Healing from people, moments, or past versions of me

I’m healing from people, moments, or past versions of me. Some wounds don’t bleed anymore, but they still ache when touched. I didn’t know healing would masquerade as grief sometimes—but let me tell you, it does.

It’s strange—how one person can hold that much of your story.

The first one I think of when it comes to unfinished healing.
The one I’ve forgiven, but still feel like I’m carrying around in pieces.
The one I miss, even though it hurt.
The one who meant well, but still left damage behind.
The one I’m healing because of… not just from.

Some days it feels like I’m haunted by memories I asked to keep. Other days, like I’m stuck rereading a chapter I already know the ending to. I’m not angry anymore—I’m just trying to stop bleeding from pages I didn’t write alone.

I still remember the night she held me like it was the last time—because deep down, I think she knew it was. She told me no one had ever been as good to her as I had. And I believed her.

But behind her voice, I could hear the war—the love and the pain, the righteousness and the devil clashing in real time. That moment lives in me. Not because of how it ended, but because of how much it cost her to say goodbye without saying it.

And if I could go back—I wouldn’t change her. I’d change me.

I wouldn’t let fear or frustration speak for me. I’d drop to my knees and thank God for the beauty right in front of me. I’d stop trying to fix everything and just be there. Fully. With her. With Him.

But I didn’t. And now all I hear is the silence—the calls that didn’t get answered, the texts left hanging. That kind of silence? It says everything.

There are versions of me I don’t recognize anymore—and some I still grieve.

The version that thought love meant fixing. The one who kept giving even when he was running on empty. The one who confused being needed with being loved.
He wasn’t evil. Just exhausted.

I’m healing from the version of me that stayed silent to keep the peace.
From the one who thought anger was strength.
From the one who carried everyone else’s weight because he was too scared to face his own.

He meant well. He tried. But he was tired of surviving and called it living.

I’m not trying to bury him.
I’m trying to understand him.
To hold him with grace and let him know—it’s okay to let go now.

I don’t have it all figured out. Some days I feel lighter. Some days I feel like I’m lying when I say I’m okay.

But I’m learning to sit with myself without picking myself apart.
To walk with God without needing to feel Him like a fire every second.
To breathe, even when the memories tighten around my chest.

Healing isn’t always a straight line. Sometimes it looks like progress.
Sometimes it looks like a late-night scroll through old texts you thought you deleted.
But I’m here. I’m healing. I’m not who I was.

And maybe that’s enough for today.

If you’re healing too—take your time. God’s not done with you either.