My inner child has reviewed the recent charges and would like to speak to whoever is in charge of refunds. She has been billed for a guided journal, a seven-part course called Return to Yourself, and a workbook that promises to locate the original wound with the confidence of a parcel-tracking app.
She is, to be fair, difficult to reach. She lives somewhere between a half-remembered school corridor and the feeling you get when someone says “quick question” at 4:58 p.m. The phrase inner child can be a useful way to talk about old needs and present-day feelings. It becomes less useful when a metaphor arrives wearing a lanyard and pointing at the upgrade button.
Self-discovery used to sound like a journey. Now it often has the tidy architecture of a checkout flow: identify your pattern, name your wound, download the worksheet, and discover that the worksheet is only the beginning. There is always another layer, another archetype, another premium container in which to meet the self you were apparently failing to meet correctly.
There is nothing foolish about wanting a name for a feeling, or wanting support while life is being life. People looking for help are not the joke. The joke is a marketplace that can take an ordinary human tangle, call it a personal brand opportunity, and return it with a recurring monthly fee.
My inner child has now requested an itemised receipt. She would also like to know whether “being enough as you are” is included in the basic plan, or whether that unlocks after the masterclass.
People seeking help are never the punchline.
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