My life so far has been a powerful and moving story—one not widely known. For years, I struggled to find a way to set it free. This poem was born from that journey, inspired by the idea of transforming “the hole of me” into “the whole of me,” a concept I embraced after taking a course on adolescence and maturing with Dr. Gordon Neufeld. Following Dr. Neufeld’s work has given me permission to shed my tears—of which I’ve always had many—and, in doing so, to find peace. This acceptance allowed me to genuinely grow, learning to sit alongside my pain rather than be overwhelmed by it.
I wrote this poem to be both poignant and hopeful. It weaves together my experiences and emotions, building through the chapters of my life and culminating in self-acceptance. I hope you find something in it that resonates with your own journey.
The Hole of Me
Surrounds me, doesn’t let me be free
Of
The echo of footsteps that never quite reach
The hush of a mother’s love, conditional, sharp—
A lesson in masks, in smiling for peace,
In dancing for praise, in shrinking for calm.
A father’s warmth, too fragile to hold
The storms I bottled behind my teeth.
I learned to chase gold stars,
To gather them like armor,
To believe I was only as bright
As the next shining grade,
That I repeatedly failed.
Love was a riddle, a language I stuttered—
Awkward, unchosen, always the joke.
When hands bled on glass,
I swallowed the pain,
Sat exams with trembling fingers,
My wounds invisible,
My silence a badge
Love found me in broken places—
Fevered, desperate,
A mirror of my own unhealed ache.
I married a ghost,
Carried his secrets,
Shouldered the weight of his ending,
Stood at the edge of grief
And did not fall.
I ran from the ruins,
Built new walls at university,
Let hope in through cracks—
But the past is a shadow
That clings to your heels.
In therapy, I learned to speak
The language of my own heart.
But still, I stormed out,
A frightened child in grown skin,
Afraid to be left,
Afraid to be seen.
Loss found me again—
My father’s heart stilled,
My friend’s light dimmed.
I became mother to three,
A constellation of tiny hands
Needing more than I had.
Days blurred, nights emptied—
I was surrounded,
Yet lonelier than ever.
I deleted the world,
Let silence settle.
I wept rivers—
Each tear a letting go,
Each sob a seed.
And in that quiet,
I met myself—
Not the hole,
But the whole.
Not the missing,
But the mending.
Now, at forty,
I gather all my scattered pieces—
The lonely, the angry,
The hopeful, the tired—
And hold them close.
I am not what I’ve lost.
I am not what I chase.
I am the sum of all my spaces,
And the fullness that remains.
The hole of me
Is the whole of me—
And at last,
I am free.
Gentle Parent 