Blocked Emotional Pain. What Do We Do With Them? Part 1

Do those buried emotions linger deep within us, etched into our DNA or cellular memory, or do they eventually fade into the shadows of oblivion?

Many of my childhood years were spent in the deep South — though not quite as far south as Mississippi, Georgia, or Alabama — but deep enough into a world ensnared by racism and elitism. I endured countless racist encounters that left scars stitched into my very soul. Still, I often wonder — what becomes of those remnants of pain, anger, and confusion? Do they diminish over time, or do they burrow deep, waiting silently, waiting to resurface?

One haunting incident tormented me like a relentless nightmare for years.

There was a ten-year-old white girl who lived just down the road from my godmother — someone I visited often; someone I thought I knew. I loved wandering down that long country road, bordered by towering trees, sprawling farms, and wild bushes. I could feel the gentle blessing of nature, the sun warming my face, filling me with a sense of peace. But when I asked my godmother if I could go for a walk along that road, I saw the worry flicker in her eyes — she knew the dangers; she knew the weight of the world outside her protection. Yet, she saw how much it made me happy, and so she hesitantly agreed, her voice a mixture of caution and love. “Be careful,” she warned, her voice trembling slightly. “Respect the earth, respect every creature, and the neighbors. Stay to the side of the road, give space to everything passing by — act as if the road belongs to them and not you.” That was always her parting advice.

But my innocence was shattered one day — on that very road. I decided to veer off my usual path and visit the local store to get my favorite treat — a moon pie. Do you remember them? Shaped like a tiny, glowing moon, filled with chocolate and cream — simple yet delicious, a small joy during those days.

As I stepped into the store, I saw Lili, my godmother’s neighbor’s daughter. Only ten, much younger than I was, but she was tending to the counter. Her bright eyes greeted me.

“Hi Lili! Are you running the store today?” I asked.

She grinned and giggled. “Yeah, my dad thinks I’m old enough to be the boss!” Her laughter echoed softly. Then she looked at me with a commanding smile and said, “So you must call me Miss Lili. I’m your boss, so that makes you my servant. What do you want to buy?”

I smiled, holding out my coin. “A moon pie.”

Lili handed me the treat and looked at the price tag. Then said, “That price isn’t for you. Your price is 10 cents more. That’s only for our white customers.”

My heart sank — something twisted inside me. A pang of confusion, of helplessness, of unfairness. I looked at her, feeling the weight of her words, feeling the division stark and raw. “But Lili, I don’t have 10 cents more,” I whispered, my voice trembling.

She looked at me — her expression unmoved. “Well, I guess you can’t buy that moon pie,” she said. Then, with a forced smile, she added, “I told you to call me Miss Lili. My dad said we’re not equal, so you must show respect by calling me that.”

I nodded silently and walked out the door, leaving the moon pie on the counter but carrying a storm inside.

Before I left, she called after me, “It’s thank you, Miss Lili. Did you forget already?”

Now, years later, I sit with that memory — those feelings of shame, confusion, and helplessness swirling inside me. I’ve tried to understand what stirred in my young soul. I’ve always been deeply empathetic, feeling every injustice, every sliver of pain. Yet, my godmother’s words echo still: “Just let it go. Don’t let those feelings become trapped inside your body and mind.”

But how can I forget it? How can those buried emotions, those scars from childhood soaked in prejudice, fade away? Do they remain dormant, quietly shaping who I am? Or do they burst forth someday, demanding to be acknowledged and healed?

In my next post, I will tell you how I dealt with them.