9My Crib

 

I can remember being put in my crib at night.

The room would grow quiet. The lights would go out. The house would settle into its nighttime sounds. I would lie there and try to go to sleep like I was supposed to.

But once I was alone in the dark, things began to change. I would see shapes shifting. Objects seemed to move. Shadows didn’t stay still. The dark was not empty — it was alive. And I didn’t know what was real and what wasn’t. I only knew that I was scared.

The fear would rise quickly in me. It felt big. Bigger than my small body. My heart would pound, and I would scream. I didn’t cry politely. I screamed and cried and screamed and cried.

I was calling for rescue.

And she would come.

My mother would walk into the room, turn on a light, soften the shadows. She would bring me a glass of water. She would tell me everything was okay. She would give me love.

The moment she appeared, the fear would loosen its grip. The shapes would stop moving. The room would feel normal again. Her presence changed everything.

What I learned, without words, was this:

When I am alone, the world is frightening.

When love comes back into the room, I am safe.

I didn’t know what I was seeing. I didn’t know that fear can create movement where there is none. I only knew that I needed someone outside of me to calm the storm inside of me.

Looking back now, I see a little girl who was deeply sensitive. A child whose imagination was vivid. A child who felt things intensely.

But I also see something else.

Even then, in the crib, in the dark, I was searching for reassurance that I was not alone.

That search would stay with me for many years.