I used to think healing would be loud.
That one day I’d wake up and everything would feel lighter—like the pain had vanished, like I’d finally arrived somewhere whole and finished.
But it doesn’t work like that.

Healing, I’ve learned, doesn’t show up all at once.
It drips in slowly—through small, quiet moments I used to overlook.
In the way I speak to myself on the hard days.
In the way I let my body rest without guilt.
In the way my cats curl up beside me when I don’t know what to do with the ache in my chest.

I’m still learning to heal the parts of me that feel unlovable.
I still catch myself picking apart photos and reflections.
I still fall into spirals.
But now, I catch myself sooner.
And sometimes, I choose to be kind instead of cruel.
That feels like healing, too.

These days, healing looks like making my bed in the morning.
Lighting a candle for no reason at all.
Texting back when I feel ready, not out of obligation.
It’s hiking a trail I once walked through tears—this time without the same weight on my shoulders.
It’s finishing a therapy session and not numbing the emotions that follow.
It’s noticing the wind in the trees and realizing—without trying—that I’m still here, still breathing.

I used to chase big milestones for proof that I was getting better.
Now, I find comfort in the quiet joys:
A soft blanket and a moment of calm.
A song that understands me.
The gentle purring of cats who don’t need me to be anything but present.
A night where I fall asleep without reliving every mistake.
A breath that reaches all the way down.

I don’t write because I’ve made it through.
I write because I’m still in it—still unraveling, still rebuilding.
Still showing up for myself in small, imperfect ways.
And maybe someone else is, too.

I write to remind myself that healing doesn’t have to be loud or linear.
That sometimes, surviving the day is enough.
That softness counts.
That stillness counts.
That I count—even when I don’t feel like I do.

Healing didn’t look like I imagined.
But maybe it was never meant to.
Maybe healing means letting yourself be human.
Letting the messy and the beautiful coexist.
Letting yourself begin again—as many times as it takes.