less alone — became an adult whose writing actually DOES make people feel seen and less alone (and he turned out to be queer — the universe’s sense of humor is not lost on me here!).

The child who stayed up late at night, imagining a megaphone and a message he wanted to share with the world — that we could transform pain into loving intention — became an adult who went so viral with his message that he reached millions of readers in every single country on the planet.

When I was able to meet my inner child, I didn’t just meet a younger version of me. It was like I met all versions of me.

I’m not saying that inner child work is about connecting the threads of fate (though, sometimes I do wonder…), or finding a silver lining in the abuse and pain you’ve endured (there doesn’t need to be one).

What I am suggesting is that inner child work is one way we can discover the parts of ourselves that are timeless and essential, that remain unchanged in the face of trauma and abuse.

One of my favorite, most cherished art prints that I own is this print by Brit (britchida) that I keep by my bedside that reads, “There is a part of me that was never injured.”

I didn’t always believe that this was true, though.

In fact, I used to recoil at the thought. I used to think (and even said as much!) that there could be no part of me untouched by the trauma (or, as I described it then, mental illness).

But Reconnecting with my younger self helped me uncover the parts of me that have persisted, despite everything.

And in some ways, it feels like that younger self has always been in conversation with my future selves. It really has warped my sense of time in a way I can only describe as spiritual.

The self-trust that I’ve cultivated by reconnecting with younger me has been one of the most profound parts of healing after trauma.

It’s what allows me to continue showing up in the world, even when it’s terrifying, and I’m not sure if I’m “enough” or my words matter.

I know who I am more deeply than ever, because I finally recognize who I’ve always been.

So on days like today, when I wake up with this sense of urgency — that there’s something I need to write — I like to imagine that it’s another future version of me, planting the seeds that maybe I was here to cultivate all along.

Whatever you believe about time and the universe, I already know that someone out there needs these words: There is a gorgeous self within you that cannot be tainted, altered, or destroyed — not even by the people who have harmed you the most.

That essential self is a treasure that is deserving of love, protection, and rediscovery.

And all of the defense mechanisms that pop up when you try to access that self — including that twinge of frustration, pain, mortification, or disappointment, like when you were asked to recall something happy — should not be considered evidence that something is wrong or broken about you.

Because it’s actually the opposite: It’s evidence that every version of you did everything possible to ensure that this essential part of you would survive, completely in tact.

Those walls were built out of love, and when you’re ready, love is what will bring them down.

While I can’t know what door you’re meant to open to meet that essential self again, I can assure you that you’ll find them. This self can’t be truly lost, because it’s always with you — it is you.

Because it’s always been you.

With all of my love,

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_{Photo by Markus Spiske on Unsplash}