What I Know About Healing at 36
If I could sit across from my 26-year-old self, I would hold her hands, look her in the eyes, and tell her: healing will not look the way you think it will. It will not be a straight line, a checklist, or a finish line you race toward. Healing will be a winding journey that loops, spirals, and circles back, sometimes when you least expect it. And that is okay.
Photo by William Farlow on Unsplash
Unlearning Urgency
At 26, I wanted so badly to “get over it.” I thought that if I worked hard enough, pushed through fast enough, and kept checking boxes, I would eventually be done with my pain. What I know now is that urgency is not healing. It is survival mode disguised as progress.
Healing asks for slowness. It asks for stillness. It asks you to breathe in the places you once tried to run past. There will be moments where old wounds reopen, and instead of shaming yourself, you will learn to sit with them gently.
To anyone reading who feels the pressure to be “done” by now: let yourself unlearn that urgency. You are not behind. You are living.
Making Room for Grief and Joy
At 26, I believed healing would mean no more grief. I thought joy would arrive only after sadness had packed up and left. But in these 10 years, I have learned that grief and joy live side by side.
Grief shows up in flashbacks, in memories of people and places I cannot return to, in the ache of what was taken too soon. But joy shows up too: in laughter that cracks me open, in dancing in my kitchen, in traveling, in watching anime characters remind me of resilience.
Healing has taught me that both can belong. That I can honor my grief without letting it swallow me, and I can welcome joy without waiting for everything to be perfect first.
Rest as Medicine
If I could whisper one thing to my younger self, it would be this: rest is not a weakness. Rest is not something you earn at the end of struggle. Rest is a requirement for your survival, your creativity, and your joy.
At 26, I thought resting meant I was falling behind. At 36, I know rest is the soil where all my growth happens. My accomplishments — from building Village of Sound Mind to writing, to speaking, to holding space for community — were born not from endless grind, but from moments I gave myself permission to pause.
To my Black, queer, woman readers: your rest is resistance. Your body deserves softness. Your spirit deserves time to breathe.
What I Carry Now
Ten years into this journey, I know healing is not about erasing what happened to me. It is about learning to live with it, gently, and still making room for joy, creativity, and purpose. It is about recognizing that I am whole, even with the scars.
To my 26-year-old self: You will not always feel like a statistic. You will build a life rooted in authenticity. You will hold space for others to heal because you chose to hold space for yourself first.
And to the woman reading this, who is wondering if she will ever feel free: you are not broken. You are already enough. Healing is not about racing to the finish line, it is about finding your rhythm and remembering that every step counts.
Closing
Healing is not about erasing the past, it is about learning how to live with it in ways that honor who you are becoming. I have learned that grief, joy, and rest can all sit at the same table, and that wholeness is found in holding space for all of it. My 26-year-old self thought healing would mean finishing the work and moving on. At 36, I know healing is about learning to move with the work, carrying both the softness and the scars as part of my story.
Invitation
What have you learned about healing at your age? If you wrote a letter to your younger self, what truth would you want her to carry?
