There are no words adequate enough to describe the death of a real-life ever after. Loss so big you don’t even know who you are as a person anymore. To be confidently coasting and cruising for decades and suddenly finding yourself whiplashed by a reality one’s soul is unapt to compute. When one’s idea of future becomes much more short-term, forcefully, with a focus too laser-sharp to dream. Life became instant darkness with the flip of a switch. The harshest of lessons in boundaries and self-love.

All bravery is owed to the little girl you see in the picture. I dug deep to find her. Together, we marched our little light right out of shadowed valleys so deep, I had nearly lost sight of who she was: a little girl unapologetically collecting life’s glimmers. She is and always will be my carefreeness and my fight, my hope and wonder, my integrity and altruism, my old soul and my instincts. My echoing laughter and a boatload of grace. She is the root of all the women I have been and the motivation behind becoming the friend to myself she had taught me to be to others. Together, we walked through fires we didn’t set, collected shiny pieces of glass we didn’t break, and helped flowers grow in dirt we did not throw. In the chaos, she remained my alchemy, a disco ball of a girl. A phoenix from the ashes. Same old little JuJu, yet a new woman in the making.

It is quite fascinating, our relationship to our inner child. It is who we are. What shapes us, in essence, is what we remember most, how we speak about our childhood, and the things we don’t talk about at all. What we loved in childhood stays with us for a lifetime but so does the heavy stuff. To equally celebrate and heal, nurture and give grace is easier said than done. The concept of our inner child is the bridge that gaps our past and present, and how elaborately we have managed to build it, I think, depends on our ability to revisit and repair the cracks or accentuate and embellish solid parts. And bridge building is constant maintenance with a box full of useful tools, hopefully. The goal is to grow, yet never to grow up.

This post is not meant to be heavy. It is meant to be hopeful, an apology to myself. A celebration of resilience and an homage to self-forgiveness and integrity. The title itself is a chain of encouraging, playful metaphors and nicknames given to me over the course of the last year. It is written in the solid calm after the storm, with a careful hint of soothing pride. Eyes closed, small smile, and face towards the sun. Eyes on the horizon, taking road blocks in stride. There simply is no other way. I might be left with a giant, patched up crack on the heart, but there are no regrets. Neither staying true to oneself nor having lived and shared love is a regrettable thing. It’s an act of bravery, a force to be reckoned with, and a privilege.

May we never forget what the carefree giggle of our childhood sounds like. May we always grab it by the hand when we need it most. And may be never stop daring. Time to live and giggle again, sweet girl.