What's Inside That Wall?

Meeting the little girl who learned to build walls.

Whenever I sit down to write, a familiar fog settles over me. Ideas are plentiful, yet the moment I reach for them, a quiet voice insists I have nothing worth saying.

For years, I believed my struggle with creativity came from a lack of talent or knowledge. Lately, I've begun to wonder if something else is standing in the way.

Perhaps what blocks creativity isn't a lack of ability at all. Perhaps it's an old story about our worth.

As I sit in my rocking chair, memories drift through my mind. Nearby rests an old black-and-white photograph of a little girl I once knew.

She is about 4 years old, smiling. Proudly in her cowboy boots and holding a cane fishing pole almost as tall as she is.  

When I look at her now, I don’t see the wall she would spend years living within. I simply see a little girl. Confident. Loved.

My grandfather took the picture after one of our fishing trips together. He enjoyed spending time with me, not out of obligation, but because he genuinely wanted to.

Others did not.

The chair rocks gently beneath me and for a moment I just stay with that memory, that delightful girl in the photograph, before I let myself remember what came next.

My parents were teenagers. I remember the sound of their voices rising in anger. My mother pleading. My father gathering my baby sister into his arms and threatening to leave.

I stood frozen in the doorway.

I wasn't afraid of where he might take her. I was afraid he wouldn't take me.

I remember silently begging him to notice me. To choose me. To carry me too.

Instead, he turned and walked away holding my sister. He never looked back. He never even noticed me standing there.

A child doesn't have the words for moments like that, but she still draws conclusions.

Somewhere deep inside, I began believing I was invisible. Unwanted. Forgettable.

Years passed.

Now, whenever I reach for something creative, that little girl quietly returns. The child who learned that being unseen was safer than risking disappointment. The child who learned not to expect to be chosen.

Perhaps this is part of what built That Wall.

Not a lack of talent. Not a lack of ideas. Just an old wound still whispering its story.

As my rocking chair continues its steady rhythm, I find myself wondering:

If That Wall was built one experience at a time, could it also come down one step at a time?

Maybe creativity isn't about finding something new to say.

Maybe it's about gently releasing the spirit of that little girl so she no longer has to hide.