Healing does not require closure or resolution. It begins with accepting who you are today, even if you feel unchanged, fractured, or unfinished. Growth does not have to be visible. Healing often happens quietly, alongside uncertainty and setbacks.
The idea that healing requires resolution feels almost heretical in a culture that insists healing must end in understanding, apologies, or neat conclusions. We are taught that peace comes after explanation, justice, or when the other person finally says, “I’m sorry.” But sometimes healing can begin much earlier. It is a willingness to accept who we are today.
Healing happens underground, in the places where confusion and pain still live. It can exist alongside fear, anger, and unanswered questions, even when the body remembers what the mind wishes it could forget.
I know this because I have lived it.
In 2005, a moment suspended in my memory, I am 37 and pregnant. He is 37 and a Pastor. I am standing in a bedroom, confused. Sunlight spills through the curtains. The carpet is cool beneath my feet. The room looks ordinary, unchanged, which makes the cruelty harder to understand. How can someone do something so violent and act as though nothing happened? How can the world remain intact when something inside me has shattered?
My body holds the truth even when words fail. The truth: his actions triggered a miscarriage. There is tension everywhere: my tight chest, my knotted gut, a heaviness that presses me toward the ground. I feel dry, depleted, unable to cry. I can’t even empty the pain. I want to scream, run, disappear into sleep. My soul feels suppressed, distant, unreachable. In my desperation, I wish for divine intervention, punishment done to him, not because I want violence, but because I want acknowledgment. I want the harm to be seen, named, made real.
The wish for an apology is not about reconciliation. It is about validation. If the one who caused the harm were to seek forgiveness, it would mean admitting the harm existed. It would allow me to acknowledge it too, to stop wondering whether I imagined it, whether it counted. Without that acknowledgment, I am left alone with the knowing, carrying both the wound and the responsibility of believing myself.
Today, 20 years later, through the inner work of healing, when I return to that memory of the bed, something or someone else appears: a protector, an ally, a voice that says, “Fuck you,” to the bed, not to destroy it, but to defend me. A hand reaches out to help me sit up, to wipe my tears. Although I am still afraid to face the bed, I am willing to peek around my protector’s shoulder. This, too, is healing. Not the absence of fear, but the presence of support.
The bed itself has not changed. It is an inanimate object, made as always. And yet it holds meaning. The comforter had light teal squares, abstractly arranged, some solid, some floral, hints of pink scattered throughout the pattern. Calm existing in chaos. I want to burn that bed, to erase the sight of the pain. But I also want to save the comforter, folding it carefully, rather than destroying it. Because I am allowed to carry reminders without being consumed by them.
This is not closure; it is not resolution. It is acceptance of where I am now and how far I have come.
Healing, in this sense, is not happiness or forgiveness. It is a quiet decision to stand with yourself, even in uncertainty. It is the recognition that healing can happen while questions remain unanswered, while anger still flickers, while the past refuses to stay neatly behind you. It is the understanding that being unfinished does not mean being broken.
Healing begins the moment you stop waiting for someone else to give you permission to believe your own experience. Healing does not require closure, because closure depends on other people behaving in ways they often never will.
Moving past trauma does not come from fixing the past or controlling emotions. It happens slowly by how we take care of ourselves in the present.
What we think about, how we talk to ourselves, and whether we choose to honor our exhaustion rather than punish our perceived failures.
People who appear more resilient are not untouched by hardship; they have learned ways to carry it without being consumed by it.
Four Things I do When I am Triggered:
Breathe
Check in
Let it out
Remind
Breathe
The first thing I do when I’m consumed with the past is breathe. Not the shallow, panicked breathing that comes naturally when you’re triggered, but intentional breathing. Deep inhales that fill my lungs completely. Slow exhales signal to my body that I’m not in danger right now.
This has to come first. It’s not optional. When my nervous system is activated, nothing else works. I can’t think clearly, and I can’t access the rational part of my brain. I can’t connect with the parts of me that need attention.
