From the author: Everything in the world is interconnected. This is the psychology of life. It is important to find resources and opportunities within yourself. I share with you my experience of interacting with my “inner child”. In our childhood there are many projections of our victories and defeats. Let the “inner child” whisper its living stories into our ears. Agree, friends, in each of us there always lives an inquisitive, sincere child seeking warmth and love? And he is ready to tell us his stories. Diverse: cheerful and sad, happy and painful, which teach us wisdom, acceptance and self-love... I will share with you an interesting technique. When remembering your stories, record them on camera and then listen!!! Believe me, there are so many discoveries when you see and listen to yourself from the outside!!!!. I like RESOURCE STORIES. Here is my very first “living story”. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fgn4fWCiMds. I admit, it was very scary to decide to tell it on camera and then post it online, but it was worth it. Try this invaluable experience of accepting yourself. In my first story, three interconnected stories coexist: First: “Adult”: About internal fears: where to get your story? Doubts are our frequent companions in adult life. Second: “From childhood.” It started at the age of three. Remember? This is the age when the most important and fundamental abilities are developed in us. Such as: cognitive activity, curiosity, self-confidence and trust in other people, focus and perseverance, imagination, creative position and many more. The third final one: “We are worthwhile” about how my “child” and “adult” agreed and I found resources within myself. The first story is “Adult” or “What if it doesn’t work out”? Now my creative project “Color, image, word” is being born. It was important for me to look inside myself, so as not only to hear, but also to see myself from the outside. To do this, I decided to tell my story on camera. It was in the evening. And the morning is wiser than the evening, I decided... and... all night I dreamed of colorful and bright stories, which I tell in a fascinating and smooth way. And the next morning all my stories were gone. All that was left were harmful doubts and a grumbling child: “Or maybe we’re living well with these stories?” And the eternal adult question: “Where can I get my story? It's like finding the tail of a ball, unwinding it and knitting a beautiful sweater. No ponytail, no sweater. This is the image. I started looking for this “tail” of mine. Time passed, the stupor did not pass. The son came: “Why are you sitting and hypnotizing the computer screen?” he asked. “I’m thinking about history,” I answer. My son looked at me and quietly said again: “Let’s go, mom, have breakfast and watch our cartoons, huh? " I stopped hypnotizing the screen. “Hurray for cartoons and I won’t have to think about this story of my own, others will show me stories there,” my “inner child” rejoiced. “How many episodes are we watching?” - asked the son. “Three,” I said cheerfully. My son looked strange again, I usually ask to watch one at most two. He and I have a tradition of watching Japanese anime together at breakfast. Then we run off to do work or creative things. And then suddenly there are three episodes at once??? “Mom, are you okay?” - my adult and wise son carefully asked again. “I’m learning to tell my stories,” I answered. “I decided to tell my story and write it down. and I’m scared to imagine?” “Do you want to talk about this?” - asked my smart son, almost a psychologist. “No,” I muttered and fell silent gloomily. My son looked at me strangely again and said: “Mom, I am a socialized melancholic, and you have always been a sanguine person, it seems, sometimes even with a choleric bias. Why are you so gloomily silent? “After finishing watching the saving episodes, I looked inside myself again. “Where will we find our stories?” asked “my adult.” “Try it,” my “inner child” whispered. I listened to him and... “Eureka” - it suddenly dawned on me “II know…..” Thus my second “children’s story” was born. Story two, “Children’s” or “Heads head over Kuznetsky” I saw pictures... cobblestone streets, I’m three years old, I’m in a beautiful snow-white dress, in white knee socks. My mother is taking me to kindergarten for the first time, I don’t want to, but my mother keeps repeating “we must,” and we go. We arrive at kindergarten. I’m not crying, but I’m actively resisting. And most importantly, I don’t let go of my mother’s hand. The longer the teacher aunties persuade me and offer me various toys, the more tightly I hold on to this warm mother’s hand, like a life preserver. And Mom needs to go to work, I understand this now, but then, then I decided I would never let her go. Almost all the kindergarten toys are lying nearby, the mountain is so soft and plush. and it’s big and you can’t see me behind it. The teachers are dancing around, the children are looking in surprise, and I am holding on to my mother tighter and tighter. This probably would have gone on for a long time, but suddenly they brought a hippopotamus. It was big and soft and pink and smelled like vanilla cookies. I was surprised, distracted for just a minute and then let go of my mother’s hand. While I was looking at the hippopotamus, my mother ran off to work. I was left alone with the teachers and a pink hippopotamus to boot. When I realized my mistake, it was too late to run after my mother. Mom ran away first. It was tantamount to betrayal. I hugged the hippopotamus and we sat down in the middle of the playroom, not paying attention to anyone. When quiet time came, I moved silently to the bedroom. It is supposed to lie in the garden during a quiet hour, but we sat in an embrace with a hippopotamus and were silent in unison. Hippopotamus is by its toy nature, and I am stubbornly childish. The questions were answered in monosyllables: “We won’t sleep.” In the end, they both left us alone. So we sat quietly, the whole quiet hour... and were offended by the whole world, by the teachers and especially by Mom... When Mom arrived. The hippopotamus and I continued to sit on the floor. There was no way I wanted to part with my only friend. He didn’t betray me, but mom? I remember my mother was upset, but she didn’t swear. She took my hand and I went and sulked and remained silent. So we walked. We lived on Neglinka Street in the center of Moscow. We walked home along Kuznetsky Most street. There is a wonderful historical cobblestone street located downhill. Anyone who has been to these parts knows. This is where the House of Artists and the Indian cafe “Jagannath” with a variety of goodies are. My mother asks me about the kindergarten and suddenly.., it’s as if someone is pushing me from within. I suddenly let go of my mother’s hand, lie down on the asphalt and…….. quickly and easily rolled. I’m happy and immediately all the resentment towards my mother rolled away somewhere. I’m rolling down the hill with acceleration. The weather is wonderful, my mood is also rapidly improving. I keep swinging, faster and faster, Mom runs after me, somewhere high above me - high I hear her voice: “Someone help, hold the child - ahhh!!!!” The sun is shining brightly, the sky is blue, the bricks are warm. I’m rolling head over heels along Kuznetsky, laughing, laughing loudly and loudly. Inside, it’s good fun and light. Someone’s brown shoes stopped me, so shiny, patent leather, I rolled into them in a big way. I raise my head, look up, and above me is the smiling face of a mustachioed man and his surprised exclamation: “What a surprise, whose child is this - Kolobok?” I sit and touch the patent leather shoes with my fingers and I feel good. Then mom ran up. They lifted me to my feet and shook me off. Mom thanked the mustachioed uncle for capturing the child. “You’re welcome, madam,” he answered gallantly. (since then I like gallant mustaches). I remember his face with a smile, his bass voice, and the mustache with which he tickled me when he stood me up and shook me off the cobblestone dust. We, with our snow-white dress and knee socks, became the color of bright asphalt. And mom? Mom was red in color. Maybe it was then that my passion for color and figurative perception of reality began? My mother is wonderful and wise, she didn’t swear. We looked picturesque. My mother, all of herself an elegantly sophisticated “lady-lady,” casually led a contented and grimy child by the hand. We chatted happily, like two