Healing isn't linear -- it loops, it stumbles, it glows

 

The first time I realized I was healing, it wasn’t loud or life-changing. It was somewhere between the tears and the unexpected laughter. 

You know, those weird in-between days — the ones where you cry your eyes out in the morning and then laugh at a meme your friend sends by afternoon. 

Days when your chest still aches, but your favorite song makes your foot tap anyway. 

That’s the funny thing about healing — it doesn’t arrive with a parade.  

It tiptoes in quietly, like the way morning fog lingers before the sun knows it’s time to shine.

There was a time when my world tilted. 

Not all at once — but slowly, painfully, from things unsaid and people I never imagined hurting me. 

I was living in the aftermath of a storm I didn’t see coming. 

And the hardest part? 

I still had to show up every day. Smile. Function.  

Share space with the same shadows that once felt like home.

But I didn’t give up on myself. I found pockets of light in the most unexpected corners. 

In quiet music. 

In the rhythm of podcasts that held my hand when silence felt too loud. 

In the way I started caring for my curls — and how they stayed intact for three entire days (a miracle, if you ask me). 

That little thing made me proud. 

That was healing, too.

For me, healing looked like walking into places I hadn’t planned to be — alleys tucked behind bustling streets, quiet spots in a city that wasn’t mine, corners of the world where I found a kind of peace I didn’t know I needed. 

I wasn’t searching for anything specific. I just didn’t want to miss the beauty that hides in the unlikeliest places. 

Some places made me feel out of place. Others felt like a quiet hug. 

But with each new turn, I kept choosing to show up. 

And that — that simple act of still being curious, still willing to be moved — that’s how I began to trust myself again. 

Not all days bloom. But some come with surprise sunsets and a soft reminder that I’m still growing.

And still, there are things I carry — echoes of old triggers, flickers of comparison when someone else’s success feels too close to my own pain. 

But I remind myself: their path is theirs. Mine is mine. 

I am growing. 

Slowly, gently, fiercely. 

One blog post, one exam, and one act of self-care at a time.

Someone once showed me — through quiet presence and words I didn’t know I needed — that I was worthy of healing.  

Let’s just say, sometimes the universe sends you someone at the exact time your soul is unraveling. 

And when I stepped into therapy, hesitant and unsure, I found another anchor. My therapist has seen versions of me I didn’t know how to face alone. And still, she reminds me —I’m changing, I’m healing. And she’s proud.

To anyone who thinks they are broken beyond repair—you’re not. 

You are not shards on a floor. You are glass made new, maybe with cracks, but stronger because of them. 

The Japanese call it kintsugi, where cracks are filled with gold. The cracks aren’t shameful —they’re your story. 

You’re not the same person you were before the pain—you’re becoming. 

And the beautiful thing? You’ll never be broken in quite the same way again.

And if today feels like a cloudy, unlit day — if you feel like you’re standing on the wrong platform chasing the wrong metro — I get it. 

I’ve been there, sprinting toward a train I wasn’t meant to board, only to realize my destination was on the opposite side all along. That mix of panic and misdirection? 

That, too, is healing. Because now, you know better.

What I wish more people understood is this: 

Healing has no single face. Some days it looks like journaling. 

Other days, it’s skipping a meal or binge-watching a show and feeling guilty afterward. 

It’s crying in the shower and then laughing with a friend five minutes later. 

It’s messy. It’s nonlinear. 

And most of all, it’s deeply personal.

Maybe healing isn’t about being whole again — maybe it’s about learning to live gently with the parts that still tremble.

Advice helps.  Therapy helps.  Love helps. 

But in the end, the real work — the 50% no one can do for you — is yours. 

You get to choose. 

To sit with yourself. 

To love the parts you’ve tried to hide. 

To let go. To grow.

And that, my love, is healing.

With love,

H. Writes