The Girl at the Bottom of the Sea

Molly Skye Brown
6 days ago
3 min read

When my therapist Gaby first asked me where little me was, I told her she was at the bottom of the Monterey Bay.

She wasn’t dead, but she looked that way—splayed out like a starfish, limp and suspended in the blue. She had sunk to the bottom on purpose, playing dead so no one could hurt her anymore. The whole ocean felt like her tears—endless and quiet.

Gaby asked how we could make her happier, how we could help her come back to life, and I said, let’s bring mermaids for her to play with.

So we did. I imagined them gliding through the water, brushing her hair with shell-combs, circling her gently, reminding her she wasn’t alone. That was a long time ago. Back then she still needed the water to hold her grief for her.

Tonight, I saw her again—but she wasn’t underwater anymore.

She was standing in the left corner of my bedroom here at Lake Lily, the same room where I sleep now. The light was warm and soft, as if the forest of Pebble Beach had found its way inside. She looked healthy, radiant, alive.

She thanked me for not giving up.

She told me I was very brave—big-girl brave.

I smiled and said, “You’re brave.”

She nodded, smiling in agreement, and that’s when we talked about the suicide attempts.

I told her I would never try again. She looked me straight in the eye, pointed her little finger at my face—stern but laughing—and said, “You better not!”

It wasn’t harsh; it was protective, fierce, and full of love. She said she had fought and stayed alive for a reason, and that part is healed now.

As she spoke, I felt something shift in my chest—a warmth, a pressure, a kind of gentle explosion of life. It felt like a rebirth happening right inside my body, as if the child and the adult were finally breathing together for the first time. I’ve been working closely with Archangel Metatron lately, and I could feel that energy moving through me too—like geometry and grace combining, aligning everything that had ever been broken.

After that, her tone lightened even more. She said things were very different now. She said she could feel the sun more in the forest. She played with animals and got along much better with her family because there was no evil here—no shadows waiting to swallow her whole. Just warmth and light.

She told me she didn’t have to worry about the neighbors who once hurt her, because in this healed version of our story they never come out of their houses, and she never looks for them. She already knows better. She goes to the Montessori school with the ocean view instead of the creepy mission school, and she’s happy there.

She said she’s excited to hear more about middle-school me, because she heard we have a horse. Then she laughed, pretended to swing herself up into the saddle, and started to gallop—her little legs bouncing as she rode down an invisible road made of light, waving, sunlight flickering through the Monterey pines and cypress.

And it’s true—she’s not at the bottom of the sea anymore.

She’s right here, in the corner of my Lake Lily bedroom—alive, laughing, and free.

Maybe this is what resurrection really looks like.