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Unicorn: Today during a trauma therapy session, my patient told me something that stopped me in my tracks. She was describing her childhood. Her mother was abusive, her father was emotionally absent, and from the time she was a little girl, she had been obsessed with romantic love. Not necessarily boys or dating, the idea of love. That someday someone would come along who would want her, choose her, and finally make her feel safe. And then she told me something heartbreaking. Her mother would abuse her. And afterward, this little girl would come downstairs and ask her mother for a hug. A hug from the very person who had just hurt her. And to this day, her parents still make fun of her for it. They imitate her little voice. I just want a hug. I sat there listening, and suddenly I was thinking about another little girl. A little girl who used to stare out of her bedroom window, waiting for Prince Charming on a unicorn. That little girl was me, and yes. I still love unicorns. Welcome to the Doc Dusty Podcast. This is Doc Dusty Reflections, where science, medicine, and the human experience meet. Today we're talking about unicorns, Prince Charming, Childhood Attachment, and what happens when we spend our lives waiting for someone to save us. And eventually, we're going to climb a mountain because apparently that's where my story takes us. I was an only child. My mother was abusive and neglectful. My father was largely absent. And somewhere in my childhood imagination, I decided that Prince Charming was going to show up and rescue me. Except he wasn't riding a white horse. He was riding a unicorn. Because apparently, even as a child, I had standards. And here's the interesting thing. I don't remember imagining what happened after he arrived. I wasn't planning a wedding or imagining children or a castle. I don't think I ever got that far. I just wanted him to come. And when my patient was telling me about her obsession with romantic love, I recognized something familiar. We were two little girls who had grown up wanting someone to love us, someone to choose us, someone to make us feel like we belonged. And when that love wasn't available in our families, we imagined finding it somewhere else. From an attachment perspective, my patient's story is both heartbreaking and deeply human. Children are biologically wired to seek closeness with their caregivers. It's their survival mechanism. When we're frightened, overwhelmed, or distressed, our attachment system activates, drawing us towards the people we depend on for protection. But what happens when the person who's supposed to protect us is also the person who frightens us? The nervous system faces an impossible situation. The source of comfort is also the source of danger. And a child doesn't necessarily stop seeking love because a parent's abusive. Sometimes she seeks it even more desperately. She comes downstairs. She asks for a hug. And when that hug isn't available, she may begin believing that if she
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could just become lovable enough, good enough, or important enough, someone would finally give her the affection she's been searching for. For some children, that longing eventually becomes attached to romantic relationships, the fantasy of being rescued, or finally being chosen, or finding the person who will make everything better. Now, this isn't true for everyone who experiences childhood trauma. Our attachment patterns are influenced by many factors, and they're capable of changing throughout our lives. But it's a pattern I see in my work, and it's one I recognize in myself, because eventually I met Prince Charming, or at least I thought I had. My ex-husband promised to save me. He was going to be the family I never had, and I fell in love with him. But I also fell in love with something else: his family. Two sisters, a mother, a father, an entire family. I had grown up as an only child without the kind of family relationships I watched other people experience. And suddenly there they were. I could have sisters, I could have parents who loved me, I could belong, and I wanted that so badly. I loved him, but I also loved the possibility of a life that we could create together. And when you spent your entire childhood longing for something, finally finding it can feel almost magical. But there's something complicated about entering a relationship. When the person standing in front of you represents more than just themselves. They're not simply your partner, they're your family, your safety, your future, your chance to experience something you've wanted since childhood. And sometimes without realizing it, we begin holding on to the promise of the relationship, even when the reality has changed. Because leaving doesn't just mean losing a person, it can mean losing an entire imagined future. And in my case, the family I'd spent my childhood longing for. I don't say that to diminish the love I felt. I loved those people. And the fact that my marriage eventually ended doesn't make the love any less real. But I wonder how much of my longing to belong influenced the choices I made, the things I tolerated, and how long