I Didn’t Know I Was Healing While It Hurt

I used to think healing would feel like light. Like soft music and lavender candles. Like peace settling into the cracks.

But the truth is, healing rarely introduces itself with comfort. It doesn’t show up with a label or a warning. Most times, healing arrives looking a lot like pain.

It took me years to understand this: I was healing in the middle of my breakdowns. In the quiet after crying. In the chaos. In the quitting. In the aching.

I didn’t know it at the time—but I was getting better even when it felt like I was falling apart.

1. Healing Looked Like Isolation—Before It Felt Like Growth

There was a season when I disappeared. Not for drama. Not to punish anyone. Just to survive.

I couldn’t hold conversations. Couldn’t pretend I was okay. I pulled back from group chats. Cancelled plans I once would’ve forced myself to attend. I feared I was regressing.

But in that silence, something was rebuilding. I was no longer abandoning myself for the comfort of others. I was learning to sit with my own heart. That, I later realized, was healing.

2. Healing Looked Like Crying on the Kitchen Floor

I cried over things I thought I’d moved past. Old wounds reopened without warning. I’d burst into tears over songs, TV shows, even the way the sunlight hit a cup of coffee.

It felt like weakness. Like unraveling.

But those tears weren’t a setback. They were release. The kind that clears space. The kind that makes room for softness where shame once lived.

You’re not broken for breaking open. You’re healing when you give your pain room to speak.

3. Healing Looked Like Saying “No” More Often

I used to be afraid of “no.” Afraid it meant I was letting people down or closing doors.

But when I started saying “no,” even to things I used to tolerate, something shifted.

I didn’t realize it then, but each “no” was a declaration. A moment of choosing myself. A seed of self-trust.

Boundaries don’t look glamorous. But they are the silent architecture of healing.

4. Healing Looked Like Exhaustion—Not Energy

I thought I’d feel energized once I started healing. But the opposite happened. I was tired—more tired than I’d ever been.

And now I understand why.

Because I had stopped running. Stopped people-pleasing. Stopped suppressing every emotion.

Healing was giving my nervous system the rest it had been screaming for. It wasn’t regression. It was restoration.

5. Healing Looked Like Confusion, Not Clarity

I thought healing would bring answers. Instead, it brought questions.

Who am I without that relationship?

What do I really want from life?

Why did I let that happen for so long?

I thought healing would make things simple. It didn’t. But it made me curious again. And in that curiosity, I found parts of myself I hadn’t visited in years.

Confusion is the beginning of self-awareness.

6. Healing Looked Like Forgiving Myself Slowly

This was the hardest part. Not forgiving others—but forgiving myself.

For staying too long. For dimming my light. For believing lies. For repeating patterns. For not knowing better sooner.

I thought healing would feel like triumph. Sometimes, it just felt like not hating myself as much today as I did yesterday.

And that—slow, imperfect grace—was healing.

7. Healing Looked Like Doing the Bare Minimum

There were days when brushing my teeth felt like a win. Days when making a sandwich was my only achievement. I didn’t see that as progress.

But now I do.

Because when your mind is fractured, and your heart is heavy, showing up for yourself in small ways is massive.

If you're keeping yourself alive through the fog—you are healing.

8. Healing Was Never Linear

Some mornings I woke up hopeful. Other days I was back in the depths.

I used to panic when the sadness returned. I thought it meant I was failing.

But healing doesn’t follow a timeline. It loops. It repeats. It dips and spikes.

And every loop taught me something new.

Here’s what I know now:

• Choosing not to text them back: Crying after seeing their name

• Setting a boundary: Feeling guilty for days

• Getting out of bed today: Still feeling tired all day

• Asking for help: Feeling embarrassed after doing it

• Letting go of control: Feeling totally lost

• Smiling at a stranger: Still feeling alone inside

None of this is failure. It’s proof that you're doing the work.

How to Hold Yourself Gently While You Heal:

• Speak to yourself like you would a friend

• Track your progress, not your perfection

• Normalize having slow, silent, sticky days

• Honor what still hurts—don’t rush it

• Celebrate the small wins like they’re big ones

You might be in the messy middle. The “I don’t know who I am” chapter. The “nothing makes sense” part of the story.

But look at you. Breathing. Trying. Reading this.

That’s not failure. That’s healing. And I’m proud of you for being here—for staying, for hoping, for hurting and not giving up.

One day, you’ll look back and realize: You were healing all along. Even while it hurts.