Draw the Circle Wide

Sometimes an ache arrives

without knocking.

A tightness in my chest.

A lump in my throat.

A sudden heat behind my eyes.

And my mind rushes to investigate.

What caused this?

What does this mean?

Who is responsible?

How do I make it stop?

And off I go, following the questions,

searching for answers,

looking for clues.

But sometimes,

right in the middle of the searching,

something quiet appears.

A fresh possibility.

What if this ache in my body

isn't in need of an interrogation?

What if the sensations

I've spent so long trying to escape

are actually the very ones

opening a doorway?

A doorway that leads me within.

A doorway that helps me discover

a deeper part of me that is ready to be remembered.

What if the sensations my mind calls unbearable

—intolerable, even—

were always clearing the path

so that I might turn within

and see the part of me who's been waiting for my hand?

The young one. The little one.

The one who has been with me

since before I was even born.

Maybe these intense sensations and emotions

are not at all what I have believed them to be.

Maybe they are my portals

to something wonderfully deep.

An invitation to meet the part of me

who is ready to be included.

The one whose lenses are innocently narrow,

who can only see a fraction of reality.

The one who learned to be afraid,

the one who learned to feel shame.

Yes, of course.

You, too.

You belong.

There is space for you here,

exactly as you are.

And just like that, the circle widens.

Draw the circle wide.

Draw it wider still.

Let this be our song.

No one stands alone.

~Missy Maiorano, 2026

Those last four lines of my poem are lyrics from a beautiful song that Megan's high school youth choir sang many years ago. The refrain has never left me:

“Draw the circle wide. Draw it wider still. Let this be our song. No one stands alone.”

For so long, I related to those lyrics in terms of drawing the circle wide for those around me. Draw the circle wide for those in pain, those who are lost, and those in need of a friend.

But lately, I've been hearing it as an invitation to make room for every part of myself.

The terrified one. The angry one. The ashamed one. The one who feels rejected. The one who needs reassurance. The one who still believes that everyone must love her in order to be okay.

Last weekend, Life graciously offered me the opportunity to do just that—to make room for the parts of me that feel most physically and emotionally intense.

As you may know, Pete and I went to the beach to celebrate his birthday. We spent Saturday playing with Lacey on the beach, walking to our favorite taco joint, and listening to a Grateful Dead cover band while we made s'mores over an open fire pit. It was the perfect day.

But Saturday night, after a few hours of peaceful sleep, I was jolted awake at 2:30 a.m. by a disorienting panic brought on by a nightmare. In my dream, something awful had happened to Pete, and I was crying out in desperation and grief. In those first few moments after waking, my body shook, and everything ached with fear and hopelessness.

Immediately, my mind began searching for answers. Why did I have that dream? What does it mean? Is this an omen or a foreshadowing of things to come? Is there something I haven't resolved in my subconscious? How can I make sure this dream never comes back?

The room was dark, and Pete was sleeping soundly beside me, blissfully unaware that every fiber of my being was struggling both physically and emotionally. I felt like I was caught in a rip current. My mind was pulling me farther and farther into the stories. There was a strong urge to investigate, to figure out why I'd had such a horrible dream, and to understand what the dream meant about me, my life, and my future.

But right in the middle of that rip current, something peaceful came to me. That still, small voice arrived like a warm, soft blanket. It didn't clear away the intensity of the panic, but it sat quietly beside it and whispered,

“Missy, don't make this about Pete. Stay with yourself.”

I found myself repeating those same two little sentences over and over again.

“Missy, don't make this about Pete. Stay with yourself.”

And somehow, after a minute or so of repeating those two phrases, the rip current set me free.

I found myself turning inward, toward the one within who was hurting. The young part of me who had feared being left behind, who felt unsafe.

Little Missy.

I wasn't trying to explain her pain or convince her that Pete wasn't going anywhere. I wasn't even trying to make her feel better. I was saying hello.

Hi, little one. I see you. You're scared, aren't you? You're trembling. I've got you. You're completely safe with me. You've always been safe, even when you didn't have the eyes to see it.

I spent a few moments with her and found myself smiling at the warmth of our connection.

Eventually, I fell back asleep.

The dream, the intense emotions and sensations, the mind's desperate search for causes and reasons—all of it had been perfect. It helped clear the path so that I might stop looking outside of me just long enough to notice something remarkable within me.

