How One Little Girl’s Walk Shaped a Lifetime of Healing
By: Donna Marston
When I was nine years old, I stayed back in 3rd grade. At that age, it felt like the end of the world. I wasn’t just repeating a grade, I was being set apart.
What makes the memory sharp even today is not just that I stayed back, but how it happened. The teachers made me, a little 9-year-old girl, push my desk from the 4th grade classroom, where I was supposed to be, back down the hall into the 3rd grade room. The wooden floors in that old school were loud and creaky. Every step, every scrape of that desk leg against the floor felt like the whole world was watching. It wasn’t just moving a desk, it was my walk of shame.
I don’t think the teachers understood (or maybe they did, and that’s worse) how humiliating that was for me. As an adult, I’ve often thought they wanted to make a point: “You don’t belong with your peers anymore.” I can still feel the burn of embarrassment on my face, the pit in my stomach, the deep sense of “not enough” that settled into me that day. Humiliated, I put my desk in the back of the room, and in many ways, I stayed there for most of my life.
Moments like that stick. They settle in our bones and whisper into our adulthood. They show up as self-doubt, fear of not measuring up, hesitation to speak our truth. For me, it became one of the wounds that shaped how I saw myself for years.
Fast forward twenty-seven years, my son’s addiction hit me hard. It brought me to my knees. The fear, the heartbreak, the helplessness, the hopelessness, it all came rushing in, and with it, every old wound I’d been carrying since childhood. That little girl with the desk showed up again.
But this time, I knew I couldn’t just keep carrying it all. I had to heal.
I discovered Reiki, and it became an incredible source of comfort and growth. Meditation and journaling helped me connect with feelings I had buried for decades. I dove in, learned, practiced, and eventually became a Shambala Reiki Master and Energy Healer. Along the way, crystals caught my attention, and connecting with Mother Earth helped me feel grounded.
Through this journey, I discovered my inner child, a tender, empathetic soul carrying more pain than I had ever realized. For much of my life, I was told, “Let it go, you’re too sensitive.” I believed my sensitivity was a flaw, a character defect. When I was in my late 60s, I came to see it differently. My sensitivity was not a weakness, it was a gift: a gift of compassion, of feeling the depths of others’ pain, of crying with them, and of truly being present in their lives.
I also uncovered my mother wound—not because my mom didn’t love me, she did—but because she came from a generation that didn’t express emotions openly. I grew up in a time when children were seen but not heard. Layered on top of that were the heartbreaks of teenage relationships, the challenges of raising children, the sudden loss of my father when I was nine months pregnant with my first child, and a lifetime of people-pleasing. All of it left me feeling as though I carried a hole in my soul.
I was judged, called names, and told I wasn’t enough; like the time an employer called me “white trash” for wearing pants to work back in the ’70s. I was insecure, unsure, and always putting others first out of fear of losing them. Those experiences shaped me for decades.
But here’s the thing: through all the heartbreak and hard work, I’ve come to understand my gifts. I know how to help people move forward from their pain. I can guide them to find their own strength, their own healing, and reconnect with the compassion and courage that’s always been inside them.
Looking back now, I see how moments like that walk with the desk plant seeds of unworthiness deep inside of us. Maybe the teachers thought they were teaching me a lesson, but the real lesson was how painful it feels to be singled out, embarrassed, and made to feel “not enough.”
Many of us are still dragging those desks around, not literally, but emotionally. The shame of childhood failures, the sting of rejection, the wounds of not being seen or supported, they don’t just disappear. They show up in our relationships, choices, and in how we treat ourselves and others.
Here’s the good news: stories can be rewritten. Healing doesn’t erase what happened, but it gives us a chance to look back at those moments with compassion for our younger selves. I look at that nine-year-old girl now and I hug her, I tell her that I love her, that she’s smart and brave, and remind her that her worth never had anything to do with a desk, a grade, or a creaky hallway.
What started as heartbreak has become my purpose. The journey has been messy, painful, and at times unbearable, but it brought me to a place of deep understanding. Today, it allows me to help others navigate their own journeys, find hope, and step into the life they were always meant to live.
If my story resonates with you, I invite you to join me, through my podcast, workshops, or by following along here. Let’s share without shame, heal those old wounds, and remind each other that we are not defined by the painful moments of our past. Your walk doesn’t have to be one of shame anymore, it can be one of healing, strength, and love.