I stayed. And there was something else about my marriage that I didn't fully understand until the very end. When we got engaged, someone gave us a book. It was a beautiful idea. I would write in the front half of the book. Filling the pages with all the reasons I loved him and had chosen him. He would write in the back half, doing the same for me. And we were not allowed to read each other's pages. The idea was that someday when we were frustrated, angry, or questioning why we chosen this particular human being, we could open the book and remember. Remember why we fell in love? Remember what made the other person special. I loved that idea. Of course I did. I was the girl who had been waiting for Prince Charming on a unicorn. And for four years, I wrote in that book. I wrote about the things I admired in him, the things that made him special, the reasons I had chosen him. My husband was incredibly charming. He was a podcaster and he was exceptionally good with words. He could tell stories, make people laugh, and make you feel like the most important person in the room. And I loved him, but eventually your marriage became a place where I no longer felt safe. And I made the decision to leave. Not to take a break, not to try again. I was leaving, and I was never going back. The last time I was in that house, I had one very special friend with me. We were getting some of my important belongings out, and while I was upstairs, I remembered the book. I thought about opening it, but I was afraid. Not because I was questioning my decision to leave, because I wasn't, but because I knew how powerful his words could be, and I didn't want to read something beautiful that might make me question what I already knew. So I decided not to look. I walked downstairs, and then I stopped. I changed my mind. I went back upstairs and I opened the book. My half had approximately 50 pages. 50 pages of everything I loved about him. His half? Four. Four pages in four years. And here's the thing. I know the number of pages someone writes doesn't necessarily measure how much they love you, but my husband was a man who made a living with words. And what he had written wasn't about my kindness, my compassion, my intelligence, or who I was as a person. It was about what I looked like, what I could provide, what I allowed him to do. And then I found the checklist. He had written that he couldn't wait to marry me because he'd finally found his unicorn. His unicorn. And underneath were all these little boxes, each one checked. The first said blowjobs. The second will never need spanks. The third makes more money, but not as much as me. The fourth liked sports. The fifth. smart but not as smart as me. The sixth, my personal porn star. And the seventh, will be a good mom. There was my husband's unicorn. A woman who gave blowjobs, didn't need spanks, made money, but not too much, liked sport, was smart, and apparently doubled as a personal porn star. and would be a good mother. That was thoughtful of him to include. I stood there and looked at the page. I had spent four years writing about everything I loved about this man. And this is what he loved about me. I hadn't gone upstairs looking for confirmation. I didn't need it. I already made the decision. But I felt like the universe had decided to give me a little confirmation, anyways, and I have to admit, it was pretty fucking thorough. I took that page, I left the house, and I never went back. For the next two years, that page hung on my mirror. I pinned it there, so I would see it every day. Every morning when I looked at myself, I saw the checklist blowjobs, banks, money, sports, porn star, smart, kind of, and a good mom. I kept it there because I never wanted to forget. I never wanted to forget what it felt like to discover that someone I had loved so deeply
could describe me in such shallow terms, and I promised myself I would never allow anyone to treat me that way again. Now I realize that two years is a very long time to have the word blowjob staring back at you while you're brushing your teeth. But apparently that's what I needed. And eventually I took it down. I don't remember exactly when, but I remember why I put it there. And I remember the promise I made to myself. There's something about the engagement book that I've thought a lot about. Not simply the difference between 50 pages and four, but the difference between being loved for who you are and being valued for what you provide. And I think that can become especially complicated when we've grown up feeling that love is something we have to earn. When affection is unpredictable, we may learn to become whatever we think will make someone choose us. The good girl, the successful girl, the beautiful girl, the girl who doesn't need too much, the girl who gives everything. And sometimes we become so focused on being chosen that we forget to ask whether the person choosing us actually sees us. But I want to be careful here. Wanting to be loved is not the problem. Wanting a family isn't the problem. Wanting someone to hold you, protect you, or share your life is not the problem. Human beings need connection. We are biologically wired for it. Healthy relationships can provide what researchers