Breathing calms the nervous system down. It tells my body: I’m safe, and I can handle this.
Check In
Once I can breathe, I check in with the different parts of me that got triggered.
The parts of me that are still the little girl who survived trauma, and the ex-wife in me who learned that abuse meant something, were fundamentally wrong with me. The old version of me, the mom, who feels guilty for everything. For the past, for staying in an abusive marriage for 24 years, and for things I can’t control. There are parts of me that are exhausted from trying so hard to be different, to break cycles, to heal.
I’ve learned in therapy that these parts all have something to say. They all need to be heard. And when I get triggered, it’s usually because one of them is scared or hurting and trying to protect me the only way they know how.
So I check in. I ask: which part of me is feeling this right now? What does she need? What is she afraid of?
Let It Out
After I’ve breathed and checked in, I need to let it out. The feelings can’t stay inside my body. They need somewhere to go.
Sometimes I journal. I write without editing, without trying to make it make sense. I let the fear, the guilt, and the helplessness spill onto the page. I write about the abuse I survived and how it still haunts me. And I write about whatever might have triggered me that day. Even if it was only the dog getting into the trash.
Sometimes I talk to someone who understands, like my therapist or my husband. I say the things out loud that feel too big to carry alone. I let someone else witness my pain without trying to fix it or minimize it.
Just: I see you. I hear you.
Getting the feelings out doesn’t make them disappear. But it makes them manageable. It takes them from this overwhelming internal storm and gives them form, language, and a place to exist outside of me.
Remind
The last tool is the one I need most: remind.
When the old shame tries to convince me I should have healed enough by now to not get triggered, I remind myself:
I did the best I could with the tools and knowledge I had. And I’m doing the best I can now.
When I feel like I’m failing because I got derailed again, I remind myself that a brief moment of being consumed isn’t failure. It’s part of being human. It’s part of having a nervous system that remembers trauma. What matters is what I do after.
I also remind myself that I’m safe now. And I am loved.
Healing comes in waves, just like grief does. Sometimes the waves are higher and harder, like when an anniversary of trauma comes around, when my nervous system gets activated by something I didn’t see coming. Sometimes the waves are just ebbing, gentle reminders that I’ve been through hard things, but I’m okay now.
Self-help culture promises a permanent better. It sells the idea that if you do the work, use the right tools, and heal properly, you’ll reach a destination where you’re fixed. Where you don’t get triggered anymore. Where you’ve moved past it all.
That’s a lie. The truth is that healing isn’t reaching the shore. It has the tools to stay afloat. And it is the repetition of returning to these practices, not because you failed the first time, but because this is what healing actually
There was a time when I hated to be alone. The prospect of eating in a restaurant alone scared me. The idea of living alone terrified me. I was scared of being alone, so I surrounded myself with boyfriends, then eventually with children. Never again to be alone. I was an only child. I was alone a lot. I was alone in my room, alone after school. Alone. I was alone with my own choices, alone to whatever and whoever tried to hurt me. Alone. I was used to being alone, and I hated it.
Of course, my parents loved me. My parents did not learn how to love an only child. They did the best they could with the tools and knowledge passed down to them. They didn’t know about attachment styles. They did not know they were prone to denial and avoidance. They had no idea how lonely that would make their only child feel.
I tried to fix my loneliness by going to parties, hanging out with friends, getting married twice, and once again. I noticed that although I was married and not alone, I still felt alone, so I had a child. And it filled a hole. So I had another child, felt fulfilled, and then had nine more. Each time, feeling complete and whole at the birth of each. Because no one feels more loved than when that newborn babe suckles your breast for the first time. But they outgrow that, and the loneliness always creeps back in.
I was in the midst of a house full of people whom I loved, and they (except one) loved me. Then why did I feel so alone? Why was I so lonely? I was looking for these people to fill me. My validation came from these people: my husband and my children. I was dependent on them for my self-worth. And since no one can validate you better than yourself, and no one can love you better than yourself, and no one can know your worth better than yourself, it did not work.
