When You’re Healing, But It Still Feels Like Sh*t

I used to think healing was something you finished.
Like—cool, I did the work. Cried the tears. Had the breakdowns. Now I’m good, right?

But that’s not how it goes.

Healing doesn’t hand you a certificate when you’ve arrived. There is no finish line. It’s not some perfectly timed linear arc where you wake up one day suddenly whole and untouched by the past.

It’s a damn spiral.

You meet a layer when you’re strong enough to touch it. When your nervous system can actually stay in the room without shutting down. And that’s usually just the surface—the tip of the wound. Enough to let a little light in without getting blinded.

Then you grow. You stretch. You open. And just when you think, I’ve moved through that, something happens and it all circles back. But it’s not the same—you’re not the same.

It comes back to meet a deeper version of you.
The version that no longer needs to numb it.
The version that can finally sit in the fire without running.

And yeah, it sucks. Not because you’re broken. But because now you’re actually in it—feeling what you never had space to feel before.

I’ve had days lately where I thought, Is this healing? Or am I just falling apart again?
Like—shouldn’t this feel lighter by now? More peaceful? Shouldn’t I be better?

But that’s the lie we’re sold. That healing is supposed to feel good. That the deeper you go, the easier it gets. That once you know the truth, you’ll be free.

But the truth?
The truth makes everything harder first.

Because once you see it, you can’t unsee it.
Once you feel it, you can’t numb it again without consequence.
And once you come home to yourself, everything that used to “work” for survival suddenly feels unbearable.

You’re not doing it wrong.
This is just what it looks like when you stop abandoning yourself.

It’s weird how the more aware you become, the more tender you feel.
You stop tolerating the things you used to normalize.
You start noticing how loud the world is.
You feel heavy in rooms you used to shrink yourself to fit in.

Everything becomes louder. Sharper.
And yeah, it gets lonely too.

Because you’re no longer pretending.
No longer playing nice with the parts of you that had to perform to be accepted.

So if you’re in that space—where your heart feels too raw and your body too tired and your emotions too damn much… I want to say this:

You’re not lost. You’re deepening.

There’s no map for this kind of work.
No checklist.
No timeline.

You hold what you can, when you can. You break when you need to. You come back when you’re ready.

Some days, you’ll feel strong and clear and grounded as hell.

Other days, brushing your teeth will feel like a win.

But every time you choose to stay—
to breathe through the ache,
to tell the truth even when it shakes,
to stay soft when everything in you wants to shut down—
that’s healing.

Messy. Sacred. Not a straight line.
But a spiral that brings you closer to yourself every time.

You’re not starting over.
You’re just starting deeper.

Healing takes time. Yeah, it’s long. But each layer feels different. Deeper. More real. More meaningful. And every time you go through it—every spiral, every messy round—you get stronger.

Not just stronger for what you’re moving through now… but for the next time something hits. Because now you know what it feels like to face it. You’ve done hard things before. You know your patterns. You can see the blocks. You recognize when you're starting to sink. That kind of self-awareness? That’s power.

For me, writing is a release. So is yoga. The gym. Pushing myself. Moving and sweating. I need that. I also know I need rest—but I have to be careful with too much stillness. If I stop moving completely, I can feel myself start to get stuck again. It’s a fine line. One I’ve learned by walking it.

So this week—find your release.
Set one boundary. Keep it. Even if it's just with yourself.
And if you slip? Give yourself grace. Then start again, exactly where you are.
You’re not back at the beginning. You’re just moving deeper.