The Pain You Avoid Owns You
“The cure for the pain is in the pain.” — Rumi
She handed me the plate like nothing had cracked.
No apology, no remorse, just silence
thicker than the stew congealing between us.
I said I was full.
She said nothing.
Again.
I swept the shards up later,
careful not to bleed,
as if hiding the cut could make me whole.
But the wound didn’t need noise.
It needed air.
And I was tired of bleeding politely.
These small notes arrive quietly,
like morning light through a cracked window.
No noise. Just truth.
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We like to think we’re logical.
That if something hurts, we should avoid it.
That if something feels unbearable, it must be wrong.
That if we’re still suffering, it must mean we haven’t figured out the trick yet.
So we scroll. We distract. We intellectualize.
We throw productivity at our pain and call it progress.
“Ignoring pain delays healing. Facing pain is the first step toward freedom.”
But pain doesn’t disappear when you outwork it.
It waits.
It embeds itself.
It morphs into tension. Fatigue. Irritability.
Suddenly, you’re flinching at kindness. Numbing with noise. Avoiding the very thing that could liberate you.
I used to be terrified of sitting with myself.
Not in a coffee-shop-with-a-journal kind of way.
I mean really sitting. Without noise. Without solutions. Without the mask.
Because I knew that in the silence, something would surface.
And it wouldn’t be pretty. Or polite. Or performative.
It would be real.
And real meant pain.
But once I let it speak, it stopped screaming. Once I stopped running, it stopped chasing.
Pain doesn’t come to ruin you.
It comes to remind you of what’s unresolved.
It comes to reveal what still matters.
And you stop being owned by it when you face it.
Exciting news! A new Healing Thoughts book is on the way.
Crafted with care, inspired by you, and filled with reflections for the journey ahead.
I’ll be sharing more details in a couple of weeks.
Stay tuned, and thank you for being part of this path.
Today, ask yourself:
“What pain am I pretending doesn’t affect me anymore but still shapes how I move?”
Write it down. One line. No filter.
Then ask:
“What would it look like to stop avoiding this, and start being with it?”
No fixing. No fleeing.
Just presence.
Even if just for five minutes.
Pain is not your enemy.
It’s your witness.
Your alarm.
Your teacher.
It rises when you’re out of alignment.
It lingers when you’re still pretending.
But it also softens when you meet it with honesty.
Stop bargaining with your pain.
Sit with it.
Let it speak.
Let it show you what you’re still carrying.
Not to punish you.
To free you.
Have you ever stopped avoiding a pain you once buried?
What changed when you finally gave it attention instead of silence?
If you’re willing, share it.
Your story could help someone stop mistaking numbness for healing.
If you’re here, you’re part of something real, something that holds space for healing without the need to perform. I don’t take that lightly.
If this space feels like home.
If it holds your ache, your becoming, your breath.
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If you think these gentle words cut deep, wait until you read Shadow Thoughts.
That’s where I let the truth bleed without cleaning it up for anyone.