It took me years to figure out how to fill that void. Now I understand what I was doing wrong and what actually works. Until you stop looking at the people beside you to fill your lonely hole and start looking in front of you in the mirror at yourself, nothing else will work. Nothing else will satisfy.
Ask yourself what the void is. What is it that you need that you are not receiving? Is it love? Is it validation? Is it understanding? What do you need? I needed to be heard and seen. I needed to feel loved.
Here’s to stop loneliness:
Stop reaching out to other people to fill the void. I’m not saying you shouldn’t have friends. Having friends is good. Often refreshing. But it is not healthy to depend on them for your fulfillment and happiness.
Start looking in the mirror and say. “You are loved.” Say it five times, pointing to yourself. Then put your hand on your heart and say, “I am loved.” Say it again. Again. Say it again. Louder. Say it like you mean it. And say it with a smile. At first, you might not feel it, but as you practice this, it will become easier, feel lighter, and have more meaning.
Lonely people just want to be loved, feel loved. That is all I ever wanted, to feel loved. And I was looking for love in all the wrong places, when it was right in front of me, staring at me in the mirror the whole time.
You can have peace can even when you have been through trauma or if you are grieving. This doesn’t mean you have to force happiness or pretend that the loss didn’t happen. It simply acknowledges that alongside suffering, there can also be moments of steadiness, breath, and relief. These moments are not a denial of what happened. They are learning to live alongside what happened.
A Three-Step Approach to Peace :
Create brief moments of physical safety through slow breathing, grounding, or gentle movement. This calms the nervous system without denying pain.
One time, I put on some Black Sabbath and started moving my body to War Pigs. Never before had it moved me like it did this day. But as I moved my body to its tune, the tears started flowing. I had emotions built up inside me that had been begging to be released, but I kept ignoring them. So my body said, “Well, now we’re going to cry while you dance to War Pig, a very unlikely match.” I felt so much better after that!
2. Practice holding two truths at once. You can acknowledge your pain while also noticing that you are safe.
3. Redefine peace as steadiness rather than happiness. Peace can mean staying anchored for a few minutes, even when you’re not feeling joyful.
I’ve lived this. I’ve known what it’s like to carry a grief that reshapes everything, to sit in the aftermath of trauma and wonder how to keep moving. The words I’ve written here come from experience, from finding small moments of steadiness in the middle of inner storms. I’ve learned, often the hard way, that peace doesn’t mean forgetting or feeling happy. It means allowing space for both the ache and the breath.
Grief and trauma don’t vanish just because we decide it’s time to be happy. Healing isn’t about pretending the pain is gone or forcing ourselves to move on. It’s slower than that, quieter. It asks to make room for what hurts, instead of pushing it away.
But even when loss has taken more than we ever thought we could survive, we still have something left. We still have a choice. Not always in the big ways, but in the gentle, daily ones. We can choose how we care for ourselves in this moment. We can choose rest and compassion instead of self-blame and sorrow.
Breathe. Pause. Allow yourself to be grounded instead of letting the overwhelm take over.
Happiness after grief doesn’t mean forgetting who or what you lost. It doesn’t mean the pain has vanished or that what you lost no longer matters. It means hope is making space beside the sorrow. Not replacing it, just sitting next to it.
Choosing joy is not a betrayal of your pain. It’s an act of survival.
The nuthatch teaches this well. A bird that doesn’t soar or flee, but stays close to the trunk. It climbs downward, upside down, navigating the world in ways that feel strange but steady. When everything is tilted, when nothing feels safe, it continues anyway. The nuthatch holds tight. Its strength isn’t in beauty or speed, but in holding on.
It doesn’t rush. It circles back, rechecks, and returns.
And that is how grief moves. It isn’t in a straight path, with clarity or closure. It returns, pauses, then returns again.
The Nuthatch teaches us to stop reaching for an escape. Stay connected to the present moment, even when life feels upside down, and return to the things that support us.
Where the hummingbird says, “I am still here despite the cost.”
