Healing Rage
What is stronger
than the human heart
which shatters over and over
and still lives?- Rupi Kaur, Milk and Honey
I woke up today with rage.
I don’t mean that poetically—not this time.
That’s the thing about healing trauma: some days it comes back to haunt you in a dream, or a look, or someone’s tone of voice.
The little girl in me may want to flee. But the woman standing before you? She’s ready to fight. Except we all know how useless it is to punch ghosts.
The other thing about healing trauma is that it doesn’t stay tucked away in a little box, waiting for you to finally go through it. You know, on your time—when you feel strong enough.
No, it shows up in the present as reminders of all the bad choices you made because you didn’t know any better. People you let into your life. Things you agreed to. Ways of living that do not honor who you are.
It’s even in my face when I look in the mirror. Because the thing about being hurt by the adults who raised you is that you carry evidence of your abusers in the texture of your hair and the curve of your lip.
And sometimes, when I look in the mirror, all I can see are the people who hurt me reflected back. A kind of body dysmorphia for the soul.
So I wear my makeup. I fix my hair. I dress my body in pretty things so I’m not still the lonely, hungry little girl in a house with shag carpet and no food in the fridge. So I’m not still a cousin in a mobile home filled with cigarette smoke, ants, and roaches.
The thing about healing trauma is that it can swirl up at any moment to remind you there’s still more work to do.
And no, you can’t fix this for me. Just like I can’t fix your pain for you. We all have to walk through the fire alone - with guides, sure - but only our hearts can do the work.
We have to be willing to sit with these feelings and talk to them. Because time won’t make them go away. But giving them a safe place to tell you how they feel? That will.
And I know how to do this work now. So I’m telling the rage: come at me, bro. I’m ready for you.
I’m ready to listen with the full weight of my heart.
Writing Prompt:
What parts of your story still rise up without warning? What do they need to say and how can you listen with the full weight of your heart?
