What Ever Happened to The Exiled Parts We Left Behind

Have you ever wondered where some of the dormant part of you went to— like the parts of you that originally were the most vibrant, curious, sensual, creative, fun loving qualities. The parts of you as a child that were maybe too bright, too loud, too playful, too sensitive, too artistic, too loving, too fun, too dangerous, too full of life or wonder, too silly or too wild — for your families, schools, culture, society or environment.

The revolation of midlife is that we naturally begin to feel this overwhelming systematic fatigue and pressure to no longer hold the basement door shut. We have this feeling of unsealing the vault that lifts the vail off our youthful armor— that once served as protection to the inherently healthy, beautiful qualities that were forced into the shadows. MIDlife wants to release or reclaim what was lost or hidden away, because it’s finally safe for those exiled parts to return home. Our soul is asking for its wholeness and fullness again..

The Pieces We Left behind

These are the dormant pieces of ourselves that are the natural healthy playful, happy-go-lucky parts we had to learn to silence, suppress, abandon, or tuck away because they didn't seem to fit the role we needed to play in order to survive. They can be emotions we weren't allowed to express, needs we learned not to have, questions we learned not to ask, desires we learned to dismiss, or qualities of ourselves that felt too much, too loud, too sensitive, too needy, too curious, too vulnerable, or simply too inconvenient.

Sometimes we abandon parts of ourselves because someone else made it clear they weren’t welcome—or because we learned that certain parts of us create conflict, disappointment, rejection, or instability within the construct of our environment. And sometimes, we do it ourselves without even realizing we're doing it.

We adapt and become who we need to become. We learn what gets us through the day. We become strong. Independent. Helpful. Quiet. Accommodating. Funny. Responsible. Successful. Whatever the prescribed role requires of us to be. And the parts of us that don't fit that role get pushed down into the cellar of our shadows, because it was easier, safer, or more acceptable to live without it.

However, these abandoned parts don’t just disappear or go away. They become buried, quiet, mutate or act out and some, some of those beautiful parts of us just wait. That’s why years later when we enter into midlife, some of those abandoned parts begin to feel that it’s now safe to come out and play —so they start knocking on the door for their freedom.

My Own Abandoned Parts

I began thinking back to all the roles I had been unknowingly prescribed growing up. They were the threads of armor I learned to wear to navigate my home life, my environment, and my culture —all to survive what I didn't yet have the capacity or language to understand. Somewhere along the way, those roles demanded a trade-off.

To stay soul safe, I had to leave behind the wild, free-spirited child who belonged outside climbing the backyard trees, playing with friends, exploring the woods and daydreaming of magical far away things and places. I traded her in for a more timid, supposed to be obedient good girl— who learned how to dim her light that was too bright for the living room and blend into the background whenever attention felt too dangerous.

Now, in this season of my own midlife reclamation, I find myself looking back at the edge of those woods, wondering about the pieces of her I abandoned and left behind. Where does the part of us go when they are forced to disappear? The one who wanted to be loved and adored without consequence, who needed to scream when it hurt, or who secretly dreamed of the other, more magical place she knew she was truly from?

Perhaps the deeper question that has been sitting with me lately is: How much of what we have spent a lifetime calling “growth” was actually just a beautifully managed surrender?

The Strange Places They Return

The interesting thing about the pieces of ourselves we left behind is that sometimes, they find a way back to us. They show up in the most unexpected corners of our life. In a song you haven't heard in twenty years that suddenly stops you in your tracks. In a dream you can't quite shake the next morning. In a memory that surfaces while you're driving, making you wonder why you haven't thought about it in decades.

They appear in a sudden desire to paint, dance, write, ride a motorcycle, travel, sing, change your hair, or wear something you've always wanted to wear—to do something that makes absolutely no sense to the practical version of you you've become. They show up as an inexplicable longing. A sudden fascination. A feeling of recognition when you look at an old photograph.

Sometimes they appear when you're doing something completely mundane. I have a habit of disappearing into my thoughts while I'm blow-drying my hair. I can become so absorbed in whatever is happening inside my mind that my husband will eventually look at me and say, “Hello, earth to Marcie” and I'll realize I've been standing there with the hairdryer running, being somewhere else entirely.

I've always considered myself just a daydreamer. But lately, I've wondered if perhaps some of those wandering moments are more than simply a mind looking for somewhere to go. Maybe when the outside world gets quiet enough, something inside us gets a little louder. Maybe a part of us that has spent years being responsible, productive, appropriate, or simply busy finally gets a few uninterrupted minutes to wander around. And maybe that's when they finds us.

I've also begun thinking about the people who somehow make those hidden parts easier to access. My husband has a remarkable way of bringing certain pieces of me fully forward—simply because he recognizes her. Every now and then, he'll take a photograph of me and somehow capture something I know immediately. Her. Not the woman posing. Not the woman performing. Not the woman trying to get the picture right. Something freer. Something playful. Something that feels completely and unmistakably mine, that I learned to hide. When I see those photographs, I have the strange experience of recognizing someone I never really lost and if i’m honest, I long for.

What If Their Waiting

Maybe that is part of the mystery of reclamation. Perhaps the forgotten pieces of us aren't always buried as deeply as we think. Perhaps they're simply waiting for the right song. The right person. The right memory. The right season. The right amount of quiet. Or perhaps, after years of being told to move forward, we finally become curious enough to open the door and see who is still standing there.

Sometimes what we find isn't always a wounded version of ourselves waiting to be rescued. Sometimes it's a happy, healthy, vibrant part of us that has been waiting to be invited back into our room. And maybe that's why their return can feel so strangely familiar. Because perhaps we aren't meeting them for the first time— yet finially liberating them from exile.