Heal loudly.
Simply words in a comment on a TikTok on a video of a woman who got left at the altar.

I had been scrolling the comments because sometimes they are like a mine field and sometimes they provide soil for gardens of hope.
And then I paused on the words: HEAL LOUDLY.

They made my heart stop a bit.
Because there should be no shame in healing so why shouldn’t we heal loudly if that’s what we need to do?

I personally have a lot more shame than I would care to admit about what feels like my inability to heal quietly. The words that flash through my brain more than I would like to admit are that it isn’t a big deal, I’m too weak, I should just get over it and live with it.
And so, instead of speaking up when my heart feels like it’s breaking again, or when my face feels numb or when I would just like to be able to cry out of both eyes; I stay quiet.

I attempt to just heal.
I attempt to tuck away my grief, my physical and emotional pain.

This weekend and the next few days are ridiculously hard for me. I would love to just bury myself under blankets and come out when we’re further into October.
Screw it. Give me november.

But then I remember; heal loudly.
The last 3.5 or so years of my life have been filled with land mines and they actually fucking suck.

And I realize when I give myself the permission to heal loudly, to reach out, to write, to lift some of the debris off my shoulders instead of begrudgingly carrying it around it helps.

It takes courage to heal loudly. I think of people who go through unspeakable trauma and then use their voices to speak on behalf of those who aren’t able to speak.
I think of people who chose to live even when the world keeps pushing them down.

Healing loudly doesn’t look the same for everyone.

But it does look like not being ashamed of the fact that you’re still healing. That you’re still grieving.
That you still struggle to get out of bed but you do anyway.
That’s also healing loudly.

It’s funny when I think about how we put timelines on things. Yes, we know give or take how long a broken bone will take to heal, or when the stitches need to get out.
But, why do we pass that certainity over to all parts of healing?

We need to learn to heal loudly so that we can in fact heal. However that may look for you.
For me, it’s writing. It’s acknowledging in words the break in my heart from my mom dying and the fact that I don’t go a day without thinking of her. It’s acknowleding in words that I might never be able to feel the left side of my face or smile again.

It’s acknowleding how it’s hard to get out of bed most mornings.
But, still getting the fuck out of bed.
That’s healing loudly.

My way of healing loudly is to create spaces for others to do so without shame.
It’s sharing stories and moments and tears and anger. It’s allowing others, every once and awhile, into that 15 percent of my life that I keep behind the curtain so that they know that I in fact am not holding it all together.

I’m healing loudly because it doesn’t matter that it’s been three years since my world shattered more than I thought possible- I just want you to know that it doesn’t matter how long it’s been for you either.

I don’t know what you’re healing from. I don’t know how long it’s been or what happened to you.
I don’t know if you feel shame or if you feel trapped or if you feel guilt.
But I’m here to remind you- remind us.
Let’s heal loudly.
However that looks, however that is.

Heal. Loudly.
With love,
Meg