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.