call co-regulation, where connection with another person helps our nervous system settle and feel safe. Healing doesn't mean we stop needing other people. And I certainly don't want to. I still love romance. I still believe in magic. I still want someone to share my adventures with. And occasionally I would love someone else to decide what we're having for dinner. That would be fantastic, but I become more curious about the difference between wanting someone to share my life and hoping someone will arrive and give me a life. Which brings me to Everest. A few years ago, after my divorce, I went to Nepal. I was trying to find myself, and apparently I decided the most reasonable place to look was somewhere near the top of the world. Climbed Everest, reaching camp two. There were probably easier ways to process a divorce, therapy, journaling, a weekend at the beach. But no, I chose an enormous mountain with very little oxygen. And somewhere during that adventure, something happened that I still think about. With only a few steps left, a little boy handed me flowers. I have a photograph of that moment. He's wearing a blue plaid shirt and tan pant. I'm wearing my green baseball cap, black hiking clothes, and a backpack that looks almost as big as he is. He's smiling. I'm bent over towards him, and he's holding these little flowers. It was such a simple gesture, and yet it made me think about Prince Charming. After the climb, I posted the photograph and wrote, with only a few steps left of this adventure, this sweetie delivered me flowers. Maybe Prince Charming does show up. It's all perspective. It's hard to say goodbye, but I'm excited to return to the beautiful life I have created for myself. I hadn't thought about those words in a long time, until today, because the last sentence struck me. I was excited to return to the beautiful life I had created for myself. Not the life someone had promised me. Not the life I thought marriage would give me, my life. And the little boy with the flowers. He wasn't there to rescue me. He wasn't promising me a future. He wasn't offering me a family. He was just a little boy handing me flowers, and I could enjoy that moment. For exactly what it was. Something beautiful, something unexpected, a little bit of magic. There's a concept in yoga philosophy called self-study. It's one of the niyamas, the personal fulfillments described in Patanjali's Yoga Sutras. And I think it's particularly relevant here because self-study is asking us to become curious about ourselves, not judgmental. Curious, why am I drawn to this person? What does this relationship represent to me? Am I choosing this person because I genuinely love who they are? Or am I hoping they'll finally give me something I've spent my entire life searching for? And sometimes, of course, the answer is both. That's the messy part. We can genuinely love someone while also hoping they'll heal something in us. We can want a relationship and still carry childhood fears of abandonment. We can build beautiful, independent lives and still long to be held. Those things aren't mutually exclusive. And recognizing our patterns doesn't mean we have to judge ourselves for having them. I don't look back at that little girl staring out of her bedroom window and think she was foolish. I don't look back at my marriage I was foolish for wanting a family. I certainly don't look at my patient and think she was foolish for coming downstairs and asking her mother for a hug. I think about how deeply human it is to want love and how painful it can be when the love isn't available. There's a picture hanging on the wall in my office. One of my best friends, actually, the friend that was there with me on the day that I left and read the book. She remains one of my greatest supporters. She gave it to me. It says, Unicorns climb mountains. I've loved that phrase for years. I've even wanted to write a children's book with that title. And today, after my patient's session, I found myself looking at it again. I thought about the little girl asking for a hug. I thought about the little girl staring out of her bedroom window. I thought about the woman who married a man who promised to save her. The woman who spent two years looking at a checklist on her mirror. And the woman who climbed Everest. I still love unicorns. I still love romance. And I still think it would be wonderful if Prince Charming showed up someday. Although at this point in my life I would prefer that he arrive with emotional maturity, a sense of humor, and a reasonably secure attachment style. Can also be good at other things. The unicorn is negotiable, but I also love the woman who climbed Everest. The woman who built a life she was excited to return to. The woman who still believes in magic, even after discovering that life doesn't always unfold the way she imagined. Maybe the little girl at the window didn't need to stop believing in Prince Charming. Maybe she just needed to discover that she could leave the window and go have an adventure. And maybe. Somewhere along the way, someone would show up the flowers. I'm Doc Dusty. Thank you for being here. And remember, you are never alone in this beautifully messy experience of being human.