Creating While Healing

Healing looks different for all of us, and one thing to remember is there is no right or wrong way to do so. In the beginning, my healing looked a lot like outings and alcohol, and while it wasn’t the healthiest way to do things, it helped me process my emotions. It dropped the mask that I had to be tougher than what I was in that moment. My vulnerabilities were right at my doorstep, and I couldn’t hide from them anymore.

While I wanted to believe I was going to be fine―and eventually, I would be―I had to give myself the space to admit that I wasn’t fine right now. The dynamic of my life had changed completely, and I wasn’t prepared for just how much it REALLY shifted. The life I was building blew up entirely, and while I was fine picking up the pieces from that, I wasn’t prepared for my relationships being next. Life looked different for a lot of my friends during that time, and these changes were not minuscule.

Friends who once felt like home suddenly felt like strangers with full schedules and unreturned texts. The people I used to lean on were out living lives I no longer fit into, and no one warned me how loud the silence gets when you’re healing alone. I wasn’t ready for that kind of isolation. I wasn’t ready to carry the weight of my emotions without a hand to pass it to.

Loneliness has a way of whispering lies. It makes you believe you’re forgettable, like the world is spinning and no one noticed you fell off. And I believed it―for a while. I stared too long at the empty spaces where people used to be, so much so that I almost missed the ones stepping in quietly, ready to stay.

But even in that heaviness, something unexpected started to happen: I was creating.

Amid the mess, I started making things―things I didn’t even know I had in me. New ideas bloomed, soft and steady, like wildflowers through concrete. I began writing again, not just to escape, but to understand. To process. My journal pages became the blueprint for workshops, classes, and conversations I hadn’t even imagined before. The very act of creating gave me something to look forward to. It reminded me that even if everything around me was breaking, I still had something to give.

I built new relationships too―some intentional, others that just fell into place with ease. Business connections that brought clarity and purpose. Friendships that felt like warm blankets. And love… not just the romantic kind, but the kind that catches you when you’re falling, the kind that says “you’re not too much,” even on the days you feel like a storm. I was learning how to pour into others while also pouring into myself―without guilt, without depletion.

And maybe the most sacred thing I created was the story. The one that took shape in the aftermath. The one that was never supposed to exist if life had gone according to plan. That story―the truth I lived through―wasn’t just for me. It became medicine for others. A guiding light for people clawing their way through their own rock bottoms. All that pain I once begged to be free from? It became my message. My purpose. My offering. It’s funny how the most broken pieces of you can become the exact tools someone else needs to rebuild.

Coming out of that chapter, I had a choice: I could sit in the wreckage and mourn what was lost, or I could rise―scared and unsure―and walk toward what was already making its way to me. Healing asked me to surrender, and surrender asked me to trust. Not in a plan, not in a perfect outcome, but in the truth that something beautiful could still grow from the rubble.

Then, almost quietly, people started showing up. Some had been in my life for years, others were brand new―divinely placed. They poured into me without expectation. They reminded me that even in my unraveling, I was worthy of love, support, and softness.

God closed doors I didn’t have the strength to shut myself―and then flung new ones wide open.

To those who sat with me in silence, dropped off groceries, watched my babies so I could breathe, helped me find a new home, sent “just checking on you” texts, or reminded me I wasn’t alone―may life bless you tenfold. I love you for a lifetime.

No, my life didn’t go back to what it was. It never will. But maybe that’s not the point.

Maybe the goal was never to return―but to become.

Allow yourself to grow during those trying seasons, and watch how life begins to blossom in the process. With all of my love, I pray this helps!