The Inner Courtroom: Defending My Younger Self

Today’s therapy session didn’t go as planned—and maybe that’s exactly what made it meaningful.

I usually practice CBT (Cognitive Behavioral Therapy), where we dive into my anxiety, avoidance habits, and the childhood wounds that echo into adulthood. We focus on mindful processing, raw exposure, and meditation. But today… I was tired. Not just physically, but emotionally spent. I told my therapist I didn’t have the energy for the deep work we usually do, and we shifted gears.

Instead, we just talked. For about 40 minutes, I shared how actively working on my anxiety and avoidance—while healing—is wearing me out. I’m also learning to stop being self-deprecating. That alone is a full-time job.

At one point, I said, “What is wrong with me?” It was the kind of offhand, self-critical question I’ve asked myself so many times, it barely registers anymore. But this time, my therapist paused. He pointed out something powerful: My brain has been functioning like a courtroom—with a judge, prosecutor, and jury. Until recently, the prosecution (my inner critic) ran the show. But now, I’ve introduced a defense attorney.

This defense attorney’s job? To challenge every negative accusation with real evidence. And not just any evidence. It has to be valid, reliable, and current.

That last one really stuck with me. Sometimes the thoughts I have about myself are rooted in old data—things I internalized years ago that no longer reflect who I am.

We carry all versions of ourselves with us—every stage from pre-birth to today. That includes the parts of us that are still hurting or frozen in time. Our job, in healing, is to parent those younger selves, with compassion, not criticism.

To help with this, he suggested I make a coping card—a tool for cognitive restructuring. On one side, I’ll list the usual “accusals” (like I’m stupid, I’m going to fail, or I’m too much). On the other side, I’ll write down the evidence that proves those things wrong. Because here’s the truth: I’m in therapy. I’m showing up. I’m doing the work. That is not failure. That is not weakness. That is resilience.

After our talk, we did a 10-minute meditation. He asked me to see which version of "Marie" would show up—and then to ask her:“What do you need that you haven’t received this week?”

It was 15-year-old me. Teenage Marie. She felt rebellious, defiant—so much so that even I, the adult version of her, was intimidated. But when I asked what she needed, she said, “Someone to defend me.”

That hit me hard. So I stood next to her. Not to fix her, not to lecture her—just to be there. To defend her, finally.

We ended the session recapping everything I’d seen and felt. It wasn’t the most structured session, but it may have been one of the most honest. Healing isn’t always neat. Sometimes it’s just about showing up and giving space to whatever version of you needs love today.

This session reminded me why I started Heal and Raise in the first place. I’m not just healing for me—I’m healing for the little girl I used to be and the little boy I’m raising now. The courtroom in my head, the quiet 15-year-old who just needed someone to stand beside her—that’s the same protective, loving energy I want to extend to my son.

By learning how to defend myself with compassion, I’m also learning how to model that same defense for him. I’m rewriting my inner script so I don’t pass down a legacy of silence, shame, or self-doubt. And even when I feel exhausted or unsure, I remind myself that this is the messy middle I’ve chosen—the sacred work of raising him while continuing to raise myself.