What is it like to heal?
To heal from a wound that cannot be seen. A heartbreak. A friendship that faded. An idea that failed. A rejection email. The loss of a pet, a loved one, or something you once held so close it felt like part of you.
What is it like to move on, not by forgetting, but by learning how to live with the absence?
To wake up one day and realize that the familiarity is gone, and somehow, you are expected to keep going. Most of us go through painful experiences believing that healing will be a smooth process. A gentle journey. Something like a bed of roses.
But it isn’t.
There were moments I found myself wondering, why is this taking so long? When does this process end? Am I not supposed to reach a point where I can confidently say, “I’m almost there”?
Why isn’t healing linear? Why isn’t there a timeline that says, “In two weeks, you will feel better”?
I remember going through a breakup from a talking stage that didn’t work out. In my mind, it wasn’t serious enough to hurt. I told myself I’d be fine in three days.
I was wrong.
This person made me believe there was something to build, yet put in little to no effort. One day, he planned a date. I was excited, curious to see where things would go. But he never showed up.
I was stood up. I remember the anger. Not just at him, but at myself, for trusting him. For believing him. And the worst part? I never even got the chance to confront him properly. I couldn’t fully process what had happened. It was my first time experiencing something like that.
Then came the healing part.
You assume that the next day, you’ll wake up feeling new. Strong. Ready to move on. That everything will somehow reset overnight. But that’s not how it works.
Whether it’s losing a person, a relationship, an opportunity, or something deeply personal, there’s always that lingering feeling: Why was I so used to you? Why does it hurt this much to lose you? Why can’t I just be normal and stop missing you? You tell yourself, “I’ll cry today, and tomorrow I’ll be fine.” But tomorrow comes with its own emotions.
I remember waking up one day questioning everything: why I knew him, why I missed him, why I still wanted to see him even after he had hurt me. Then the next day, I felt anger. He wasn’t even worth it. I’m better off. I would go through the day feeling strong, convinced that I had finally moved on. Only to wake up the next day wanting to curse him out. Every day, I wrote in my journal, telling myself I was getting over him. And then the next day, I’d write about how much I missed him.
That’s what healing looks like.
It is not linear.You don’t wake up and say, “I’m in stage two of healing. Next week, I’ll be in stage three.” It doesn’t follow a structure. It doesn’t obey your expectations. Some people carry loss lightly. Others feel it deeply. Some move on quickly. Others take their time. Some seem okay on the outside but are still unraveling inside.
And that’s okay.
That’s why it hurts when people say, “It’s such a small thing. You should have moved on by now.”
Because who decides what is small? Who decides how long healing should take? We are allowed to take our time. To grieve slowly. To feel everything without a manual, without a timeline, without pressure. We are allowed to mourn in our own way. To take as long as we need—without guilt, without comparison, without being made to feel like we are falling behind.
Because healing is not about rushing to feel better. It is about learning how to live again, even with the absence.
