Common Threads

I was the kind of kid who was always pulling at a thread—and it wasn't just the kind that was sticking out from my pants and shirts, leaving a hole once I was done, which wasn’t always easy to cover up. 

Sometimes, I would walk around in fear of being discovered, but now I take pride in the hole—like a battle wound—a reminder of who I am, and that we can heal through our connections.

The threads connect us to the light inside—our Core Self—which helps us heal the wounded parts within. They come to our attention through our experience with those who feel alone and lost—often stuck in fear and shame. They're the parts of the mirror that reflect the pain inside and make us look at ourselves—finding new meaning instead of being stuck in the past.

In the moment, I'm reminded of a 19-year-old young man I will call Tom, whom I'm seeing for his first round of therapy. He's feeling anxious and depressed, and he doesn't want to return to college for his sophomore year.

On the surface, it looks like he has everything—a new car, great clothes, good parents, and some close friends. His dad is quiet but his mom tells him, “You have everything. What do you have to feel depressed about?”

In talking with him, Tom says that he feels alone even when around other people. He would like to be a psychologist or social worker someday—the kind that works with other people and helps them with their problems.

I nod in approval and smile, “You have a lot of compassion for other people. I‘m sure you would be wonderful—and would also receive a lot in return.”

Tom lets go a deep breath as he takes in my words—and heart. It feels like I'm looking in the mirror. I know I can use that mirror to help him—because this work is not about me, at least not directly.

Going back to what he said about his parents, I ask him what that brings up inside. He doesn’t know at first, but after I assure him that I’m not trying to blame his parents, he recognizes that it’s not just that his parents don’t understand how he feels.

There’s a part of him that’s afraid of doing something wrong—and of letting them down.

I then ask him how far back that goes. Looking down, he hesitantly replies, “I think I was in first grade—six or seven—and I had a hard time learning to read. I thought I’d done something wrong, and I felt like a failure. But I kept it to myself.”

Seeing the tears welling up, I gently say, “I know that you know in your Core Self that you don't need to be perfect. You’re just human—like all of us. But there’s a wounded child part inside that’s stuck in the past who doesn’t know that yet.”

Tom starts to breathe more easily as I continue, “You are your own internal caregiver. And with my help, you can begin to update the child—so you can feel more whole.”

I ask him to put what wasn’t true back into the little one, where it originated. Then, I encourage him to imagine bringing the child into the room between us, so his grown-up self, connected to his Core Self, can help him to heal.

Like a magical journey through time, the child lands beside him in the present. Leaning in, I say, “Tell the little one what he needed to know—what he always deserved—but only rarely heard.”

Although a little hesitant at first, Tom finds his words and boldly says, “You can pull that thread and don’t have to hide what you’re feeling inside. You were doing the best you could. You were always good enough."

Seeing him smile, I ask, “What’s it like for the child to know that you hold this truth about yourself now?” He responds, “Wow, he’s okay. He isn't worried or feeling bad anymore. I’m not even sure he’s here.”

Then he puts his hand on his heart and, with quiet certainty, says, “No, he lives in here. He’s back home.”

With my mouth slightly open in awe, I say, “So just feel that in your body as your adult. You’re holding the light for the little one, so they’ll always know they’re safe at home. You‘re driving the car—and leading the way.”

After a silent pause to let it all soak into both of us, I inquire, “How are you feeling about yourself and going back to school now?”

He quickly responds, “I need to do that. I pulled that thread, and things didn't unravel like I thought they would in the past. Actually, by pulling the thread, I discovered who I am and who I was always meant to be.”

In the moment, I think about that as a common thread—a universal truth. I hope those reading this can find the courage to start pulling their own, and that it will open up the light within them.

And maybe it will help us remember who we are as people, so we won’t need to fight wars to hide the pain inside. I hope we’ll find a way to talk together—holding each other’s pain instead.

These common threads are the ones that don't leave holes. They actually fix them, as they help us make new meaning about what happened to us in the past—not cover it up.

We just need to be careful not to pull the threads too tightly—with others or in our own minds—or they can start to strangle rather than hold us. We then risk becoming too rigid in our beliefs, too sure of ourselves, and less able to see the beauty in those who are different from us.

Healing doesn’t mean making everything perfect—it’s an acceptable risk. That means allowing space for movement, breath, and new growth. That’s who we are and have always been. That’s the image in the mirror that we were created to be.

In the meantime, I’ll be here snuggling up with some soft threads my wife has lovingly woven for our home. That’s who she is—her love woven through every stitch. It helps me remember who I am and who we are together—even when I think back to the hole in my pants I used to hide.

Breaking news:  I just got a text from Tom—he’s working hard, feeling excited to be back at school, still pulling threads and trying some new things.

I responded, “Great to hear. It was good to work with you this summer and find some common threads. I have a feeling they’ll hold strong, and you’ll have a great year.”

I then added a link to the song below, with the words, “Hey Tom, you remind me of this guy.” Thinking about the image in the mirror, I wrote, “Keep making your own music and playing your own song. I will too… You taught me a lot about that.”

Healing happens when we dare to pull the threads—not to fix or be perfect, but to remember what has always been woven within us—a sacred light that fills the holes and connects us all.

Confidentiality note: All patient stories are composites and fictionalized to protect privacy and honor confidentiality. Similarities to your own situation are coincidental yet intentional in reflecting the universality of our human experience.

Acknowledgement: With gratitude to SueAnne Piliero, Ph.D., whose pioneering work—Core Self Reclamation Therapy (CSRT)—continues to inspire and deepen the healing journey shared here and throughout this blog.

Comments or questions? Email me at mcecilvt@aol.com. Feel free to share these words—and this blog—with anyone you hold close or long to be held.

Dr. Cecil is a licensed psychologist, certified AEDP supervisor, approved EMDR consultant, and senior CSRT consultant. He specializes in treating complex relational, developmental, and transgenerational trauma, bringing therapy to life through heartfelt stories and images of connection and healing that emerge from the light of invisibility.