You're After My Inner Child - Trying to Erase the Boy Who Survived

You're After My Inner Child - Trying Erase the Boy Who Survived

She doesn't see me standing here today. She doesn't see the man who built himself from the ashes of childhood devastation. She's looking right through me, searching for something she thinks she can rewrite, something she believes she can edit out of existence like a mistake in a manuscript that never should have been published.

But she's not after me. She's after him—the little boy who somehow survived what should have destroyed him. She's trying to reach back through decades of healing, through years of painstaking reconstruction, to find that wounded child and erase him completely. She wants to rewrite my origin story where the little boy never survives the childhood trauma, where the pain simply consumes him whole and there's nothing left to grow into this man standing before her.

What she cannot understand, what she refuses to see, is that even as that little boy, I was never truly alone in the darkness. When the world abandoned me, when those who should have protected me became the source of my destruction, Yahuah was there. My faith wasn't something I found as an adult—it was the survival mechanism the little boy clung to when nothing else made sense. In the midst of unspeakable pain, when the night seemed endless and the weight of trauma threatened to crush me completely, that little boy reached out to the Creator and found a hand that wouldn't let go.

The audacity of it leaves me breathless. She thinks she can undo survival. She believes she can reach into the past and snatch away the very thing that made me possible—the resilience of a child who refused to die, who refused to let the darkness win, who somehow found enough light within himself to keep breathing even when every reason to stop existed. But she doesn't understand that the light she's trying to extinguish was never my own to begin with. It was Yahuah's presence in that little boy's life, the divine protection that wrapped around a child the world had discarded, the holy assurance that his life mattered even when everyone around him screamed that he didn't.

I watch her attempts to dismantle my foundation, her subtle and not-so-subtle campaigns to make me question everything I know about myself. She tells me I'm broken, that I'm damaged beyond repair, that the things I survived left me fundamentally flawed. She points to my scars as evidence of my inadequacy, never understanding that these scars are proof of my victory and Yahuah's faithfulness. Each one marks a battle I won with divine help, a moment I chose survival over surrender because Elohim's strength sustained me, a testament to the little boy's incredible courage and the heavenly Father who refused to abandon him.

She doesn't understand that you can't erase survival when it's woven together with divine intervention. You can't go back and change the fact that the boy lived because Yahuah decided his story wasn't finished when the pain began. He's woven into every fiber of my being, present in every choice I make, every boundary I set, every time I choose to heal instead of hurt. His survival isn't a tragedy to be rewritten—it's the foundation of everything good in me, and every breath I take is evidence of a Elohim who keeps His promises to the brokenhearted.

What she fails to grasp is that the little boy who survived didn't just endure—he learned. He learned through prayer what it meant to be held by a Father who wouldn't hurt him. He learned through faith what safety truly felt like when he cried out to Yahuah in the midst of terror. He learned that his worth wasn't determined by how he was treated, but by who his Creator said he was. Every whispered prayer in the darkness, every desperate plea for help that was answered with strength beyond his years, every moment of peace that shouldn't have existed in chaos—these were the building blocks of the man I became.

Every time she tries to chip away at my foundation, she's attacking the wrong thing. She thinks she's finding weaknesses, but she's only discovering the places where Yahuah did His deepest work. She points to where I was broken as a child and calls me still broken, not understanding that these are the places Elohim has rebuilt stronger, where He's done the miraculous work of transforming wounds into testimonies, pain into purpose, brokenness into wholeness. She doesn't see that my very survival is a miracle she cannot explain away.

The truth she can't accept is that the little boy who survived didn't just survive on his own. He was held by hands that never hurt him, carried by love that never failed him, guided by a light that never went out. Long before anyone else stepped in to help, Yahuah was already saving him in a thousand small ways. He found pockets of safety in unsafe places because Elohim opened doors that seemed locked. He created moments of joy in the midst of despair because the Holy Spirit whispered hope when his circumstances screamed hopelessness. He held onto his humanity when everything around him tried to strip it away because his Creator reminded him daily of who he really was. These weren't accidents—they were divine interventions in a child's life, proof that Yahuah sees and protects even the smallest among us.

She wants to write him out of my story because his survival inconveniently proves her wrong about me, about Elohim, about the power of faith in the darkest places. If the little boy survived through prayer and faith, then I'm not the damaged victim she needs me to be. If he made it through the darkness with Yahuah's help, then I'm not broken beyond repair. If he found his way to the light because Elohim led him there, then I'm not hopeless. His very existence undermines her narrative about who I am and what I'm capable of becoming. His survival is a testimony she cannot dispute.

But she can't erase what actually happened. The little boy survived. He survived the unspeakable. He survived the unthinkable. He survived the things that break people and leave them shattered. He survived because Yahuah protected him when no one else would. He survived because prayer became his lifeline when the world tried to cut him loose. He survived because faith gave him a reason to keep breathing when reason told him to stop. And every day that I wake up and choose to live, to love, to heal, to hope—I am living proof of Elohim's faithfulness to that little boy.

She's not going to win this one. She can't rewrite history to fit her preferred narrative. The little boy who survived through prayer and faith is still here, woven into my DNA, present in every breath I take. He's not a ghost to be exorcised or a mistake to be corrected. He's the living testimony of Yahuah's protective love, the walking proof that Elohim never abandons His children, the evidence that faith survives even when everything else is destroyed.

I used to wish someone would have saved him back then. I used to cry for the child who had to save himself. But now I understand—he wasn't saving himself alone. Every prayer he whispered was heard. Every tear he cried was collected. Every moment of despair was met with divine presence. He didn't need saving in the way I thought because Yahuah was already there, holding him together when he was falling apart, loving him when he felt unlovable, carrying him when he couldn't take another step. That's not something that needs to be erased. That's something that needs to be proclaimed.

She can keep trying to reach through time to find that little boy and undo his survival. She can keep telling herself that if she could just rewrite the beginning, the middle and end would make more sense to her. She can keep attacking the foundations of who I am, thinking she's finding weaknesses she can exploit.

But she's fighting a losing battle. You can't erase survival when it's anchored in divine faithfulness. You can't undo the choice a child makes to keep living against all odds when that choice is fueled by faith in a Elohim who never fails. You can't rewrite a story of Yahuah's protection into one of abandonment just because it serves your narrative better.

The little boy survived. And because he did—through prayer, through faith, through Yahuah's relentless love—I'm here. I'm whole. I'm healing. I'm becoming exactly who I was always meant to be, scars and all. And no amount of rewriting can change that truth.

She's after my inner child, but what she doesn't understand is that my inner child isn't vulnerable anymore. He's not the scared, wounded little boy she imagines she can manipulate. He's the survivor who made me possible, the warrior who fought battles no child should have to fight and won through the strength of his Elohim. He's the reason I'm still here, still standing, still choosing to heal, still believing in a Elohim who keeps His promises.

She can't erase him because he's not in my past anymore. He's part of my present, woven into my future. Every time I choose kindness over cruelty, every time I choose truth over comfort, every time I choose healing over hurt—every time I pray and remember that Yahuah was with that little boy when no one else was—I am honoring the child who survived and the Elohim who sustained him. I am becoming the person he needed when he was fighting for his life, and I am living testimony to the faithfulness of a Elohim who never abandons His children.

And that's not something anyone can erase, no matter how hard they try.

My story isn't about what tried to end me.

It's about what couldn't.

The boy survived. The man stands. And the light remains.

Not because I am strong on my own—but because Yahuah decided my story wasn't finished when the pain began.