On my morning walk, I came upon a statue called The Circle of Love.
Two parents, arms lifted, creating a protective circle. Children laughing, moving freely, safe inside that shelter. Playful. Seen. Held.
It made me smile.
And it stirred a deep, familiar ache.
Because as a child, I did not grow up inside a circle like that.
My parents were deeply wounded people. They did not have the emotional, relational, or nervous-system capacity to offer safety, presence, or attuned care. What they passed on was not love as shelter — it was fear, chaos, neglect, and harm.
This matters to name.
Not to blame.
Not to indict.
But to tell the truth without minimizing it.
People cannot give what they do not have.
They cannot teach what they were never taught.
They cannot model regulation, tenderness, or protection if they themselves never knew it.
That truth doesn’t excuse harm — but it does end the lie that something was wrong with us for needing more.
I carried pieces of that inheritance forward. I did the best I could with what I knew at the time — and there were ways I wish I had known how to do better. That, too, is part of the lineage story.
Healing doesn’t come from pretending the past was loving when it wasn’t.
Healing comes from choosing consciousness where there was none.
Standing before that statue, I realized this:
Love is not a feeling we hope someone gives us.
Love is a practice we learn to embody.
Love is presence.
Love is protection.
Love is play.
Love is repair.
Love is telling the truth without hatred — and choosing to become the safe circle we did not receive.
We may not have been raised inside the circle of love.
But we can stand inside it now.
We can widen it.
We can become it.
And when we do, something ancient softens.
Because love — real love — does not erase the past.
It redeems the future.
