“Am I a bad mom?” For women who grew up unseen, that question can echo for a lifetime. In this intimate essay, Leigh William explores how childhood neglect shapes motherhood and shares evidence-based strategies for healing, reclaiming self-compassion, and finding strength in vulnerability.

A decade-old trauma resurfaced today, reminding me that recovery is both fragile and brave.

“It takes as long as it takes. Be gentle on yourself.”

These are the words I’ve lived by over the past decade — a quiet mantra that carried me through illness, healing, and the slow return to the work I love. What follows is the story of how I found my way back — to my body, my calling, and the rhythm that became WAVE.

I wanted this trip to be about new places, about adventure, about the lightness of movement and discovery. A travel journal, filled with café stops and charming streets, salty sea air and sunsets over unfamiliar horizons. But the truth is, we don’t always get to decide what takes up space in our hearts.

Because here I am, standing at an airport gate, unable to shake the image of a young woman leaning into the man beside her, fragile but determined, taking step after step toward something unknown. And here I am, once again, feeling the weight of a battle I fought nearly a decade ago, a battle I have spent years healing from, releasing, making peace with. Yet, no matter how much time passes, some moments pull me right back.

This journey has been a series of reminders—not of where I’m going, but of where I’ve been. And no matter how much I try to keep this journal lighthearted, the truth insists on being written. Because sometimes, travel isn’t just about places. Sometimes, it’s about what we carry with us, even when we think we’ve left it behind.

In the quiet moments of healing, we often rediscover the joy we thought was lost. It’s not about erasing pain but finding peace amidst it. Through compassion, self-love, and intentional living, we can gently guide ourselves from the depths of grief towards the light of joy. By allowing ourselves to feel, to grieve, and to heal, we create the space for joy to return—reminding us that even after the darkest times, beauty and happiness can flourish once again.

She had been running for so long, chasing fleeting moments that promised escape but delivered emptiness. Each thrill pulled her further from herself, spinning her into a chaos she couldn’t control. But one night, at the edge of it all, a quiet voice rose within her, urging her to stop and find her center. Like a dancer mid-pirouette, she fixed her focus on something steady—a glimmer of hope buried deep inside. In that stillness, she chose to face the pain she had been fleeing, stepping onto the path of healing and toward a life built on intention, not escape.

Fear connects us all, a silent companion in our darkest moments. It whispers doubts into the quiet of the night and grips our hearts when we face the unknown. But within this shared struggle lies our shared humanity. By embracing our fears, we uncover the courage to grow, to heal, and to find beauty even in vulnerability.

Through lonely halls of youthful pain,
She danced her steps in hope’s refrain.
Each plié, a whispered plea,
'Let this be my sanctuary.'

As a child, I couldn’t grasp the complexities of trauma or why it settled in my young heart like a heavy fog. I just knew I felt out of place, carrying a sadness that words couldn’t capture. The adults around me, though filled with love, were navigating their own struggles, leaving me to wrestle with emotions I couldn’t name. It wasn’t until years later that I began to see the puzzle of our family more clearly—the way each of us carried pieces of resilience and unspoken pain. Through it all, Mama Jean’s typewriter became my silent confidant, the one place I could pour out my tangled thoughts and begin to make sense of my world.