Crow and Flame

Somewhere along the way, we were taught that healing has a finish line.

That if we just work hard enough—go to therapy, journal, forgive, breathe, release—we will arrive at a place where nothing hurts anymore.

Where triggers no longer exist.

Where the past stays in the past.

Where we are finally fixed.

But that version of healing is a myth.

Healing is not a destination. It is not a certificate you earn or a box you check. It is not a state of permanent calm or happiness. Healing is a relationship—one you are constantly in conversation with.

There are days I feel grounded, present, steady.

And there are days an old wound flares without warning. A smell, a memory, a tone of voice can pull me right back into something I thought I had already “worked through.”

That doesn’t mean I’ve failed.

It means I’m human.

We don’t heal by erasing what happened to us. We heal by learning how to live with it—how to carry our stories with more compassion and less shame. The scars don’t disappear; they soften. They become part of our landscape instead of the whole horizon.

The pressure to be “fully healed” can actually cause harm. It tells us that if we’re still struggling, we must be doing something wrong. That if grief resurfaces, if anxiety returns, if our body remembers, then we haven’t healed enough.

But healing isn’t linear. It spirals.

You revisit the same places with new tools, new language, new strength. What once knocked you flat might now only slow you down. That is healing—even if it doesn’t look like perfection.

Being healed doesn’t mean you never hurt.

It means you know how to care for yourself when you do.

It means you can name what’s happening instead of drowning in it.

It means you reach for coping instead of punishment.

It means you offer yourself grace instead of judgment.

Some wounds leave echoes. Some losses never stop aching. Some experiences change us permanently. Healing doesn’t undo that—it teaches us how to keep going anyway.

So if you’re waiting to feel “fully healed” before you allow yourself rest, joy, love, or belonging—please don’t. You don’t have to be finished to be worthy. You don’t have to be whole to be enough.

Healing is not becoming someone untouched by pain.

Healing is becoming someone who knows how to stay.

And that, in itself, is a kind of wholeness.