You know what nobody tells you?
Healing doesn’t look like matcha lattes and color-coded planners. It doesn’t look like sunrise yoga or a house that smells like eucalyptus 24/7. It doesn’t even look like those “clean girl” TikToks where people are always smiling in beige linen, moving through life like a warm breeze.
Healing looks like me, sitting on the floor of my empty apartment, kids finally asleep, mascara smudged, letting myself ugly cry because I’m tired. Because I’m scared. Because I’m here, alone, and I don’t like change, but here I am, living inside it.
I’ve never liked change, and I still don’t. I want to go back to the safety of knowing what’s coming next, even if it was quietly draining the life out of me. I want the comfort of a routine, even if it meant shrinking myself so small I forgot what it felt like to laugh from my gut.
But I’m here. And that’s enough.
It wasn’t until I watched my kids climb the stairs to our new home that I realized—they are my “why.” They’re the reason I left. The reason I got this apartment. The reason I kept going when I didn’t know how. Just last year, I had no car. I was still living with my ex, relying on him for everything, quietly choking on my own dreams. I’m not afraid to own up to that. But to sit here today and see that I did exactly what I said I would do—and I prayed for this moment—hits different.
I bought my own car. I got us our own place. A place where my kids can feel safe, where they can see their mommy at peace, where they can see her happy.
That’s healing, too.
Healing doesn’t look like aesthetic reels with lo-fi beats and diffused sunlight. It looks like showing up for my kids when I feel like a ghost in my own body. It looks like eating whatever I can find at the end of the day because I’m too tired to cook but still need the energy to fold tiny socks tomorrow. It’s whispering, “You know what? I’m proud of you,” even when I’m not sure I believe it yet.
It looks like pacing around my echoing apartment at 2 AM, whispering prayers under my breath when fear crawls up my spine, telling God, “I don’t know how to do this, but I’m going to try anyway.”
Healing isn’t cute. It isn’t quiet. It’s gritty, loud, and sometimes it’s crying in the shower while trying not to wake the kids. It’s making a new life out of nothing, piece by shaky piece.
And guess what?
It doesn’t make me weak. It doesn’t make me unstable. It makes me human. It makes me brave in the most ordinary, unseen ways.
We’re sold this idea that healing is a glow-up, a finish line, a perfect “after” photo. But what if healing is just showing up when you’re terrified? What if it’s letting yourself feel when it’s messy? What if it’s choosing to keep going, even when you’re exhausted and don’t know who you are anymore?
I’m learning that I need to look out for myself, too. Because I matter in this new chapter. Not because I’m perfect. Not because I’m fully healed. But because I’m here.
And that’s enough.
If you’re in your own messy healing era, just know: you’re not behind. You’re not failing. You’re not weak for feeling like it’s too much sometimes. You’re doing it. You’re building something out of the rubble, and that’s braver than any aesthetic morning routine could ever be.
So tonight, I’m sitting on my floor, letting myself cry, and telling myself, “I’m proud of you.” Because I am.
And you should be proud of yourself, too.
💡If you’re on your own healing journey, you might also like, The Hardest Part of Healing? Accepting Apologies You'll Never Get
