Editor’s note: This article reflects Joseph’s personal experience with Husband Material Academy. We are grateful for the ways God has used this process in his healing journey. As with any ministry or counseling resource, readers should prayerfully discern what is appropriate for their own needs and circumstances.
While sitting in a workshop at a Husband Material retreat, I heard these words in my spirit, “I want you to give your childhood self his voice back.”
It seemed like a strange request, and I had no clue how a person would even begin to do this; however, I acknowledged God’s desire for me to pursue this goal, knowing He would also help me get there.
I was taking a biblical counseling course through my church at the time, and as I learned about the various counseling models, I began looking for a counselor who could help me.
In December of 2025, my counselor and I talked about my goals for the coming year. I wanted to join Husband Material’s support group called Husband Material Academy (HMA) but wondered if some other combination of activities would suffice instead—I didn’t want to be overwhelmed. After much prayer and processing, I signed up. HMA’s focus on building healthy emotional well-being in men turned out to describe exactly what I was about to encounter.
Soon after beginning the program, someone asked the community whether he was missing something: in his experience with other men’s ministry groups, this was the first he’d found where no one asked him accountability questions.
A lay leader answered that HMA’s purpose is to build healthy emotional wellbeing in men—other ministries have their own purposes, and this one is Husband Material’s. That turned out to describe exactly what I was about to encounter.
Right at the beginning was the chapter entitled Hello Childhood where I was invited to find a childhood photo of myself and imagine going to him to introduce myself. I had never been asked to do anything remotely like it. I thought back to where I liked to play, and what came to mind was the edge of the garden in the dirt with my brother’s Tonka trucks. I enjoyed making trenches and roads, filling the trenches with water, and watching how the water flowed. Through prayer and imagination, I began meeting my younger self as the older brother he had needed.
In my imagination, I stood some distance away from him. Thoughts of what he might have been feeling at that age were coming to mind. He already believed he was stupid. He was angry with his dad, and he was learning that he couldn’t trust all words spoken by adults.
What follows is my journal entry from that day. I have left it mostly as I wrote it because it captures what the experience felt like in the moment.
I walked up to him while he was playing in the garden dirt, making ponds and streams. While he enjoyed his play, the verbal wound he had experienced by age 5 was still at work doing its damage.
He noticed me, but I imagined that he was wary of adults and their motives. I let him know I was present to be with him. He seemed to remain distant, and yet, I knew he wanted friends to play with him. Those conflicting desires were hard for him.
He’s going to need time to feel safe. I'll be patient with him.
This experience of meeting him was disheartening, and yet I understood that his distrust of adults included me.
After several chapters discovering our reasons for our addictive behaviors, we landed back in a few assignments where we interacted with our younger selves. One assignment was to write a letter blessing my younger self for all the qualities in him that others had not necessarily noticed or spoken into.
Reflecting on this Blessing the Boy assignment, I realized how long I had despised who I had been—and I wouldn’t be surprised if fragments of that disgust remain. There are many reasons why someone’s healing journey may stall out—I wonder if this was one of mine. The following phrase used in HMA has been helpful: You can’t lead the boy if you don’t love the boy. He won’t let you.
I thought that because I had already done work in this area, I was good. Although blessing who I was came easily, the exercise did something I hadn’t expected: it connected me to old emotions, old pain, and old desires that were dormant but good.
In the next session, Older Brother Coaching, I was asked to notice where my younger self was, what he was doing, how he responded to me, and whether Jesus seemed near. I was to approach him gently and simply be with him to see what happened.
In my case, I observed that he wanted to go to the creek and play. He welcomed me on this journey. I let my mind remember what it could about why I loved going to the creek to play. The fun was mixed with sadness from the memories of disconnection and pain he had experienced. The pain of all this was too much for him to think about, so we moved on to easier topics. Eventually, it was time for him to go home. We enjoyed our time in one of his favorite places.
The final assignment in this unit was Quality Bro Time—doing something that my younger self would have loved. I chose to go camping in my hometown park. For those who may not know, my given name was Cory, and because I did not change my name until my early thirties, it felt natural for me to address my younger self by that name.
Here is my journal entry from that day:
I am spending time with Cory. He’s with me now. We just spent some time reminiscing about lots of things. I asked him questions. He asked me questions. I wasn’t prepared for that.
He asked if I still worship Jesus, which made me sob for a while. I told him that I did. Worship does not feel as connected as it once did, but my relationship with Jesus has deepened since then. I told him that I often feel that religious experiences are mysterious and unclear, and that I need and want more understanding. I think that’s why worshiping has gotten less connected. I reassured him that I still find moments in worship just as tender as the ones he experiences regularly.
I brought up a painful memory, which he remembered, but he didn’t want to talk about it today. He wanted to talk about his passions. We talked about his love for exploration and how he loves to find obscure things. He loves streams and watching how water moves around rocks. He likes lichen, mosses, and ferns. He has a mind for creating things out of nearly anything. He dreams of small houses like I do. Just wait until he discovers tiny house shows on YouTube!
He never understood why his youth group friends didn’t have the same desire to talk on the way home from summer camp but instead wanted to sleep. He couldn’t imagine the thought of sleeping when conversation could be had.
I put my hand on his neck and his head, letting him know I cared about him through touch. I offered more if he wanted it. When he noticed me experiencing painful memories, he leaned over and gave me big hugs. He didn’t have words for me, just love. That’s often how I am as an adult, and it sometimes leaves me feeling awkward. I was able to receive his hug for what it meant to him, and to me.
This has been a good day with my little brother.
When I began HMA, I had forgotten that this would be a program that could help me connect with my younger self. I’ve only begun giving my childhood self his voice back. The pain that he’s aware of, but not yet ready to talk about, may eventually come to the surface. I won’t force it. Forcing topics has never worked with me, so I know it won’t work with him either. I can honestly say that I’ve never encountered anything so healing in such an intentional way as this. I will go through the coursework again, using it as the structure I need to continue giving my childhood voice room to speak.
Even for me, this has been an odd thing to be asked by God to do. I thought that since I could remember and talk about my points of wounding, this was enough. But I have learned that talking about a wound from across the room is not the same as walking down to the creek with the boy who carries it. He is saying things he never knew he was allowed to say. He has an older brother now, and that brother is walking him toward Jesus—patiently, at the pace of a boy who is still deciding whether adults can be trusted.