I used to believe healing lived in prescriptions, nutrition plans, and the next specialist who might finally give me an answer. I chased solutions the way some chase miracles, convinced that if I just found the right protocol, my body would fall back in line. But even after the tests came back “normal,” I still felt deeply unwell—tired in a way no sleep could fix, heavy in places no scan could see.
No one tells you that healing doesn’t always begin in a clinic. Sometimes, it begins in silence—when you are finally honest with yourself. For years, I ignored the quiet warnings: the tightness in my chest, the anxiety I brushed off as stress, the tears I never allowed to fall. I called it discipline. I called it strength. But my body knew better. It was never betraying me—it was begging me to listen.
The truth is, I wasn’t tired. I was unheard. I wasn’t weak. I was overburdened. Every symptom was a sentence in a language I refused to learn. And the more I searched outside of myself, the further I drifted from what I needed most—my own voice.
Real healing didn’t arrive as a cure. It arrived as a question: What pain have you buried so deeply that your body must now carry it for you? I didn’t need another diet. I needed boundaries. I didn’t need more vitamins. I needed rest—the honest kind, the unapologetic kind. I needed to stop being the strong one long enough to admit where it hurt.
When I finally sat with myself—not as a patient to be fixed, but as a person to be understood—I heard it clearly: my body had been fighting for me all along.
Healing, I’ve learned, isn’t about doing more. It’s about hearing more. It’s the moment you stop demanding your body to be silent, and instead whisper back, I’m ready. Tell me everything.
