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You feel pain
Then you cry
But you heal
-安天美
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POV: You wished you could be better. You wanted to reach out but never did.
Pain speaks first in the body - a tightness in the throat, shoulders curled inward like closing petals, jaw clenched against words that need speaking. Sometimes it's the heaviness in the limbs that makes even reaching for water feel like lifting mountains. The body knows before the mind catches up, sending its quiet signals: the churning stomach, the shallow breath, the heart beating against ribs like it's trying to escape.
These physical echoes of emotional wounds remind us we're not floating consciousness but embodied beings. Even when the pain isn't from visible wounds, it manifests in muscle memory - the way we hold ourselves smaller, how we brace for impact even in safe spaces, the automatic flinch when someone moves too quickly.
Crying reshapes our internal landscape. It begins as pressure behind the eyes, a trembling in the lips, a heat rising from chest to throat. Some tears fall hot and fast like summer rain, others leak slowly, stubbornly, like winter thaw. The body shakes, shoulders heave, breath catches and releases in rhythms old as oceans.
In these moments, even the air feels different against tear-salted skin. Time moves strangely - seconds stretch like hours or collapse entirely. The world narrows to this: the burn in your sinuses, the taste of salt, the way your hands shake when reaching for tissues. These physical markers of grief connect us to every human who has ever broken open.
Healing doesn't arrive like a lightning strike but seeps in gradually, like dawn warming cold earth. First, you notice you're breathing deeper. Your shoulders drop away from your ears. Your jaw unclenches enough to eat without pain. Sleep, when it comes, holds you longer. These small victories in the body chart the path of inner healing.
The body leads the way - showing us how to release, how to soften, how to trust gravity again. Even when the mind still circles old wounds, the body begins its quiet work of renewal. A hand uncurls from its fist. A spine straightens slightly. Lungs remember how to fill completely.
The path between pain and healing isn't linear but spirals like DNA, each turn carrying both memory and possibility. Some days the body remembers old griefs - a song triggers tears, a scent brings the pain flooding back. But now there's a difference in how we carry it. The shoulders that once collapsed can now hold both sorrow and strength.
Movement becomes medicine - walking, dancing, stretching into spaces grief made tight. The nervous system slowly recalibrates, learning that safety exists alongside scars. Even cellular memory shifts; where trauma once lived, resilience takes root. This isn't just metaphor but biology - the body literally rebuilding itself around what it has learned.
Throughout this month's writings—from the foundational vibrations of bass to the subtle whispers of sacred sound, from tending hope's garden to finding resonance in silence—we've explored different facets of the same truth: our capacity for resilience lies in embracing our full humanity. Pain isn't a deviation from the path; it's part of the journey home to ourselves.
The path between pain and healing isn't linear but spirals like the rhythms we've explored all month. Some days the body remembers old griefs—a song triggers tears, a scent brings the pain flooding back. But now there's a difference in how we carry it. The shoulders that once collapsed can now hold both sorrow and strength, just as the earth holds both shadow and light. As we close this month of reflections, let this meditation on pain and healing stand as both ending and beginning.
To everyone reading these poems, may you recognise your own strength in these universal rhythms and remember that healing is written into the very code of your being.
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<aside> <img src="/icons/backward_blue.svg" alt="/icons/backward_blue.svg" width="40px" /> Art of Acceptance
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<aside> <img src="/icons/forward_blue.svg" alt="/icons/forward_blue.svg" width="40px" /> Dream Reality
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you can read all 30 poems and reflections from January below. if any of these poems resonate with you, write me a cute note [[email protected]].
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