I used to think healing meant fixing. That healing meant clearing away all the pain. Over the years, I believed that if I could just do enough work, read enough books, journal the right things — maybe then I’d find my way back to the light. But every time I tried to heal, it wasn’t peaceful. It was painful. A flood of memories would crash over me, and all the anger and hatred would cloud over my heart.
Despite the pain, I kept going back and forth, trying to be brave enough to face my own bleeding — only to find it hurt more than I expected. The more I reached in, the more I felt how deeply the pain had rooted itself in me. And a part of me wanted to stop, to just leave it all buried. But something deep inside me knew that if I wanted to truly love, I had to heal the inner child in me.
So this time, I stopped trying to rewire it. I stopped trying to reshape the feeling. I sat quietly and imagined her — that younger version of me. The one who didn’t understand why love felt so far away. The one who stayed silent even when she was scared. I saw her not as a memory, but as someone who had been waiting all along. I walked up to her, knelt beside her, and wrapped my arms around her shoulders. No words. Just presence. Just breath. And slowly, I whispered, “You don’t have to carry it all. You don’t have to be the strong one anymore. I’m here now.”
And something in me softened. Thank you, self. You kept going. I’ve come to realize that healing doesn’t always mean the pain will disappear. That little girl — she still lives in me. She still shapes who I am today. But now, she’s learning to forgive. She’s beginning to understand her worth. She’s opening her heart to receive. She finally knows what it feels like to be loved. Because healing isn’t about being unbroken. It’s about coming home to the parts of us we once abandoned — and loving them back into wholeness.