Where the mourning dove says, “Peace can exist with sorrow.”
The nuthatch says, “I will stay with what steadies me, even when the world feels upside down.”
Is it possible to have the marriage of your dreams? Are you a husband wishing you were appreciated? A wife wishing you felt loved? What if I told you that true love and soulmates can and do exist? Would you roll your eyes? That’s what I did when people mentioned it.
I remember doing a cleaning estimate in the home of an elderly couple, Elsie and Jim. I always asked our potential clients to walk us from room to room and tell us what they expect, and I would, in turn, tell them what we would do as I would reach up and rub a finger across the top of the door frame, checking to see how much dust was up there. I had a notebook and a pen, writing down each room we entered and anything I noted, and anything they specifically mentioned. It was a modest home in an older neighborhood that was once home to the upper middle class. The home’s original layout was smaller, with add-ons like a step-down den with an attached, closed-in sunroom. The trees no longer let the sun in. The furniture and decor were what you would expect for someone in their 80’s. Their house was not dirty by any stretch of the imagination, but they were not able to keep up with the cleaning, as their eyes and muscles just were not up to the task. Elsie was walking us from room to room, explaining what she expected and asking if we did certain things. She went on to tell me how she found out about us, which ensured her a discount. When we reached the formal living room, we found metal sculptures throughout the space. Unique and clearly custom-made. Elsie could see I was looking at them with intrigue. I always like creativity, and she began to boast about how Mr. Jim had handcrafted them. She was so proud of these unusual, out-of-style, out-of-character art pieces.
“Jim had a welding hobby, making ornamental iron and porch rails. Every time he would do a project, he would make me a sculpture and bring it home. I told him he had to stop making them because I was running out of room. But it sure is the sweetest thing.”
I looked up. She was right, she didn’t have room for any more. When she told me of the ways he showed her love, I had to admit I was a little jealous, seeing as I was married to a self-centered, non-affectionate man. There were never birthday cards, anniversary cards, or even Valentine’s. No, those were holidays for him to have a rage because he felt like I expected him to do something, and since I expected it, he refused. I didn’t receive anything on any other day of the year, either.
“Wow, that is so cool! How long have you guys been married?”
“Sixty years.”
When I heard those words, I stopped and felt like something pushed me back. How? That is more years than I had been alive, and I was surprised. I could not recall knowing anyone else who had been married that long. My parents were approaching 50 years of marriage. How in the world can you be with and live with someone that long? There is no way. One of us might kill the other first, and I was sure he’d be the one to do it to me.
She immediately answered without hesitation, “I married my best friend.”
That was that. Nothing more.
I hope she could not see the cynicism in my response,
“Oh, that’s awesome.”
But boy, did it get me thinking. Really? Are you telling me you guys actually like each other? That is incredible, and oh my god. We are doomed. I can’t stand him, and he can’t stand me. Friends? Absolutely not. Whenever there was a fight, he would announce, “I am not your enemy,” but it sure felt like he was. If he wasn’t my enemy, and he wasn’t my friend, then what was he? What would you call it?
We definitely were NOT best friends, and we were struggling to be friends, but more like acquaintances. I could not stand being around him; we had nothing in common. We were complete opposites. Whoever said opposites attract failed to add “misery.” Opposites attract misery. I desperately wanted to marry my best friend, but that had long since left the table. I do not remember a single moment we were friends. The closest we came was that my best friend and his best friend were siblings, and we were friends through friends.
After that meeting, I determined to do my best to make my husband my best friend. But how do you do that? Quick disclaimer: You don’t. I will spare you the sickening ways I tried because this particular article is not about my ex.
“Mom, you need to start dating.”
It was good to hear those words. I was afraid of what my kids might think when they found out that I was on a dating app. Yes, I used a dating app because I had been so sheltered that I had no idea how to meet people. And I was not interested in going to bars. I had long left the formal setting of church, and quite honestly, I was not interested in getting back into religious control. I wanted to stay as far away from “god-fearing-church-going men” (read my other memoir material, and you’ll understand why).
