Just before we walk into the room Mom sees the business card of another therapist sharing the office. There’s a quick intake of breath. Janice. Mom worked for Janice’s husband for 15 years. “What will people think?” Oh fuck here we go…

I’m an empath* by nature and nurture.

As a baby I quickly learned how to pick up on other people’s feelings to keep me safe. Empathy is my radar of choice. Today I’m here to share the story of what happened growing up. I called Dad and invited him to the session. He refused “I can’t be there for you!” Good to know.

I drive 90 miles to my Mom’s therapist of choice. Knots in my stomach, hands shaking I begin reading the ten pages I’ve carefully typed out after Mom asked to hear my story. She’s determined to negate and say it didn’t happen.

The initiations of sexual abuse at three- of having a pillow held over my face brings a dear death experience where my soul flies off as I crossed over to sit with Jesus and Aunt Grace until it was over. Feeling my pain and the panic of my abuser. Stuffing the abuse down then to be loved collaborating with Mom’s  postpartum depression rage creates a wild child that threw fits. I simply would not behave. Angry child. Brat.

Truth showing up and pouring out of me as my little daughter grows up. I’ve connected my dots. Angry child. Brat.

Getting my mouth washed out with soap, feeling the rub of ivory across my teeth. The after burn of picking out soap bits mingled with tears for truth telling- a lot to bear at age three.

Good little girls don’t get angry. Anger means getting spanked, shamed and rejected. I’ll be nice.

What 3-year old pulls down on the refrigerator handle, opens the door, again and again. Turning orange from her first binge on carrots at age three. Me. Trying to fill up the big black hole that follows me around.

Mom thinks her orange kid is a funny story to tell. No one cares to connect the dots. Now the Family says I am crazy; I’m making it all up. I’m shunned by my Beloveds- sisters, cousins, aunts and uncles. Nothing happened. It’s the therapists fault. My SOUL mission: protect my dear sweet baby girl. Being a good mama means not passing on this legacy of shame.

Battling through the crap… my abusers hypnotic mantra “Good girls don’t tell. Good girls don’t tell.”

Telling will kill your mother. Breaking through the wall of silence is the hardest thing.

Good girls do tell. Mom you died to me a long time ago. Looking up over my journal I can feel Mom energetically collapsing. Deena, her therapist asks, “Barbara do you hear what Michele is saying?”

Mom looks far off. Lost, not hearing, not seeing and not feeling. She created a bubble; where nothing touches her and nothing happened. Even with the weight of my words Mom’s strong will and determination keeps her safe.

It’s over. Done.

Why talk about it.

Never happened. No way to go back to right the wrongs; the unspeakable things that were done.

There is only one way and that’s through…

The Snow Queen, who is my real mother shows up, snaps back into place, then looks at Deena “I don’t want her to tell ANYONE that story.”

Can Deena see the steely cold hardness my mother reserves just for me? I know what I know. Strength pours into me, my shaking stops, my soft whisper voice moves to a strong clear bell sound  “You want me to talk in a whisper, to keep quiet and I won’t keep quiet anymore!”

Bam! we’re through. Mom walks out leaving Deena and I behind.

Wait come back, let’s heal. Not going to happen.
Afterwards the Snow Queen calls my sisters telling them “I failed therapy.”

Stunned I sit there in the awkwardness of it all. Thank you Deena.

I write the check. Turning to leave, hand on the doorknob Deena, a co-conspirator, looks me straight in the eye,

“Whatever you’ve done to heal Michele keep doing it!”

Mom and I never talk about this again. Ever.

Don’t tell.

Keep the secrets to yourself.

Don’t share.

What will people think?

Nothing happened.

You’re crazy.

As a healer….all this crap, all the secrets you hold back because someone told you not to tell kills your spirit

and your business. It stops your creative flow, serving the people you are meant to heal. Stops you from making good money. Money. Power. Sex. To be a healed healer, we must share our stories of transformation. Finding our way out of the dark, into the light.

Keeping quiet serves no one. Dancers of the Dark…

What wrongs are you still carrying around in your body, mind and spirit that aren’t even yours?

WayShower. Transformer. Artist. Healer. Rev. Michele Grace Lessirard, an intuitive life coach, helps you break through resistance, stop spinning in doubt so you can come back into balance, make more money and have a greater impact in the community you serve. A certified Money Breakthrough Method® coach, spiritual healer and counselor Michele Grace helps you move your dream from “woo-woo to “who’s who®” in 90 days with heart-centered business building tools.