Let me begin with a preface:
1. My full name is Angela. No one calls me that, though (you'll see why).
2. Historically, I don't do angels. They fell into a "religious" category that I was very resistant to (and kind of still am... old conditioning is sticky!). So, I don't naturally resonate with the symbology of angels.
For most of my life, I sensed an inner pattern that felt confusing and contradictory. I desperately longed for closeness and connection, yet something in me also pulled back when things became too tender. I could feel the push and pull at the same time. There was love in me and fear in me, and I never understood why they seemed to coexist so fiercely.
Recently I took an Attachment Style assessment, and the results mirrored what I had always felt. I was categorized as having a "Disorganized Attachment" pattern. I acknowledged the label, but I did not build an identity around it or turn it into a story about myself. It simply named something that I had sensed for a long time. And even seeing it named felt like a bit of a relief.
The disorganization was not a flaw. It was simply a way my nervous system learned to protect me when I was too young to understand what was happening. It was the child version of me trying to make sense of mixed signals. It was early attempts at safety. It was pure, well-meaning, survival-based innocence.
And something remarkable has been happening as I continue my own emotional and spiritual healing work. The disorganized pattern is changing. It is reorganizing itself from the inside out. What once felt chaotic is softening. What once felt confusing is beginning to make sense.
Something in me is returning to itself...
A few days ago I had a meditation experience that I'm still trying to put words around. I had the sense of my higher self stepping forward. She did not arrive as a concept. She arrived as a presence. A small child. An angelic child. And even before she spoke, I knew she was me.
Growing up, we had a painting of a serenely beautiful little girl hanging above our mantel. She always looked like she was staring right at you, and that she could see you. When I met the child angel in meditation, that old image surfaced with surprising clarity. She told me she had taken the form of the girl in the painting because that was how she knew I would recognize her. But she was not an external guide. She was me. She was the version of me that never fractured. She was the version of me that stayed whole. The version of me that remained untouched by fear.
She told me that around kindergarten age, my ego separated from her. Not in a dramatic way. Simply in the way all children adapt. Around the same time, I insisted on being called Angie instead of Angela. It was innocent. It was practical. It was a small gesture of becoming a person in the world.
But she showed me that this was also the time when my mind began to organize around protection. When the disorganized pattern took shape. When I learned to move between closeness and retreat. When I learned to carry too much and trust too little.
She told me she had never left.
During this encounter, I felt her gently tending to a dense pocket of energy in the very front of my face. My forehead. My eyes. My nose and mouth. The place where expression and perception meet. The place where I have learned to scan for safety. The place where identity lives without my noticing. I could feel her small hands resting on my face, soft and sure, as if she were smoothing years of tension I did not realize I was still carrying.
She soothed it. Not in a dramatic or mystical way. In a natural way. A remembering. A loosening. A release of effort I did not realize I was still holding.
She told me she would stay with me that day. She told me she would guide me through whatever challenges were waiting for me. Not as a guardian angel. Not as a separate presence. But as the part of me that had always been steady. The part I had forgotten to listen to. The part that knew nothing of fragmentation.
Her message was simple:
Breathe. Relax. Stay open enough to receive.
Nothing more.
And this, it seems to me, is where my attachment healing and my spiritual work meet. They are not separate paths. They are the same process described in two different languages. Disorganized Attachment is a pattern formed when safety feels both close and far at the same time. Spiritual healing is the remembering that safety was never lost. The two experiences overlap in a way that is more intimate than I ever understood. Really, the two experiences are one.
The child I met in meditation was not a guide telling me who to become. She was the reminder of who I already am. She was the original coherence beneath every protective pattern. She was the steady hum of enoughness that has been present in me all along.
And something in me is reorganizing around that truth.
This is not a sudden awakening. It is not a resolution of everything that came before. It is simply a soft return to my own inner safety. A gentle gathering of what had been scattered.
A reunion with myself.