Kintsugi of the Soul: The Art of Reconstructing My Fragmented Self

I remember when I was about three or four years old, sitting in a small room adjacent to the patio area of our apartment in Mexico City. It was one of those moments that has lingered in my memory for 55 years, not because of the details, but because of the emotions tied to it.

My mother was in the kitchen, preparing to cook dinner. I was playing quietly, as I often did, trying to stay out of the way. Suddenly, I heard a loud smashing sound and felt cold water splash onto my knees. I looked up to see the clay water container we used for drinking water shattered into pieces across the patio. The familiar sound of my parents’ raised voices filled the air, echoing through the walls. It dawned on me; this was just another fight.

Even at that tender age, I knew the rhythm of these arguments. I remember feeling scared, but more than anything, I felt a deep, simmering anger towards my parents for starting yet another conflict. Growing up, these outbursts were a regular occurrence. They were the background noise of my childhood, the unspoken tension that hung in the air. My parents, who could be the most charming and gracious people in the room in front of others, would inevitably erupt into these explosive fights in the privacy of our home. And every time, I was caught in the middle.

As a child, I learned to hyper-focus on their moods. I became hypervigilant to any signs of anger or upset, scanning the atmosphere for the slightest change. The moment I detected a shift, I would spring into action, trying to mediate, trying to keep the peace. But no matter what I did, it was never enough. I remember one particularly vivid instance when I was about five years old.

My parents were fighting in their bedroom, standing by the side of the bed, yelling at each other. I was in bed with them, and in a moment of desperation, I said, “I’m just going to go to sleep while you guys fight. I don’t care anymore.” I turned my back to them and pulled the blanket over my head. To my surprise, they laughed, and the argument dissipated; at least for that night. But I was just a kid, desperately trying to defuse situations far beyond my control.

Looking back, I realize how often I felt like that shattered clay container, broken into pieces by the impact of their words and actions. Each argument chipped away at my sense of safety, leaving me feeling fragmented and vulnerable. I learned early on to hold those pieces together as best I could, to present a whole and unbothered exterior, while inside I felt as fragile as the shards scattered on the patio floor.

But my sensitivity to these situations didn’t go unnoticed. In Guadalajara, there’s a saying, "Eres Jarrito de Guadalajara," which roughly translates to "You’re like a little clay jar from Guadalajara, easily hurt by anything." My mother often called me that, using it as a way to shame me for being so attuned to my emotions. But the truth is, I wasn’t just sensitive; I was deeply connected to what I was feeling. I hadn’t yet learned to hide my emotions behind layers of sadness, anger, or shame. My mother, perhaps uncomfortable with her own shame and thus intolerant of my openness, found solace in dismissing my emotions, turning my sensitivity into something to be ashamed of.

It has taken me a lifetime to understand that my parents, like so many others, were emotionally immature. They struggled to manage their own emotions, often acting out their impulses without considering the impact on their children. When a child grows up in an environment where their parents’ big feelings repeatedly spill over into their world, it creates a profound lack of emotional safety. I learned to focus on everyone else’s emotions, neglecting my own. I became a master at reading the room, at anticipating needs and defusing tensions, but I lost touch with myself in the process. I spent my life outsourcing my safety, believing that I could only be okay if everyone else was okay.

What does this do to a person?

For me, it has manifested in chronic exhaustion, illness, and fatigue. My body has carried the weight of this toxic stress for years, and it has taken a toll on my mental and physical health. I lived in a constant state of vigilance, always on high alert, always ready to intervene. This chronic stress made me sick; literally.

But there is hope in this story.

As painful as it has been, I am learning to navigate these waters and heal from the wounds of my past. I am learning to deal with my own big feelings, to unlearn the toxic patterns that have shaped my life, and to reparent myself in a way that brings me back to safety. It’s a journey of self-rediscovery, of reclaiming the parts of myself that I lost along the way.

There’s a part of me that wishes my mother had this kind of self-awareness too.

I wish she could embark on her own journey of healing, so that she could break free from the patterns that have kept her stuck. But I also recognize that this may be a lesson she’ll have to come back to learn again in her next lifetime. We each have our own path to walk, and while I can’t change her journey, I can focus on my own healing.

Healing from the impact of those early experiences isn’t easy. It requires confronting the pain and trauma that have been buried for so long. It means acknowledging the impact that our parents’ unresolved issues have had on us, and it requires us to be gentle with ourselves as we navigate the complexities of this process. But I am committed to this journey. I want to live whatever time I have left on this earth feeling grounded and connected to myself. I want to break free from the patterns that have kept me trapped in a cycle of disassociation and stress.

I’m learning to sit with my emotions, to feel them fully, without the need to fix or manage anyone else’s. I’m learning to trust myself, to listen to my own needs, and to honor them. And in doing so, I am slowly rebuilding the sense of safety that I lost so many years ago.

If you, too, are on this journey of healing, know that you are not alone. The path may be difficult, but it is also filled with moments of profound insight and growth. It’s okay to take small steps, to move at your own pace, and to give yourself permission to feel whatever comes up along the way. Healing is not linear; it’s a process that unfolds in its own time. But with each step, we move closer to reclaiming the wholeness that is our birthright.

As I continue to heal, I am finding more peace, more clarity, and more joy in my life. I am learning to be present with myself, to care for my needs, and to create a life that feels true to who I am. And I hope that in sharing my story, you may find some comfort and inspiration on your own journey. We all have the capacity to heal, to grow, and to transform our pain into something beautiful.

It’s a journey worth taking, and I’m grateful to be on it.