The past knocked, but I didn’t answer!

 

 

Cathartic.

I don’t think I’ve ever really heard that word before. I looked it up: “providing psychological relief through the open expression of strong emotions.” Like crying. Or writing.

A friend recently described my posts as cathartic.

And they’re right.

Yesterday, it hit me—I write. I write what I need to hear. I write to heal. And I have healed, in ways I can feel and see. But then, out of nowhere, a conversation brought up the past—and with it came a storm.

Shame. Disappointment.

That ache behind the eyes. That lump in the throat. The headache from holding it in when all you want to do is scream.

But I didn’t scream.

I won’t give him that power—not anymore.

And right then, a message from a friend, as if on cue:

“Don’t let anybody take you back to the place you prayed your way out of.”

(Tobymaz #SpeakLife)

Exactly.

Healing isn’t linear. Some days are strong. Some days are shaky. But every day is a choice.

To stop.

To breathe.

To repeat.

This is life.

And we choose how we react to it.

Did something here speak to you?

Leave a comment if you feel moved, or simply sit with me in quiet.

If you’d like to walk this road with me, follow Nomadic Grandmother for new stories.

— x Elsabe