The Inner Room
There is a room in my heart.
Inside lives a little girl, about five or six years old. A set of beige sofas lines one wall; in front of them sits a wooden coffee table with a glass top. Beside the sofa stands a massive white bookshelf -- nearly empty of books, but home to a small fish tank. The tank has water and aquatic plants, but no fish. Every time I open the door to visit, the girl’s face remains indistinct. Sometimes she lies with her back to the room, resting. Other times, she curls up quietly on the sofa, reading. She has never once left that sofa, nor has she ever lifted her head to look at me.
It has always been one-sided -- my silent observation from afar. To her, I am merely an intruder. She neither resists nor acknowledges my presence.
The first time I met her was during my Internal Family Systems (IFS) training. As part of the course, we were asked to practice identifying and communicating with our own internal parts. At the time, I was navigating a period of profound uncertainty and emotional and physical exhaustion. Each session began with the question: “What shows up today?” I would close my eyes, center myself, walk down a corridor in my mind, open a door, and arrive at that inner room. I had a sense, however vague, that this little girl was one of my Exiles.¹
One day, I visited her as usual. She didn’t look at me, but pointed toward the fish tank. She wanted to tell me that it was empty. That moment brought a quiet ache to my chest -- I knew what she meant. I remembered when I was twelve and had kept goldfish. I had prepared everything meticulously to make their tank a cozy home. But the next day, they were all floating lifeless. I never kept fish again. Since then, I’ve always been a little afraid to hope, only to be left with nothing.
Another time, the girl somehow took the tank down from the shelf and stared at it intently. Seeing my puzzled expression, she gently said,
“I’ve been guarding your hope.”
She was protecting the very thing I longed for but never dared to ask for in real life.
From that day on, Protectors² began to appear. On one visit, I found two new figures quietly sitting beside her. One was tall, in black and white, calm and grounded, rarely speaking. The other was shorter, wearing a vibrant red, blue and yellow jumpsuit, lively and mischievous, always bouncing around. The tall one comforted her, offering quiet emotional support. The smaller one played with her, kept her company, and made her laugh. From then on, she was never alone. I felt a deep sense of gratitude for these two gentle guardians.
Eventually, the training ended, and clarity began to return to my life. The confusion, sadness, anger and helplessness gradually became more manageable. My parts didn’t vanish. One day, I saw the tall protector helping the girl put on her socks--she was getting ready to go out and play. It was the first time she left the sofa, the first time she left the room.
After they departed, I noticed the fish tank was no longer on the bookshelf. I later found it packed away in a box, set aside. My heart felt complicated. I was relieved that she no longer had to stand guard over that empty tank--that burden had lifted. She was free. And perhaps that meant I was free too.
Now, I only visit occasionally, but I know our story isn’t over.
My story with my parts is one I’ll keep writing for the rest of my life.
¹Exiles: These are parts of ourselves that hold painful emotions or memories, often from past trauma. These parts tend to be hidden or "exiled" because the emotions they hold can be overwhelming.
²Protectors: These parts are focused on keeping us safe by preventing us from feeling the pain of the exiles. They may show up as behaviors like avoiding situations, being critical, or acting defensively.