Healing Doesn’t Look Like What Instagram Told Me It Would

I thought healing would look like soft mornings with oat milk lattes, journaling in golden sunlight, and dancing barefoot in a field of lavender. Instagram sold me that version — the kind wrapped in pastel filters and affirmations in cursive fonts.

But my healing didn’t look like that.

My healing looked like staring at the ceiling at 3 a.m., wondering why I still felt broken. It looked like canceling plans because I couldn’t breathe through the anxiety. It looked like writing angry letters I never sent, crying in the shower, and unfollowing people I once admired because their lives made me feel like I was failing at mine.

The Lie of Aesthetic Healing

There’s a strange pressure in the digital wellness space to "heal beautifully." We’re told to light candles, drink tea, take baths, and everything will gently fall into place. But no one talks about the dark stuff — the shame, the relapses, the way grief reopens wounds you thought had scarred over.

Healing, in real life, is not always beautiful. Sometimes it's boring. Other times, it’s ugly.

It’s unlearning. Unraveling. Undoing years of patterns and survival mechanisms that once protected you but no longer serve you. And that’s not always something you can capture in a carousel post.

The Middle is Messy

The hardest part of healing isn’t beginning. It’s sticking around through the middle — the part with no timeline, no milestones, no external validation. Just you, your pain, and your decision to keep going.

Some days, I’d feel hopeful and whole. Other days, I’d fall back into the same self-destructive thoughts I was trying to outgrow. And that inconsistency made me think I wasn’t healing at all.

But growth isn’t a straight line. It’s a spiral. And sometimes you come back to the same place just to learn you’ve changed.

Redefining What Healing Means

I used to think healing meant I’d never feel sad again. That I’d be “fixed.” That all the chaos inside me would disappear and be replaced by calm and clarity.

But now I know healing means feeling your emotions fully — and not running from them.

It means recognizing your triggers and responding with compassion instead of shame.

It means choosing not to engage with what once destroyed you.

It means learning to rest, to say no, to let go, to try again.

And sometimes, it means forgiving yourself for not being where you thought you'd be.

What Actually Helped

The real tools that helped me heal weren’t Instagram-worthy.

Therapy. Unfiltered, exhausting, liberating therapy.

Journaling honestly. Not with prompts, but with rage and rawness.

Unfollowing. Not out of spite, but out of self-preservation.

Silence. Long walks with no earbuds. Just thoughts.

Community. A friend who held space without trying to fix me.

Healing looked like giving up on the “perfect” version and just showing up, as I was.

You Don’t Need to Perform Your Pain

If you’re in the middle of your healing and it doesn’t look like the “inspo” posts online, that’s okay.

You don’t need a mood board for your journey to matter.

You don’t have to be graceful to be growing.

Healing isn’t always visible. Sometimes it’s just the act of not quitting. Of waking up and choosing to try again. Of speaking gently to yourself, even after the storm.

Final Thought:

Healing isn’t something you finish. It’s something you learn to live with. And no matter what Instagram tells you, your version is valid—even if no one double taps it.