I used to think healing meant becoming someone new.
Quieter. Softer. Less alert. Less intense.
What I’m learning instead is that healing often begins with naming who we became in order to survive.
I didn’t wake up one day strong.
I learned to be strong because the alternative felt dangerous.
I learned to stay alert — not because I’m anxious by nature,
but because my body learned that calm could disappear without warning.
I learned to move quickly, to adapt, to anticipate,
to read the room before the room ever spoke.
Somewhere along the way, productivity became proof that I was okay.
Stillness felt suspicious.
Rest felt like something you earn after everything is handled —
and everything was never fully handled.
There were moments when disappearing felt safer than speaking.
Moments when staying small meant staying protected.
Moments when control was the only thing that made the ground feel steady beneath my feet.
And when the weight of all of it became too much,
I learned how to leave —
into thought, into meaning, into prayer, into imagination.
Not to avoid life, but to survive it.
None of this came from weakness.
It came from intelligence.
From a nervous system that adapted brilliantly to what it was handed.
I’m not ashamed of who I became to survive.
But I am learning that I don’t have to live there forever.
Healing, for me, doesn’t look like erasing these patterns.
It looks like thanking them —
and slowly, gently, teaching my body that it is safe to soften now.
Safe to rest without collapsing.
Safe to connect without disappearing.
Safe to stand still without bracing for impact.
I am not broken.
I am tired.
And maybe that’s not something to fix —
maybe it’s something to finally listen to.
“For you, O God, have tested us; you have tried us as silver is tried.”
— Psalm 66:10 (ESV)
Where I Found My Voice 