You Can’t Heal While Staying in the Hurt

You Can’t Heal While Staying in the Hurt

Alright, babe. Let’s cut the spiritual Pinterest crap for a hot second: you can’t heal if you’re still living smack in the middle of what broke you. You just can’t. You can slap as many inspirational quotes on your mirror as you want (“Just breathe and let it go” — eye roll), but here’s the tea — if you’re still cuddling up at night with the very thing or person that shredded your spirit in the first place, you’re not healing. You’re marinating.

Look, I get it. We all love a good self-help podcast and a face mask, pretending we’re “working on ourselves” while texting the guy who destroyed our confidence. Sis, that’s like putting aloe on a burn while holding your hand over the fire. Stop lying to yourself. You’re not a phoenix, you’re barbecue chicken at this point.

Why do we do this? Familiar pain feels safer than unknown happiness. Because at least you know your current brand of misery. You’ve got it styled in your closet. Your friends know it by name. “Oh, that’s just her toxic situationship. It’s like vintage by now.” But here’s the ugly truth: you can’t outgrow your past while you’re still living in it. Your ex will not suddenly turn into a therapist. Your job that makes you cry on your lunch break won’t morph into your cosmic calling if you just “manifest harder”.

Here’s the bullshit nobody tells you: healing is boring and lonely and sometimes looks suspiciously like blocking numbers and deleting playlists. It’s the opposite of fireworks. You won’t get a medal. You’ll get a lot of silent afternoons where your phone doesn’t buzz because you’re not talking to the wrong person anymore. Congrats, queen — that’s growth.

But, oh my god, the mind games we play with ourselves. “Maybe I can fix him. Maybe if I stay just a little longer, I’ll finally get closure.” Darling, closure is not gonna show up in his texts at 2 a.m. Closure happens when you delete the texts and buy yourself flowers. The longer you camp out in the pain, the more it starts to look like home. Your standards shrink to the size of a carry-on bag.

And don’t even start with, “But he needs me!” Unless you’re a certified trauma surgeon and his leg is falling off, he does not need you. What you need is an emotional restraining order from your own bad habits. Sorry, was that too real? Actually, I’m not sorry. Someone had to tell you.

Healing means making a mess first. It means packing up your stuff and walking out—sometimes with mascara running down to your underwear and snot in your hair. It’s unglamorous as hell. But the alternative is what? Going numb while watching reruns of your own pain? Hard pass.

So yes, it’s scary. Yes, it’s hard. Your heart is not a battered Airbnb for broken boys, expired friendships, or soul-sucking jobs. Evict the squatters, babe. The room you clear out is the room you grow into. And no, you do not owe anybody an explanation or a tearful TED Talk about why you’re done. You’re allowed to pack your hurt in a box and ship it straight to hell. Express delivery. No returns.

You want to heal? You’ve got to leave the scene of the crime. The universe cannot fill what you refuse to empty. So stop doing emotional squats in the same pit that broke you. Pull yourself out. The only person who’s going to save you is you—and guess what? She’s a badass.

Now go wash your face, make some tea, block that number, and start building your new happy. For real this time.