There was a time I believed healing meant calm—no more highs, no more lows. Just stillness. Stability. Silence.
But I’ve learned healing is less about eliminating the storm and more about learning how to dance within it.
Some days I move with grace. Other days I stumble. But I’m no longer standing still, waiting for the weather to change. I move anyway.
I no longer see my emotions as enemies. They’re messengers. They’re rhythm. They’re reminders that I am alive, feeling, evolving.
There are still storms—days when anxiety presses heavy on my chest, or depression creeps in like fog. But I no longer fear them the way I used to. I recognize the signs. I hold myself through the crash. I reach for help. I don’t drown alone.
There is a rhythm to all of this now. A kind of sacred sway between strength and softness, between falling and rising.
This isn’t the healing I imagined.
It’s better.
Because it’s mine.
Because it’s real.
Because I’m no longer trying to outrun the storm.
I’m dancing inside it.
And somehow, that’s enough.
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