People Assume Healing Is Gentle.

But sometimes the most painful part is letting go of who you had to become.

Not because growth is violent,  but because nothing shakes you more than waking up and realizing that so much of who you became was a survival strategy.

Your calmness wasn’t always peace. Sometimes it was emotional shutdown.

Your independence didn’t come from confidence.  It came from learning early that no one was coming.

Your perfectionism wasn’t ambition.  It was fear dressed up as control.

And when you finally see this, really see it,  something inside you shifts.

The survival self deserves gratitude, not shame

One of the hardest moments in healing is realizing that the version of you who “had it together” was doing whatever it took just to feel safe.

That version worked hard.
She stayed alert.
She read the room.
She didn’t ask for too much.
She learned when to perform, when to stay quiet, and when to hold it all in.

And for a long time, she kept you alive. So healing isn’t about rejecting her. It’s about mourning her, with tenderness.

Mourning the years you spent being strong instead of held. Mourning the ways you learned to self-contain instead of reaching out. Mourning the identity that once protected you, but now exhausts you.

Why healing hurts more than staying the same

Healing asks you to loosen the grip on strategies that worked.

Strategies that earned praise. Strategies that made you “low maintenance,” “mature,” “resilient,” and “independent.” Letting go of those patterns can feel like losing yourself.

But what you’re actually losing is the armor, not the body underneath.

And armor is heavy.

When calm isn’t calm

One of the themes I return to again and again in my work and writing is the difference between true regulation and emotional shutdown.

Real calm has softness.
It allows joy. It allows connection. It allows rest without vigilance.

Shutdown can feel quiet too,  but it’s tight. There’s a holding in the chest.
A distance from pleasure. A constant monitoring of threats.

Healing invites you back into your body. And at first, that can feel overwhelming.

Feeling more is not a regression; it’s often a sign that safety is finally possible.

Saying goodbye is the most painful part

Healing means saying goodbye to the version of you who did what she had to do.

Not with rejection. With reverence. You don’t rush her out. You thank her.
You acknowledge the cost. And slowly, you let her rest.

This is the heart of what I explore in my book, Fck You All, Chill, Jesus Is Coming Soon— not as a slogan, but as a truth many of us live inside of:

“To grieve is to honor what mattered. To hope is to believe something beautiful could still be ahead, even if you can’t see it. And sometimes, in the same breath, you’ll feel both.”

Healing doesn’t ask you to become someone new. It asks you to stop living as someone who is always braced for impact. Urgency is not holiness. Exhaustion is not devotion.
Peace does not have to be earned.

A prayer of gratitude for the part that helped you survive

Thank you for staying alert when it wasn’t safe to rest.
Thank you for being strong when no one else could hold me.
Thank you for protecting me the only way you knew how.

I see now what it cost you. I honor your effort. And I gently let you know — you don’t have to work so hard anymore.

You can sit down. You can soften. You can trust that I am here now.

Amen.

If this resonates

If you know someone who lives in this place,  someone who is high-functioning but exhausted, calm on the outside but disconnected inside, strong but deeply tired, please feel free to share this with them.

Sometimes healing begins with simply feeling seen.

Chill.
You’re not behind.
And you don’t have to rush your becoming.

— Luz