The truth is, I’ve been sitting with a lot—more than I ever expected to have to process. Life, in its unpredictable way, threw me a major curveball. My family, the very people I’ve leaned on most of my life, became the source of one of my most painful and traumatic experiences. This setback took me off course, and I haven’t felt like myself since. It’s been one hell of a year, but here I am.

Healing from trauma is hard. Sometimes it feels impossible. I’ve spent days feeling like I’m stuck, unable to put the pieces back together. But in this period of chaos, I’ve learned the importance of sitting with the pain, allowing myself to feel every bit of the discomfort, anger, and sadness. This silence I’ve sat in has not been a void—it’s been a space for reflection, for really tuning into what I’m feeling, for listening to the parts of me that have been ignored or hidden away for too long.

Sitting in silence can be unsettling. It forces you to be alone with your thoughts, and let’s be real, sometimes they are the last thing you want to confront. But I’ve realized that this stillness is essential. It’s here where clarity begins to form. It’s where I’ve begun to understand that healing isn’t linear, and it doesn’t follow a timeline. In this quiet space, I’ve begun to see the threads of my experience for what they are—lessons, painful yes, but also essential to my growth.

I found myself in a space where I didn’t know how to move forward, let alone write about it. The hurt was too deep, the emotions too raw. I’d sit at my computer, ready to share something, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, I just sat in the silence.

And it turns out, that silence has been a part of my healing.

Sitting in silence doesn’t mean you’re doing nothing. It’s an act of surrender, of allowing yourself the space to feel everything that’s swirling around inside. I’ve realized I can’t rush healing. The trauma I’ve been working through has no quick fix. It’s messy, painful, and often feels like it’s pulling me backward. But sitting with my emotions, even when they make me uncomfortable, has allowed me to understand them better.

Awareness has been key for me. Being aware of my emotions, even the ones that hurt the most, has helped me recognize patterns, understand why I react the way I do, and realize that healing isn’t about forgetting or “moving on.” It’s about feeling everything as it comes and trusting that there’s a purpose in the process. This experience with my family has forced me to look deeper, not just at them, but at myself.

Being aware of my emotions, even the ugliest ones, has given me a new kind of power. Awareness doesn’t change the past, but it does help me make sense of how it shaped me. It’s helped me understand why I feel the way I do, and more importantly, that it’s okay to feel it all. There’s no wrong way to grieve, to process, or to heal. There’s only my way, and I’m learning to trust it.

So, as I sit in this silence, I’m allowing myself to be still, to take in the weight of what has happened, but also to recognize that I’m still here. I’m healing, slowly, but surely. And when I’m ready, I’ll speak again. But for now, the silence is where I need to be.

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