I got a new sewing machine. I’m excited, and I’m feeling positive and confident about my forthcoming projects and creative ideas. I have sewn for many years and I have no doubt that I can jump right back in with some skill. But before the machine is even out of the box, I have feelings associated with painful memories.

A lot of healing work is about learning and understanding those who shaped your early years, even if what you learn is completely different than what they wanted you to perceive. Now that I have done a lot of inner child work and reparenting, I can see much more clearly what types of situations and events were highly triggering to my parents and grandparents because of their own unresolved wounds and damage.

The wounded women who taught me to sew were already raw from years of emotional abuse towards each other. One was exacting and precise with impossibly high standards. The other was rebellious and creative with the need for constant approval. Together, they worked out their issues with each other by bonding over bullying me.

When I was 3 years old, they said it was time for me to learn to sew. I sat down at the machine, and they laughed. It wasn’t the kind of laughter most little kids get when they do something adorably clueless. They said, “You’re so stupid. Do you really think we would let you run the machine on your first lesson?” Because I had never seen anyone sew in any other way, I was still confused. I watched while they continued to enjoy and comment on my stupidity. They did a reasonably effective job of teaching me hand sewing with needle and thread, and I began the huge, lopsided stitches of a baby. I made a little purse.

At 8 years old, I sat at the machine for the first time. I received important information and instructions for step by step success, then immediately proceeded to accidentally press the foot pedal. I almost ran the mechanical needle over the finger of my hysteria-prone mother, and the rest of the lesson was beratement, shame, and humiliation. I eventually learned to sew, in the same way I learned everything else, with constant anxiety and fear of criticism.

My family members still insist that this life was normal. Despite their many deflections, denials, and defenses, I now have enough information about myself, my family, and their emotional landscapes and trauma histories. I can see where and how they were triggered and reacting to me out of that. They were filled with fear, self doubt, and pain that kept them from responding to a child’s needs. My role in reparenting is to reassure my inner child that none of this was her fault, and she deserved love when she didn’t receive it.

A huge amount of my healing has been about processing generational pain in situations like this, so that I can continue to enjoy my life. I have done this type of memory and reparenting work on lots of my favorite activities that I want to “take back” for myself, such as dance, photography, and writing. To me, this is a function of active love. I will work on this until love takes over and sets me free to create even more.

Wish me luck! Love is an action verb.

Photo Credit: StitchOfTimeDesigns Etsy