Healing ..!
Yes, heal yourself
Healing... when the voice returns to your soul, not to scream, but to whisper: I'm okay.
Healing doesn't begin with a smile.
It begins with a breakdown that no longer frightens you.
It is not a moment, nor a leap out of sadness,
but a quiet road that walks you—clumsily—back to your old heart,
so you can whisper: "You've been hurt so much… but I'm still here."
Healing is not forgetting, but remembering without bleeding.
It is passing by the same places, hearing the same songs,
seeing the same faces… and your insides no longer tremble.
It's when you recall everything that happened—
without denying it, beautifying it, or trying to erase it—
but instead, include it in your story as a chapter of your book,
as if telling your pain: "You were a part of me, but not all of me."
Healing doesn't happen when the pain stops,
but when you stop fighting it.
When you sit beside it, acknowledge it,
without letting it rule you.
It is a slow, winding process—
less like a flash of light and more like a wound healing:
invisible while it's happening,
until one day you place your hand on your heart
and realize… it's no longer bleeding the same way.
It begins with acknowledgment: "Yes, I was hurt."
Then acceptance: "Yes, it happened."
Then transformation: "But I am not that pain."
Then growth: "Now… what can I do with what's left?"
In healing, you don't deny the darkness—
you start lighting small candles inside it.
One candle a day.
You return to yourself, step by step.
You comfort your inner child,
allow her to cry, to rage, to fall apart, to ask—
without silencing her or shaming her.
You hold yourself when you're tired.
You forgive yourself for every time you were scared,
for every time you stayed silent while suffocating,
for every time you thought survival meant standing still while you were breaking.
And in the middle of this path,
you realize that healing doesn't mean things return to how they used to be—
but that you can live in peace, even if they never do.
That you can walk without needing answers to everything.
That you can love without chaining your feelings to fear.
That you can feel joy, not because you forgot sadness,
but because you made peace with it—
and learned it never lasts.
Healing is living in your own skin without restlessness,
knowing when to fall silent—
not because you're dimmed,
but because you're at peace.
It's looking into the mirror and seeing a face that survived—
not perfect, not without scars,
but an honest face carrying traces of your falls… and your risings.
Healing is choosing to live again,
not on top of your ruins—but from them.
To rebuild yourself with the same tools that once wounded you.
To write, to walk, to pray, to draw, to sit in silence—
but this time, not as a form of escape,
but as an act of freedom.
And one day…
you'll open your window in the morning,
inhale deeply,
and whisper: "I don't know all the answers, but I'm okay… and I'm moving forward."
And this—
this is when you'll know you are still on the path of healing—
but this time, you are the one holding your hand,
not the pain.
When the wound becomes wisdom
At first, a wound seems like nothing but a fracture in memory—
like something inside you broke with a sound no one heard,
and you've been walking through life ever since, trying to hide it.
Afraid someone might touch it—
or that you might even look at it yourself.
But time alone doesn't heal the wound...
What heals it is learning to look at it differently.
To see it not as an ending, but as a beginning.
One day—when the world quiets,
when you're too tired to cry,
when you've run out of "why"—
you sit with your wound, not to blame it… but to understand it.
You ask it:
"What were you trying to teach me?"
And then you discover…
The wound wasn't a punishment.
It was a mirror—one you were forced to look into,
to see the parts of yourself you were ignoring.
That the one who broke your heart—
was simply the hand that revealed your fragility,
not just to hurt you,
but to show you that a part of you had long been crying out for rescue.
That pain wasn't the end of the road,
but a sign that the old road no longer fit who you were becoming.
Wisdom begins not when you hate what happened—
but when you use it to build what should now be.
When you say:
"I was hurt… but now I know how to set boundaries."
"I was betrayed… but now I know how valuable my trust is."
"I fell… but I found the ground that holds me when I'm tired."
You become more aware:
You love with open eyes, not desperate ones.
You give from your heart, not to be filled, but because you already are.
You listen to the pain of others—
not with pity, but with the empathy of someone who has walked through it too.
You become gentle with the version of yourself you used to be—
the child, the girl, the soul that was once scared and trembling…
but who survived.
And most importantly—
You stop searching for someone to rescue you.
Because you finally understand that when a wound is embraced,
it's no longer a place of weakness—
but a soft power that says:
"I was here. I fell. I cried. But I understood. I grew. And I kept going."
And in a moment no one sees,
you place your hand on your heart,
and you thank it—
not because it was never wounded,
but because it healed… and kept loving anyway.
Right there—
the wound becomes wisdom.
Not a burden you carry,
but a light you walk with—
for yourself,
and for others.