The Courage to Heal
The day I saw my own name on a headstone
In a world that feels increasingly disconnected.
In a world marked by trauma.
In a world where almost everyone carries a diagnosis like a business card.
It takes courage to heal.
Not the kind of courage that’s loud or showy.
The kind of courage that whispers.
That dares to say, I will not be defined by my labels.
For me, it began with permission. Permission to unsubscribe from the collective consciousness that is diagnosis-driven and label-bound. Permission to say, I can be more than the worst thing that ever happened to me.
It wasn’t a lightning bolt moment. It was a slow, almost imperceptible shift. Like a tide turning without anyone noticing until the waves lap against a new shore.
Pain is a Messenger
For most of my life, I thought pain was an enemy. Something to be avoided, medicated, numbed, or overpowered. That’s the cultural conditioning. If it hurts, make it stop. If it aches, distract yourself.
But the more I studied neuroscience and psychology, the more I learned what my body had been trying to tell me all along: pain is information. Physical, emotional, spiritual—it all works as an internal feedback loop.
When my hips hurt, maybe it wasn’t just “getting older.” Maybe it was my body saying, Change something. Move more. Eat differently. Release the stress you’ve been storing in your muscles like a locked box.
Emotional pain works the same way. That ache in your chest when you walk past the place where you once said goodbye. That tightness in your throat when you see an old photograph. These aren’t signs you’re broken. They’re signs you’re alive.
Neuroscientists call it neuroception—the brain’s ability to detect safety or danger without conscious thought. Sometimes pain is your nervous system trying to get your attention, to show you where a wound still waits for tending.
The Rebel Science of Healing
Positive psychology was born out of rebellion. For nearly a century, the field of psychology had obsessed over what’s wrong with people. The diagnostic manuals grew thicker. The labels multiplied.
Then, a handful of researchers said, What if we studied what makes people thrive instead?
Healing, in many ways, is the same act of rebellion. It’s standing in the middle of a diagnosis-driven culture and saying, I will acknowledge my trauma, but I will not be owned by it.
It’s not denial. It’s ownership. It’s choosing to lead yourself toward wholeness rather than waiting for the world—or a prescription—to do it for you.
The Day I Stood in Front of My Grandparents’ Grave
I felt this truth in my bones the day I stood in front of my grandparents’ grave in Poland.
My grandparents on my father’s side were born before the First World War. They survived two world wars. They raised fourteen children in two small rooms. Three of those children died before they did—one at birth, two at the age of twenty-one from pneumonia.
I got my name from my grandmother, though I have no real memory of her.
And yet there I was, standing in front of the family headstone, staring at my own name engraved in stone.
It stopped me. Not because it felt morbid, but because it felt… true.
Seeing my name there was a reminder of life and death in the same breath. A reminder that every one of us is temporary, and yet part of something enduring.
It hit me that healing is not about erasing pain. It is about standing in the middle of life and death, past and future, joy and grief, and saying, I belong here. I choose to live this fully.
Wholeness Isn’t Polished
We’ve been sold a false version of healing. The glossy, airbrushed, everything’s-fine kind. But neuroscience tells us that wholeness is messy.
The brain rewires itself not through avoidance, but through exposure and integration. You can’t heal what you won’t feel.
This is where the yin and yang come in. Light exists with darkness. Joy exists with sorrow. The nervous system learns safety not by pretending danger never happened, but by experiencing danger, then returning to safety again and again.
Healing is not the absence of pain. It’s the presence of enough safety—internal and external—that pain no longer owns you.
The Permission Slip
If I could hand you one thing, it would be a permission slip.
It would read:
You have permission to heal through pain.
You have permission to stop running from what hurts and start listening to it.
You have permission to be more than your diagnosis.
You have permission to lead yourself back to wholeness.
When I finally gave myself that permission, I stopped trying to escape the discomfort. I leaned in.
At first, it was terrifying. Every instinct screamed at me to pull away. But then something shifted. I began to trust my body’s messages. I stopped seeing emotions as weaknesses and started seeing them as data.
And slowly, my nervous system began to rewire.
Neuroscience Meets Soul
Here’s what the research shows:
Neuroplasticity means your brain can change. Old patterns can be rewired.
Coherence between heart and brain increases emotional regulation and resilience.
Narrative reframing—telling your story in new ways—changes the way your brain encodes memories.
But here’s what I know from lived experience:
Healing is rarely linear.
Pain can be a compass.
Standing at your grandparents’ grave can teach you more about life than any textbook.
Why This Matters Now
We live in a time where the pace is inhuman and the disconnection is dangerous. More people are diagnosed with anxiety and depression than ever before. Trauma is common, but healing is still treated as optional self-care, rather than necessary soul work.
The courage to heal isn’t just personal. It’s cultural. Every person who chooses to face their pain rather than numb it changes the collective narrative. Every nervous system that learns safety ripples out into families, communities, and workplaces.
The Grave and the Gift
That day in the cemetery, I didn’t just see my name. I saw a lineage of survival. I saw that pain is not new. My grandparents’ generation endured wars, hunger, and loss on a scale I can hardly comprehend.
Yet they also laughed, celebrated births, grew food, and danced at weddings. They lived the full spectrum. They embodied the truth that healing is not about erasing suffering, but about holding suffering and joy in the same set of hands.
When I walked away from the grave, I carried both the gravity and the gift of that truth.
Choosing Wholeness
Healing is not a finish line. It’s a way of living.
It’s waking up each day and choosing to listen to your body. To honor your emotions. To tell the truth about your story.
It’s remembering that the nervous system can learn safety. That the brain can rewire. That wholeness is possible—not in spite of pain, but through it.
And it all begins with the smallest, most radical act:
Giving yourself permission.
Let’s Do This
Every time one of us chooses to heal, it shifts the story for all of us.
One nervous system learns safety, and it ripples into families, workplaces, communities.
Your courage to face what hurts creates permission for others to do the same.
So let’s do this together.
Let’s tell the stories that have been waiting to be heard.
Let’s feel what we’ve been taught to numb.
Let’s remember, reframe, and reclaim what is ours.
Healing is a courageous act.
And courage is contagious.
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Thank you for sharing this - it was an absolutely beautiful piece of writing and very inspiring!