The Quiet Work of Healing

No one warns you how lonely healing can feel at first.

It doesn’t always arrive with a grand revelation or some cinematic release. Sometimes, it shows up in silence, in the space after a friendship ends, in the deep breath you take before choosing not to reach out again. It lingers in the quiet, asking you to sit with the truth you’ve known for a while: that not everyone gets to stay.

Over the last few years, I’ve let go of friendships I once thought would last forever. Some faded slowly, like steam lifting off a morning mug… unspoken, inevitable. Others ended sharply, severed by dishonesty, self-centeredness, or just the slow ache of being around people who took more than they gave.

At first, I was angry. Angry that I had shown up with my whole heart, only to realize some people had no intention of offering theirs. I kept replaying conversations, questioned my instincts, wondered how I missed the signs. I felt foolish. Hurt. Worn down by the weight of disappointment.

But slowly, gently, something softer settled in.

I began to see that not everyone is meant to come with you.

Everyone is fighting their own battles, walking their own path, and sometimes, that path didn’t align with mine. It doesn’t make them bad people, it simply means we were no longer the right fit for each other.

I’m 32 now and what I’ve learned is that sometimes, releasing those connections that don’t add value to your life is the most loving thing you can do for yourself and for them, allowing both people to continue growing in the directions you need to go.

And the beautiful thing is: I feel lighter.

I feel rooted.

I feel more myself.

These days, I am incredibly intentional about who I give my time and tenderness to. The friends I have now are the ones I’ve grown with… some for a decade, others since childhood. We hold space for one another without conditions. We listen. We show up. And that matters more than numbers or group chats or how many people are around.

That is the quiet work of healing.

Right now, I’m not chasing new connections. I’m pouring into myself. Into my marriage. Into the slow, quiet work of becoming the version of me I’ve always needed.

And in all of that stillness, writing has saved me more than once.

There is something sacred about putting pain on paper. Something powerful about naming what you feel without ever having to say it out loud. Writing gives shape to the mess. It allows me to process without performing, to be honest without interruption. It’s the only place where I don’t feel the need to soften my truth or make it palatable for someone else.

And then there are books… the kind that don’t just entertain you, they rearrange you. When I needed to feel seen, when I felt hollow or unsure, I escaped into the pages of stories that reminded me of my strength. I read words that mirrored my own thoughts back to me, only gentler. More forgiving. More whole.

One book that met me right in that space was The Mountain Is You by Brianna Wiest. I underlined whole paragraphs like prayers. But there’s one truth that has stayed with me more than any other:

“You are going to have to decide that you love yourself too much to keep settling for less than what you really deserve.”

And that’s exactly what I’ve been doing. Not all at once. Not loudly. But steadily.

I can’t point to one singular moment when I knew I was healing. It was more like a quiet unfolding. A growing awareness that I no longer felt obligated to stay in draining rooms. That I no longer needed to be validated to feel valuable.

It’s the choice to pick up a book instead of a phone.

To write your way through the ache rather than ignore it.

To stop proving your worth to people committed to misunderstanding it.

To create peace in your own life, even if it means leaving behind the noise of someone else’s.

It’s subtle. Soft. Often invisible from the outside.

But you’ll feel it.

In the friendships you protect.

In the boundaries you keep.

In the way you speak to yourself on a slow, ordinary morning.

It’s quiet work. But it’s everything.

And it’s yours.

Reflective Question:
What would happen if you fully trusted your own peace and began letting go of the things that no longer serve you?