The next morning, I felt a beautiful lightness inside. Even as I type this, my whole face is smiling as I sense the connection between me and that little one who was so glad that I stayed.

And what feels so fresh now is that the doorway to meeting these deeper parts of myself might actually be made of the very things my mind has always fought.

It's becoming more and more evident that the sensations and the emotions ARE the doorway.

They are not IN the way. They ARE the way.

Years ago, maybe 2021 or 2022, I made a video about dropping the about. In the video, I described how we have learned to associate certain sensations and emotions with external things in our world. Our minds say things like:

“I feel ______ because of ______.” Or “I feel ______ about ______.”

I feel abandoned because that person didn't include me.

I feel sad because my Thanksgiving plans were ruined.

I feel anxious about the upcoming doctor's appointment.

And here's the thing—those circumstances absolutely DO matter. Our relationships matter. And our experience of life is real. I am not ever suggesting that our adorable minds need to stop making those connections.

But this doorway that I am talking about—the one that leads us to our deepest identity and our greatest freedom—is also available right in the middle of our mind's innocent attempts to draw us outside of ourselves.

What if, for a moment, we could drop the about or the because and, instead, just stay with ourselves?

Just like it occurred to me to do Saturday night when something quiet whispered, “Don't make this about Pete. Stay with yourself.”

What if, in the middle of the rip current of the mind, demanding reasons and answers and resolution, there can also be a pause?

Drop the about. Drop the because.

Stay with what is actually here: Fear. Shame. Anger. Regret. Hopelessness.

Instead of following the rip current of the mind to search for reasons and answers, just stay with the little one within who is afraid of being abandoned. The one who learned to believe that being okay is tethered to people liking her.

Something so ordinary and so miraculous begins to unfold when the doorway to ourselves becomes 2% more intriguing than the search for answers and reasons.

The sensations and emotions, as intense as they may be, can begin to carry a much different meaning.

What if the very sensations we've spent so much of our lives trying to escape are the ones helping clear the way for us to meet the parts of ourselves that are ready to be included?

What if those sensations are more like BARNACLE SCRUBBING, here to help clear the path toward the parts of ourselves we've spent a lifetime trying to fix, silence, or leave behind?

What if the sensations aren't blocking the doorway? What if they're part of the doorway?

And maybe most tenderly of all:

What if I don't need to wait for the ache to disappear before I can meet the younger part of me who is aching?

None of this is a job. It's a possibility.

For years, I taught elementary school, and I still remember those adorable little children coming up beside me on the playground and gently tugging at my skirt to get my attention.

That's how I've begun to imagine these tender parts of myself.

A little tug on my skirt.

Sometimes it's fear. Sometimes shame. Sometimes sadness. Sometimes an old ache that seems to appear out of nowhere.

And instead of turning immediately toward the circumstances that seem to have caused it, what if I can turn toward the little one who's asking for my attention?

What if I can look down, meet her eyes, and simply say:

“Yes, of course. You, too. Join the circle. You are welcome as you are.”

Not, Come back when you've stopped crying.

Not, You can join us once you're feeling better.

Not even, Come here so I can help you heal.

Just:

“Yes, of course. You, too.”

She can come along while I prepare Office Hours. While I unpack my suitcase. While I celebrate birthdays or make dinner. She can come along while I have a difficult conversation, make a decision, or change my plans.

She gets to do my day with me.

And she doesn't have to become less sad, less frightened, or less anything to be welcome.

Yes, of course. You, too.

And as we make room for these parts of ourselves, life continues. We can feel hurt AND speak up. We can feel sad AND make plans. We can love someone AND set a boundary.

The little ones don't have to wait outside while Life lives us.

They get to come along.

Maybe this week Life will offer me another doorway. Another wave of intensity. Another vivid dream or an ache that has no apparent cause.

Maybe I'll follow the rip current of my mind into a hundred different stories before I remember there's another possibility.

Oh, Missy, drop the because. This is not a call to find answers.

For just a moment, notice the mind's need to make this about someone or something outside of me.

The doorway is here, sweet girl. Be pulled through it and meet the part that is calling out. Make space for her. Give her a place at the table. Let her move through my day beside me.

Draw the circle wide. Draw it wider still. Let this be our song. No one stands alone.