I refuse to heal pretty.
I refuse to shrink myself into a Pinterest aesthetic
just so the world can applaud how
“gracefully”
I survived the storm.
Healing is not a ballet.
It’s a boxing ring.
And some days, the only thing standing
is my will to keep swinging.
I refuse to whisper my pain like it might break the room.
I refuse to sit cross-legged on a yoga mat,
breathing in eucalyptus serenity,
when my heart is screaming loud enough
to rattle the windows.
I refuse to post curated vulnerability —
the kind with soft lighting
and latte foam hearts —
while leaving out the nights
I rewrote the same text message
thirty-seven times
and still pressed send.
I refuse to heal quietly.
Politely.
Neatly.
Healing me is dramatic.
Healing me is long-winded.
Healing me shows up uninvited at 3am
with popcorn, old wounds, and a playlist
that emotionally cripples me on purpose.
Sometimes I glow.
Sometimes I rot.
Sometimes I delete social media for “clarity,”
then re-download it three hours later
because FOMO is a disease
and apparently, I am patient zero.
Healing isn’t cute.
It’s confrontational.
It makes you look at all the versions of yourself
you pretended didn’t exist.
The ones who loved too hard.
The ones who stayed too long.
The ones who thought crumbs were a feast
because starving had become a personality trait.
I refuse to heal pretty
because pretty healing
lets people say:
“At least she handled it well.”
“At least she stayed kind.”
“At least she didn’t make a scene.”
But sometimes the scene
needs making.
Sometimes the fire
needs feeding.
Sometimes the woman you’re becoming
has to drag the girl you were
out of the burning house
kicking
screaming
crying
and still call it progress.
And here’s the plot twist:
Healing doesn’t end
with a soft piano outro
and a boyfriend running through the rain
to tell you he’s changed.
No.
Healing ends with you.
Choosing yourself.
Again.
And again.
And again —
until it stops feeling radical
and starts feeling normal.
So no —
I won’t heal pretty.
I will heal loud.
I will heal real.
I will heal like a storm rolling through town
with thunder in her throat
and lightning on her tongue.
And when I finally rise —
messy bun crooked,
lip gloss slightly smeared,
heart stitched back together
with glitter thread and attitude —
I won’t be asking for approval.
I’ll just be here.
Unapologetic.
Unsoftened.
Uncut.
Because this time,
I didn’t heal for them.
I healed for me.
