The Girl in the Corridor

 

There is one picture from my childhood that has stayed with me for decades.

I was about five years old. I had just come out of the shower when my mother became angry with me. I don't remember what I had done, or whether I even understood what she thought I had done wrong. I only remember running out of our small flat before I had time to dry myself or put on my clothes.

She came after me holding a cane, shouting and scolding as I ran into the common corridor.

The neighbours began to come out of their homes. Adults watched. Children watched. Some looked at me with pity, while others laughed.

I curled myself against the metal grille, frightened of the cane and painfully aware that everyone could see me. At five years old, I did not have the words for humiliation. I only knew that I wanted to disappear.

For a long time, I thought what stayed with me from that day was fear. Looking back now, I think it was something deeper.

It was shame.

Somewhere along the way, I also began to believe that if my mother was that angry with me, there must have been something wrong with me. I was a child who tried hard not to make mistakes, yet I often felt as though I was somehow the cause of the anger around me.

That belief followed me much further into life than the fear of the cane ever did.

For years, when I remembered that little girl in the corridor, I saw her through the same eyes she had learned to see herself with. She must have done something wrong. She must have caused the trouble. She must not have been good enough.

I don't see her that way anymore.

Today, when that memory returns, I see a frightened little girl who did not understand why the person she depended on was so angry with her. I see a child trying her best to stay out of trouble, while carrying blame she was far too young to understand.

The memory itself has not disappeared. I can still see the corridor, the neighbours and that little girl pressed against the grille.

What has changed is the way I look at her.

Over time, as I have come to know God, I have slowly begun to see her with more kindness. Not as the child who caused the anger, but simply as a child who needed to feel safe and loved.

Perhaps healing does not always mean forgetting what happened.

Sometimes the memory stays exactly where it has always been, while God quietly changes the eyes through which we see it.