I’ve become suspicious of the word healing.
Not because healing isn’t real. I’ve needed plenty of it.
But because I’ve learned you can spend years “healing” while becoming exceptionally good at avoiding anything that might actually require you to change.
I know because I’ve done it.
I’ve analyzed my childhood. Studied my wounds. Learned the vocabulary. Identified the patterns and the people responsible for them.
And there is a peculiar danger in understanding yourself too well.
You can become so fascinated by why you are the way you are that you never ask what you intend to do about it.
I’ve called things “protecting my peace” that were really cowardice.
“Processing” that was really rumination.
“Knowing my worth” that was really pride.
And “healing” that was simply avoidance with better branding.
Sometimes the boundary is necessary.
Sometimes you’re just running away, but now you have therapeutic language for it.
At some point, the wound has to stop being the center of the story.
You have to get up.
Forgive.
Work.
Love.
Tell the truth.
Make breakfast.
Raise the children.
Do the hard thing.
Perhaps the great irony of healing is that sometimes the way out of yourself is not more self-examination.
Eventually, you have to stop staring at the ruins and start rebuilding.
B🤍
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