Healing feels boring
Let's talk about the silence after the drama
It feels so quiet inside.
I don’t like it.
Walking on the Oregon Coast beach with my toes in the cool of the early morning sand, I tap away in my phone notes.
My emotions have taken me on unwanted rollercoaster rides too many times to count in the past four years. The kind where you’re not quite sure that teenage employee strapped you in correctly. You’re positive this will be the ride that goes off the rails.
Navigating the twists and turns and drops takes a lot of energy. Articulating, feeling, and expressing a variety of emotional states is sometimes like that pressure that pushes on your chest like a ton of bricks when the rollercoaster drops into that one curve. You’re never quite sure when it’s coming, but you recognize it every time.
Thing is — I got used to the rollercoaster. My body woke up in the morning and wondered which unraveling situation was about to strap me into a seat I never asked for. The tension, the discomfort, the feeling, the release.
The tears for my little brother could fill a swimming pool.
The betrayal of losing community hurt something deep.
The jumbled letters of new diagnoses (ADHD, ASD, OCD, PMDD) seemed to multiply without my permission.
Challenges in other parts of my life clamored for my emotional attention.
So. Many. Rollercoasters.
There’s always been something to notice. Especially because pain is not neutral in my life. I feel pain physically in the inflammation of a fibromyalgia body. Muscles ache, knots form, headaches rage, thoughts get cloudy, and nerves shimmer as my body sends me unavoidable messages that my heart is hurting.
So when I find myself walking on a beach and realizing my internal emotional world is quiet…
.
.
.
.
.
it gets my attention.
I watch my brain cycle through each situation that took me upside down in the past four years. To my shock, I notice my heart’s response to each one.
Acceptance.
Yup. Each of those happened. I don’t need to argue with them anymore. (At least not today). I think of each person with grace and empathy.
I think of myself with grace and empathy.
My fingers tap: Is this what healing feels like? I thought I would cry forever.
I really did. Especially in those early months after Jeremy, I thought the tears would never end. Sure, the tears are close by when a favorite song of his comes on or he misses another milestone, but I’m grateful to also notice deep gratitude.
Acceptance doesn’t pack the same dopamine punch that adrenaline-fueled rollercoasters do.
Acceptance doesn’t need desperate attempts to make sense of every detail.
Acceptance isn’t spiritual bypassing and mindset shifts and positive thoughts.
Acceptance is seeing the humanity of everyone involved, including ourselves.
Acceptance is peering right into the deepest pain and refusing to run away.
Acceptance is quiet. Peaceful. Strong. Resolute. Determined. Present.
My face turned into an ironic smirk that chilly morning because acceptance feels so foreign inside my body. It’s too quiet. It doesn’t seem to need much from me.
My ego leans in: Wait, what? I want to get upset about something. I want to feel needed. I have opinions to process. Just joking — I want the rollercoaster back!
My truest self gently responds: Let’s memorize how this feels. It’s okay to feel this…quiet. It’s the sound of acceptance. It’s the sound of a heart that’s ready to let go again. It’s the sound of trust. It’s the sound of healing.
I think it’s funny that so many talk about healing as the goal, but don’t say how weird it feels to find ourselves in one of those spaces. Even landing there invites us to sit with the discomfort of healing.
Almost as if the entire point is journeying inward toward any tension and sitting with it until it unravels. Then we realize all over again that letting go is the invitation and the work. All that’s left is love.
Over and over. Over and over. Over and over.
From The Thread Archives
One thing you should know about the autistic experience - seeing ourselves in the stories of others
Watching my brother fall in love is healing me - love after death
It’s okay to not know yet - a poem on uncertainty + finding home
Books
Happy Pride everyone!
I loved this essay so much. I am autistic and have been on this same journey of healing for a year now. You are a beautiful and insightful writer.