Journal #4
Before I understood attachment, nervous system regulation, or what it meant to feel safe with another person, my aunt Flora was already showing me.
My aunt Floda had Down syndrome.
She also gave me the most unconditional love I've ever received.
I can still remember the smell of Jean Naté perfume. That was Floda. She loved her baths—really loved them, the way some people love a favorite hobby. Every morning, she would get excited to catch the bus to the Kennedy Center in Bridgeport, CT, where she made pens.
She wasn't reluctant to go. She wasn't simply following a routine. She was genuinely happy to be going to work.
Floda loved her life. I don't think I ever heard her complain about anything or anybody.
She never learned to read or write and had an IQ of a six-year-old. I still tried to teach her what I was learning in school. She didn't learn to walk until she was twelve. But none of those things defined her experience of the world, and none of them limited her ability to love.
She was joyful in a way that didn't seem to require anything from anyone. She always smiled and laughed. And she was wonderfully protective. She would sit close, put her arm around you, and hold on. Her affection was immediate and unmistakable.
There was never a question of whether you had earned it.
She just loved you.
The Kind of Love You Don't Have to Earn
When people made fun of Floda, we stuck up for her.
I was lucky to have her in my life, and even as a child, some part of me understood that loving her also meant defending her. She deserved the same dignity and kindness as anyone else in an unforgiving world.
What I remember most, though, is how she made people feel.
There was no performance. No keeping score. No need to prove yourself or become someone else before you could receive her affection.
She didn't seem to ration love.
As children, we don't necessarily have the language to describe what makes us feel safe with another person. We know it through experience. We know who welcomes us, who comes close, who makes room for us, and who lets us be exactly where we are.
Floda did that naturally.
What We Learn About Love Before We Have Words
I think about Floda often in my work with clients, particularly when we talk about attachment, relationships, and nervous system regulation.
So much of what we understand as love can become intertwined with fear.
We learn to anticipate rejection. We become careful about what we reveal. We try to keep other people happy, avoid conflict, or become indispensable. Sometimes we learn that affection has conditions, that connection requires effort, or that being loved means making ourselves easier for other people to accept.
These patterns don't come from nowhere. Our earliest relationships help shape what we expect from connection.
For some of us, love feels safe. For others, it can feel uncertain, complicated, or something we have to work to maintain.
Flora gave me a different experience.
She reminded me that connection doesn't have to be complicated to be meaningful. Sometimes it looks like sitting beside someone, putting an arm around them, and letting them know they belong.
That kind of presence can stay with us.
The Person Everyone Else Underestimated
Floda lived longer than many people expected. In her late fifties, she lost her sight completely, and her cognition declined.
But by then, she had already spent decades giving people more love than most of us manage in a lifetime.
I sometimes wonder how much of what she gave was overlooked because people focused on what she couldn't do or how she looked different.
She couldn't read or write. She had significant developmental and physical challenges. Other people may have seen those things first.
I saw Floda.
I saw someone who was excited to get up in the morning, who loved her work, who took pleasure in her rituals, and who made sure the people around her knew they were loved.
She taught me something long before I had clinical language for it: the capacity for connection cannot be measured by someone's intellectual abilities, accomplishments, or conventional markers of success.
Sometimes the person everyone else underestimates teaches us the most about what it means to feel welcomed and loved.
A Photograph I Still Carry
There's a photograph of Floda and me at a summer picnic at the Kennedy Center. I'm four years old, standing right beside her.
The photograph made the front page of the Bridgeport Post.
I wish I could remember the day itself. I don't. But I have the photograph, and I have the memories of the woman who stood beside me.
When I look at it now, I think about how much of our understanding of love begins before we can explain it.
We carry the people who made us feel safe. We carry the way they touched us, welcomed us, protected us, and made room for us. Those experiences become part of how we understand connection.
And sometimes, years later, we recognize just how much they mattered.
What We Carry Forward
I think about Floda when I look at my own children.
Her affection is something I have tried to carry forward: immediate, physical, generous, and without condition.
I want my children to know they don't have to achieve something, make themselves useful, or get everything right to be loved. They don't have to manage my feelings or earn their place in the family.
They get to belong simply because they are here.
I didn't know the language of attachment when I was four years old. I didn't know anything about nervous system regulation or the ways early relationships shape us.
I just knew Floda loved me.
And I knew how it felt to be loved by her.
Some of the most important lessons we receive in life don't come from the people who teach us formally or are perceived by society as "perfect." They come from the people who show us, through their presence, what connection can feel like.
My aunt Floda did that for me.
I still carry her love.
Exactly as she gave it to me.
Before Words is a collection of reflections on the experiences, relationships, and family patterns that shape us long before we have the language to understand them.
If you're beginning to explore how early relationships have influenced your sense of safety, connection, and belonging, this is also part of the work I do through virtual therapy in Florida and Connecticut.
