There’s so much snarky talk about self-help books. I hesitate to write this post because it involves “inner child work,” which has a bad rap. Such a cliché. Truth is, the attention I paid to my own “inner child” (or whatever you want to call it) paid off in a big way: no more burying what I was really thinking and feeling. The delicious power as I began to value my own opinions as least as much as I did others’. The lifting of the heaviness that had dragged me down into a lonely, lightless pit.
I was depressed and didn’t know why, and my therapist suggested a book, “Homecoming: Reclaiming And Championing Your Inner Child” by John Bradshaw. The work I did within its pages hurt like hell, but guided me like a roadmap to the land of miracles and freedom.
All this from one book?
No. But along with therapy, plus my dogged commitment to get to the bottom of things, this book turned on the headlights and started me on my way to what has become another self-help cliché: Finding Myself.
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