During my divorce, I kept Natasha Bedingfield’s songs “Soulmate” and “Unwritten” on repeat. Those were my jam. I played them over and over. They were a lifeline to me.
I purchased a membership to the Zoosk Dating App, figuring that if I used the paid version, it would weed out the guys looking for a booty call. On the app, you can check boxes of what kind of person you do or do not want. Then they would show you a photo and a little bio. It wasn’t too hard to narrow it down. I was certainly aware of what I did not like. And I was exploring ideas of what I did want. I did not want to be with someone in my own town, but left it open just in case. My parents live 2 hours away, so I was hoping for a guy nearby them.
I put in my bio that I was not looking for a marriage or long-term commitment. I just wanted adult companionship, someone to hang out with occasionally. There were two guys from Crosset. One of them had a son, and he made it clear he was looking for a mother for his boy. He was a love bomber and came on so fast and furious that it made me sick. It was too much, too soon, so I stopped conversations with him quickly. The other guy in Crosset had a working relationship with his ex and never wanted to leave her in the first place. It was apparent he was still in love with her, and I sure did not want to start a love triangle. There was the guy in El Dorado who wanted someone a little younger, a party girl. He was not my type at all. And then there was the guy who took me on my first date after the divorce. I do not remember where he was from or what his name was. I don’t recall any of their names, for that matter. Our date included Geocaching and dinner. He was a dirt bike rider, and although he was kind, we had nothing in common. We agreed to keep in touch, but we both knew we wouldn’t, and didn’t.
I did not get discouraged, as I kept seeing the face of this guy from Hot Springs. There was something about him that intrigued me; he looked like a Guru. Maybe it was his profile picture. He was squatting in a field of pansies, yet his face was fierce, not threatening. It was confident. I thought, if a man is willing to take a photo in a field of flowers, he must be pretty harmless. So we started a conversation in the app. We had several things in common, including poetry. The only thing that scared me about him was that the church still had a place in his life. I wasn’t opposed to church, but it had to be the right one.
We never spoke on the phone. Our entire conversation was via text on the Zoosk app. This went on for a few weeks, maybe a month, then he finally asked me for a date. It was arranged that he would pick me up at my parents’ house (neutral ground) while they watched my kids. I drove up after a hard day of cleaning houses, exhausted and nervous. When he announced he was on his way, I took a shot of tequila to calm my nerves.
The text came in, “I’m here.” I went outside, and he hopped out of his big white Ford F150. I had no idea what to expect. Zoosk had been our only form of communication.
Here he was, dressed in jeans and a dress shirt with boots, bald, not nearly as tall as my ex, thank god. And cute. Wow, was he way better looking in person than on the app. And his eyes were slate blue like water. His blue shirt made them pop.
I chuckled inside when I heard his voice for the first time. He had such a southern accent.
He opened my door as I climbed up into the truck. It was nice to have someone plan everything for me. I do not think I ever had that, not in the last 24 years for sure! He would not stop staring at me. He kept saying I had the most beautiful eyes he’d ever seen.
He found a parking spot downtown, and we walked to Rolandos, where he insisted we start with the top-shelf margaritas, claiming theirs were the best in town. We talked and talked. It was as if we had known each other our entire lives. There were no awkward moments of silence. Each sentence went on to the next. When we felt we had outstayed our welcome at the restaurant, we walked downtown for a bit. It was misting, so he held an umbrella over both of us while I linked my arm in his.
We decided to stop in the Bathhouse Brewery for a beer and more talk. Being with him felt right, comfortable, normal. I was so comfortable in his presence that I even set my hand on his leg while we were talking. He understood me, he listened. And I got him and hung on every word. Some would say we bonded over our similar traumas, and maybe we did. But we also had the same life goals. We had a lot in common and a few things that weren’t. But the things we did not have in common were what made us individuals. And I learned he was not as active in church as he had put on the app., which was a relief.
