My Baby Girl

Photo by Derek Thomson on Unsplash.

Linda heard a voice. It came frequently and repeatedly, “Take care of my baby girl.”

It was more than a voice. It vibrated her soul and resonated with something eternal deep inside.

Since her near-death experience six years earlier, something Linda never spoke about, she received messages. But the meaning behind this one eluded her. For weeks, it echoed relentlessly, “Take care of my baby girl.”

Six months after she first heard the message, Linda met a new client, a woman in her early thirties still struggling to process her adolescent trauma. Her father had died when she was just 15.

At that moment, a thundering whisper shot though Linda, “Take care of my baby girl.”

Finally, it made sense.

“Did your father have any pet names for you,” Linda asked.

“Yes,” the woman said. “‘My baby girl.’ That’s how he always referred to me.”

As a licensed clinical social worker, Linda couldn’t divulge what she had experienced, what she knew. “How did you pick me?” she asked.

“Your name came up four times when I searched online for a therapist. I knew you were the one.”

Like many medical providers, Linda went forward, providing professional, compassionate care without speaking of the help she received from her unseen guide.

I felt the knowing in Linda’s voice as she shared her experience. I’m grateful she told me. None of us walk alone.