Not Every Wound Closes Quietly

There’s a strange kind of quiet that settles when you decide to pull your heart open for the world to see.

What you read here, on this blog, may not be from the day it’s posted. Some of these words are older. Worn. Journal pages dated months, years, before today. I’m not here to write in real time. I’m here to peel back layers. Slowly. Sometimes all at once. Because healing doesn’t come dressed in clean timelines and curated hashtags. It arrives muddy. Loud. Out of order.

We’re sold this idea that grief moves like stepping stones: denial to anger, anger to bargaining, bargaining to depression, and finally, like some promised land, acceptance. But I don’t know who made that map, because they never asked for directions from someone who’s actually been there. In one day, I’ve screamed in anger and whispered to God for a second chance. I’ve stared at the ceiling, cursing God for waking me up, then prayed at night to give me the strength to keep fighting. I’ve felt the weight of acceptance and then, within the same hour, curled up in fetal denial again. Other times, I pitch a tent and live in depression for weeks. Sometimes I don’t even know what stage I’m in - I just know it hurts.

And none of it is wrong. None of it is shameful. All of it is part of this wildly unglamorous thing we call healing.

I’ve always written. Always. Myspace, Facebook… little corners of the internet that felt safe enough to say what I couldn’t say out loud. Teachers, friends, cousins told me to share more, to publish, to make my words public. But let’s be honest - we only like the pretty parts of pain, don’t we? We want the resilience, the redemption arc, the cleaned-up version of survival. We’re uncomfortable with the messy middle. The part where the hero doesn’t win. The part where she can’t even get out of bed other than to do the bare minimum. No one wants to read about that part. No one wants to read about how the only reason she showered this week was because she needed a quiet place to sob out of her kids’ view.

So for a long time, I only shared the “not-so-bad” stuff. The entries where my vulnerability was palatable, neat. The ones that made people say, “You’re so strong,” instead of, “Oh, wow. So, that’s a lot.” But here’s the truth: I’m not healed. Whatever that actually means. I don’t believe in “healed” anymore. I believe in healing. Present tense. Always in motion. Some days, serotonin feels like a rumor. Some days, I feel like I’m nailing this life thing. Most days, I’m somewhere in between.

I’ve been in therapy for a long time. The kind of therapy where you sit in silence until you finally admit the thing you swore you’d never say out loud. The kind where your therapist learns more from your journal than your mouth. For years, I was the “I’m fine” patient. “This week’s been better,” I’d say, like a good girl, like a grateful girl. Because I was taught early that someone always has it worse - and that meant I had no right to my pain.

So I stuffed it. Hid it. Wrote it instead of speaking it.

And now I’m letting it out. Not because I want pity or applause. But because someone out there needs to know that you can be in therapy, doing all the "inner work," reading the books, lighting the candles, praying the prayers… and still have days where you don’t believe a single damn word of hope.

And that is OK.

I’m sharing these pieces of my journey because healing isn’t a straight road. It’s a spiral staircase where some days you swear you're rising, only to find yourself on the same step you cried on three months ago. I want this blog to show the messy, sacred, shattered truth of what it means to keep going when the finish line keeps disappearing.

Yes, there are parts I won’t share. Especially those involving my recent divorce - After eleven years of sharing a life with someone, we made the mutual decision to let go. To release what was no longer working. To untangle two lives that had once been woven together with vows, babies, memories, love, and eventually - deafening silence. Divorce is death in its own cruel way. A death of what was, of what was hoped for, of what you swore you'd never lose.

But let me be clear: I’m not here to write that story, not in full. Not because it didn’t matter, not because it didn’t shape me, but because my children deserve something sacred to remain untouched. This is their story too, in ways they won’t fully understand until much later. So out of love for them, out of respect for their father, and out of my own commitment to heal without harming - I won’t be detailing that part of my journey here.

Yes, he shows up in some of the entries I’ve written over the years. Sometimes as a shadow, sometimes as a trigger, sometimes as a hand I once held tightly. I’ve removed his role from those pieces not out of bitterness, but out of boundaries. Because this blog isn’t about him. It’s about me. It’s about the fire I walked through and the breath I’m still trying to catch on the other side.

So if you came here looking for that chapter in bold, with receipts or rage or scandal, I’ll kindly direct you to exit stage left. That’s not what this space is for.

And finally, I’m not doing this for you to tell me I’m worthy. I know that. Not always with my feelings, but with the quiet, steady voice of my soul. I know I am worthy. And so are you. Even on the days when you feel disposable. Especially then.

So thank you. For being here. For walking with me.

This is A Heart Rearranged.
Where grief meets grace.
Where healing doesn’t have to look like perfection.
Where we sit in the ashes — and sometimes, we even bloom there.