Since he was driving, we decided to cash out and head back to my folks’ house to continue our conversation in the driveway. I didn’t want to get out, nor did he. Since I had worked all day, I fell asleep while we listened to one of his favorite songs. He woke me, and we decided to call it a night.
He once again hopped out and opened my door, such a gentleman. When we kissed goodnight, his lips were trembling. It made me smile. He felt like such a virgin. He was fresh out of a 20-year marriage with 3 kids, so I knew he wasn’t. But his sweet innocence was a delight.
He picked me up for lunch the next day, and our conversations picked up where we left off in the truck.
And here we are, ten years later, and I can honestly say I found my soulmate and married my best friend.
It wasn’t until I went on that date with my husband that I saw a future friend. I can say without hesitation that he is my best friend. There is something so different about being married to your best friend.
You’re friends because you have things in common and can sense what the other person is feeling and thinking. You care about their feelings, and they care about yours. And if you accidentally hurt them, you will apologize. You enjoy each other’s company.
I now understand what else Elsie meant when she said she married her best friend. They’re your support system, and you’re theirs.
Reflection is resurrection!
I fell in love with a stare into those green eyes, then a smile that turned into a comfortable laugh, washing away the nerves of newness.
Then… when we danced and swayed in each other’s loving arms as we found each other.
I fell in love with the placid lake, colored blue eyes that caught my gaze, and a tender gentleness of spirit as I listened to you from across the table.
Your hand that reassured mine when I reached for your arm. The laughs and giggles… The quivering lips that kissed me goodnight.
I fell in love with a woman I could embrace with my quivering lips …
…at The Baker … you made love to me so tenderly, while looking into my eyes the entire time.
I won’t forget the beautiful woman across the table, trying Irish beers, or the face of my love, smelling the roses.
I won’t forget a man casting a voodoo wish behind a screen and kissing me in the rain.
I won’t forget us being the only two on Bourbon Street kissing, while it was raining!
I won’t forget how you held my hand the whole time when I had hurt you… Yet, you still reassured me of your love.
That’s because I’ve loved you ever since the day I said it.
I think you loved me before you said it.
And you?
I fell in love with you the first time our eyes met.
Reflection is resurrection! Plaster it on the palette of your life
Sometimes our written words pierce louder than any voice spoken.
True. Sometimes they’re easier to go back and reflect on because they are tangible.
A Poem we wrote to each other reflecting on a few memorable dates.
When I become a quadrillionaire, I will put up billboards all over the country with the 3 words: You Deserve Better.
YOU DESERVE BETTER.
This statement applies to anyone who reads it.
You, who just read that, can think of areas in your own life where you do indeed deserve better than what you are currently receiving.
Partners in abusive relationships, you deserve better.
“You dont get what you deserve, you get what you tolerate.” – Tony Robbins
Workers under a narcissistic boss, you deserve better.
Adults of emotionally immature parents, you deserve better.
Maybe it is simpler than that. Maybe you deserve a car that runs better, a better house, or better health, and we all could work on better thinking.
That was the statement I read when I realized I deserved better than what I was living in, and it changed my life.
“We cannot achieve more in life than what we believe in our heart of hearts we deserve to have.” ― James R. Ball
I am on the other side of abuse, trauma, suicide survivor, suicide loss, and religious abuse. All because I realized I deserved better.
“I will not try to convince you to love me, to respect me, to commit to me. I deserve better than that; I AM BETTER THAN THAT… Goodbye” by Steve Maraboli
You get to build your perfect space for reading and writing. What’s it like?
The perfect space for reading and writing is an empty house. If the house can’t be empty then it has to be quiet. And if it cant be quiet then there should be cozy, coffee house, jazz music playing in the background with a crackly woodwick candle burning.
It includes a fuzzy, slightly weighted blanket – year round, with my FreeWrite type writer nearby for when inspiration hits.
For me, personally, I find it easier to write before the sun emerges. I feel less pressure to get on with the day. And now that my house has less people in it these days, creating that space is easier now.
Yoli's Write To Sanity 