Reflections from the Other Side of Healing

During conversations, I’ve noticed a disturbing pattern. Certain individuals—perhaps out of insecurity, discomfort, or a need to assert dominance—find subtle ways to reference parts of my past or present that I’d rather not revisit. These remarks often appear harmless on the surface, but their true intent is rarely innocent. They are meant to humble me. To humiliate me. To remind me, and others, of where I’ve been and who I’ve been—often in moments when I’m simply trying to live fully in who I am now.

It’s perplexing. Why the need to drag my past into the room like an unwanted guest? I am the one who has lived through the consequences of my decisions. I carry the weight of my past every day—I do not need reminders. Especially not from people who seem more invested in my shame than in my growth.

Yes, I have made mistakes. I’ve endured trauma, loss, and more than my fair share of judgment. But that’s true for all of us, isn’t it? We all have our stories, our missteps, our pain. What connects us as human beings is not our perfection—it’s our struggle. And yet, some choose to weaponize my past instead of learning from their own.

I’ve come to believe that this behavior often stems from something deeper: discomfort with my audacity. My confidence. My refusal to shrink or conform to the story they’ve written about me. How dare I not be the struggling girl they predicted I’d become? How dare I ask for respect, demand accountability, or walk with dignity when they were convinced I had forfeited the right to all of it?

There’s a quiet cruelty in this—an unspoken expectation that I remain boxed in by who I used to be. That I never dare outgrow my pain or rewrite the narrative. For them, my evolution is inconvenient. For me, it’s non-negotiable.

This dynamic has made relationships complicated. It raises hard questions: Do people really believe in redemption? Are we allowed to evolve? Or will we forever be shackled to someone else’s memory of our lowest moment?

For me, the answer lies in resilience. In radical self-acceptance. In choosing, again and again, to see myself as whole—flawed, yes, but also healing, growing, becoming.

A huge part of my healing journey has been learning to focus less on what I lack—whether physically, emotionally, or financially—and more on what I’m building. I’ve shifted from obsessing over my insecurities to embracing the ways I’ve grown. That shift has changed everything. It has allowed me to contextualize my pain and extend compassion to myself.

I’ve also learned that seeing other people’s struggles—truly seeing them—can be a powerful reminder that none of us are exempt from hardship. We are all figuring it out. So when others try to catastrophize my situation or use it as a punchline, I remind myself that their projection is not my truth.

I remember the time when I struggled to conceive. There were people who said it was a curse. That it was permanent. That I would never know the joy of motherhood. Their words were cruel. They stayed with me. But thankfully, so did the words of the doctors who assured me that everything would be okay. And they were right. Their quiet confidence became my anchor.

Over time, I stopped internalizing the cruelty of others. I stopped letting their opinions steal my peace. I realized that no matter how close someone is to me, they don’t get to define my reality. They don’t get to humble me when I’ve already done the work of humbling myself in the presence of God, truth, and growth.

Today, as I write this, I am surrounded by everything I once prayed for.

To my right, my firstborn child sleeps soundly in her crib—a living testament to hope, perseverance, and answered prayers.

To my left, my loving husband lays beside me, a quiet, steady presence who has held my hand through some of the hardest seasons of my life.

And me? I’m here. Whole. Grateful. No longer surviving, but living.

There were moments when I thought it would all fall apart. But here I am. Here we are. And I am so thankful that the worst did not have the final word.

What I’ve come to learn is this: healing isn’t about pretending the pain never happened. It’s about acknowledging all of it—the dark and the light, the breakdowns and breakthroughs—and still choosing joy. Still choosing life.

Each step forward is a small revolution. Every moment of peace is a quiet victory.

And every time I choose to see myself clearly, not through the eyes of those who doubt me, I reclaim something sacred.