Welcoming Back Your Prodigal Parts

Recently, while sitting in meditation, I was reminded of the Parable of the Prodigal Son.

If you don’t know this 2,000-year-old classic tale, don’t worry - let me hit you with an update even the Gen Z-ers will get.

There was this one dad with two sons. One day, Lil Bro wakes up and decides he’s got that main character energy. He goes up to his dad like, “Ayo pops, let’s cut to the chase—just give me my inheritance now so I can go live my best life.”

And for some reason, the dad was like, “Say less,” and just hands him the bag, no questions asked!

Lil Bro wastes NO time. He packs his bags, hops on the nearest Uber donkey, and peaces out to some faraway land where he goes full-clown mode, acting like he’s got that Jeff Bezos money. Just absolutely wilding—buying bottle service, renting chariots he can’t afford, throwing the most unhinged benders known to mankind. Man thought he was the CEO of YOLO.

But plot twist—he wasn’t. Because one day, BOOM. Wallet empty. Bank account on life support. His credit score is now a crime scene. And THEN, as if the Universe personally wanted to dunk on him, a whole famine hits. Lil Bro is struggling.

So he gets the only job he can find—PIG DUTY. Literal pig duty. Imagine going from popping bottles in VIP to rolling in mud with barn animals. Man went from Hard Rock Cafe to actual hard labor. And to make it worse, he’s so hungry he’s eyeing the pig slop like it’s a five-star Michelin meal. But guess what? Nobody even offers him a single bite. Not even a crumb.

That’s when he has his wait… am I the problem? moment. He’s like, “Hold up. My dad’s employees eat like kings, and I’m out here trying to split a meal with Porky. Nah, this ain’t it.” So he humbles himself real quick and decides to go home with the Dad, I messed up speech locked and loaded.

So he pulls up, rehearsing his sad-boy monologue, but before he can even say a word, his dad sees him from a distance and just yeets himself toward him like it’s the finale of a K-drama. Full sprint. Big hug. Tears. Hallmark moment. The son tries to start his monologue, but the dad’s already yelling at the servants like, “Yo! Get this man a fresh fit, some bling, and some new kicks. And oh yeah—fire up the grill, we’re having a party! My son was basically an NPC and now he’s back IRL!”

Meanwhile, big bro was out working in the fields, being responsible and whatnot. He comes home, hears music and dancing, and is like, “What in the Coachella is going on?” He asks a servant, “What’s the vibe?” And the servant’s like, “Oh, your bro came back and your dad threw a whole feast for him. We got Wagyu on deck.”

Big Bro? Fuming. Straight-up refuses to go inside. Dad comes out like, “Son, why you mad?”

And Big Bro just pops OFF. “Bro. I have been grinding for you. I have been the perfect son. Never fumbled the bag. Never broke a rule. And you never even gave me a lil goat to throw a cookout with my boys. But THIS GUY—who ran through your money like it was Monopoly cash—comes crawling back and you throw him a whole Coachella?”

Dad sighs and hits him with the ultimate wisdom drop: “Look, my guy, you’ve been with me this whole time. Everything I got? Already yours. But your brother? He was out here lost, basically spiritually bankrupt. He was out here acting like an absolute goof. And now he’s back. We gotta celebrate that!”

And that’s on unconditional love.

So why does this ancient story still matter today?

Besides making you hungry…

Prior to that meditation, I had attended one of Dr. Mia Hetényi’s monthly online grief gatherings. I found Mia a few years ago, and I’m so glad I did. I’ve learned so much about grief from her, and often find myself falling back on the tools and tips she’s shared with the other folks of her global Dreaming Awake Community. Her work has been an integral part of my healing journey.

During that gathering - the first of the year, I believe - Mia said something about how Inner Child work can quickly turn into child abuse.

We must be careful that in our zeal to heal we don’t talk to our Inner Child the way we may have been talked to as children. The good intention of healing can quickly sour if we’re trying to force a part to change - or worse - shame it into changing.

I wasn’t new to this idea, but I had never heard it framed so viscerally - as Inner Child abuse. And it was in the front of my mind that day during that meditation.

There I was, on my meditation rug, tracing the traumas through my body when I landed on something under my ribs - a flash. Just a ghost of a past self, some forgotten part. A lost child.

I held my hands on that part, applying light pressure. I began talking to this part, tenderly, gently. I borrowed a trick from IFS and told the part that I was a safe, 37-year-old adult before I continued speaking encouraging, flowery words to the part. And while I noticed a hint of something deeply shifting, I realized the shift wasn’t about my words - it was the energy and intention behind them.

Instead of worrying about the “right” words to say so part would understand that it was safe for them to be there, I shifted my approach and doubled down on the energy of acceptance and love, and I added in a healthy dose of excitement - of celebration - that the part was coming back to my conscious awareness. And where there had been only a hint of a shift before, now there was full-blown tectonic movement. I wrapped my arms around my midsection and felt that part collapse into a hug he’d been longing for since his creation over three decades ago.

It wasn’t long after that meditation that I met another part, except this part was much older - from my mid-20s. I was fortunately aware enough to notice how I was speaking to that part, and once I confirmed that he was about 25, I was able to speak more frankly. Still sincere, but a bit more cheeky, with a little sarcasm. He received it, and understood, and then I switched into that energy of joyful celebration. And much like the younger part before him, this older part fell deep into my loving self-embrace.

Awww…wood you look at that.

No matter how long our parts have been left in the shadows of self-preserving adaptations, we can take a cue from the dad in the Parable of the Prodigal Son. We can throw an all-out Coachella when a part feels safe enough to step into the light. And while it’s great if you can pinpoint the age at which a part was formed, it’s not really necessary for the healing to happen.

This is a concept that might be a struggle for some to wrap their heads around. It certainly was for me, but 99.999% of the time, the story doesn’t matter.

Don’t misunderstand me. I’m not discrediting your experience, and I’m certainly not saying the trauma didn’t happen. It absolutely did. But your mind doesn’t need to know the narrative in order to allow the body to heal.

As someone who writes, can you imagine how maddening it is to hear that the narrative doesn’t matter?!

Next you’re gonna say the Oxford comma doesn’t matter.

Regardless of whether your parts were created when you were 5 or 25, your only responsibility is to welcome them back with unconditional love, like the father of the prodigal son.

And yes, I know word-nerds will be quick to point out that prodigal actually means someone who is wasteful in their spending, but I like alliteration.

So the next time a lost part of you comes knocking, don’t just open the door - roll out the red carpet. Celebrate its return. Because every piece of you, no matter how long it’s been gone, deserves to come home.

And if you're ready to do this work with guidance, reach out - I’d be honored to walk this path with you.

You bring your forgotten parts, I’ll bring the Wagyu.