Healing Looks Like This

Healing looks like

stepping into the sun—

your skin too pale,

the light almost too much—

but you go anyway.

Because warmth,

even when it stings,

reminds you

that you're still here.

Still becoming.

Still worthy of light.

Healing looks like

a long, silent shower

at the end of a day

where your name was “Mama”

more than it was your own.

The water moves

like grace over tired skin,

washing away the parts

you forgot to care for.

For just one minute,

the steam, the stillness,

the breath between thoughts—

it gives you back to yourself.

Healing looks like

the wind on your shoulders—

gentle, uninvited, divine.

You close your eyes

and hear God in the hush.

Not loud.

But steady.

Like a whisper

pulling broken things

back into place.

You never ask for it.

But it finds you anyway.

Healing looks like

the trees that held your secrets,

the flowers that kept blooming

even when you couldn't.

When the world was heavy,

you came here.

Sat in silence.

Let the dirt anchor you.

Let the sky remind you

that being alive

was still a kind of miracle.

Nature never rushed you.

It waited,

like healing does.

Healing looks like

her—

the life you made,

the love you kept alive

through every cracked moment

you didn’t think you could survive.

She is your softness made real.

Your second chance

wrapped in warm skin

and sleepy breath.

You will teach her peace

by embodying it.

You will give her joy

by reclaiming your own.

Because healing,

real healing,

begins with you—

but it never ends there.

---

Author's Note:

This poem was inspired by a journaling prompt I reflected on privately as part of a 30-day journaling challenge hosted by Josefina H. on Threads, which led me to her beautiful Substack series: Ink & Intention.

While my actual journal entries are staying private, this piece emerged from what I uncovered in that quiet reflection—and I felt moved to shape it into something creative and shareable. Interestingly enough, yesterday became a kind of healing day in itself. My Threads and Instagram were suddenly locked (still not sure why), but maybe it was a sign to pause and reset. Sometimes the break we resist is the one we need. If all goes well—and my daughter allows it—I’ll be working on today’s prompt later and may share that piece too.

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