Wounds Are the Secret Keepers

You know, my "ah-ha" moment didn't exactly happen in some dramatic, movie-esque location like a mountaintop or a zen garden. Nope. Mine happened on the downright ordinary tiles of my bathroom floor, right next to a tube of squeezed-out toothpaste. Yeah, I know, not exactly a contender for the scene of the year.

There I was, the water running, tears streaming, when it hit me - healing is less about trying to stitch everything back together and more about embracing the wonky patchwork quilt that these scars create.

Scars, as it turns out, aren't hideous reminders of what hurt you. Instead, they're like badges earned at a very tough scout camp - badges of survival, scribbled all over you. They're like the world's most personal tattoos, marking out chapters of your life that, although they started with a bit of an "ouch", ended with a "phew, I made it".

As I lay there, taking an impromptu cold shower on my bathroom floor, I had another little lightbulb moment. The internal storm I've been wrestling with? It's not some enemy boss in a video game, it's more like a feral cat that needs understanding and acceptance. Healing meant giving up the whole "fight the storm" approach. Instead, it was about sitting down for a cup of tea with my inner tempest, hearing out its ranting and raving, and saying "okay, I get it". Once I stopped trying to wrestle the wind, I found the calm in the middle of my personal storm.

You know the saying, "Wounds are the secret keepers; healing, the secret whisperer. They meet at the crossroads of your courage"?

Okay, maybe it's not a saying, but it should be. When you face your wounds, let them spill their secrets, you find the whisper of healing. My battle scars and emotional hurricanes? They aren't contestants in a boxing match. They're more like two friends on a road trip of self-discovery and self-love.

So here's the new me. Healing isn't some distant dream; it's my co-pilot. It's not some serene voyage across calm waters; it's more like a wild theme park ride through a storm, ending up at this place where I can honestly say, "hey, I kind of like these raw, tender parts of me".

In the end, it's realizing that my scars and storms aren't just reminders of what I've been through but badges of honour in the shape of my life. It's a dance with the wind, a symphony of whispers and secrets, all playing out in the key of courage.

Above all, it's accepting that healing isn't about being a picture-perfect version of me. It's about being this beautifully flawed, unique jigsaw puzzle - a puzzle where even the missing pieces are a part of the overall picture.