If you had asked me a couple of years ago what healing looked like, I probably would’ve said something like, “peaceful,” “put together,” or “a version of myself who finally has it all figured out.” But I’ve learned that healing isn’t polished. It’s not linear or easy to explain. It’s messy, surprising, hard, and beautiful—often all at the same time.

This past year has changed me in quiet, life-shifting ways. Getting diagnosed with autism, ADHD, and CPTSD didn’t put me in a box. It gave me a map. Suddenly, things I had always felt—deeply, intensely—started making sense. It felt less like I was becoming someone new and more like I was finally meeting myself.

Before that, I spent a lot of time trying to shape myself into who I thought I was supposed to be. I looked at the world through rose-colored glasses, holding on to the best in people and ignoring my own discomfort, often pushing past my limits just to keep up. But healing has helped me take those glasses off. Not in a bitter way—but in a way that’s honest. And freeing.

The biggest shift? I’ve stopped looking outside myself for the answers.

For so long, I let other people’s voices take up too much space in my head. Expectations, opinions, memories—things I didn’t even realize were shaping how I saw myself. But through this healing process, I’ve started letting those voices go. I’ve learned how to give myself grace. Real grace. The kind I used to save for everyone else.

A huge part of this journey has been the love and care I’ve found in my husband. We met in the middle of rebuilding ourselves, and somehow, we became each other's fix—not in a way that asked us to change, but in a way that helped us return to who we always were. He’s shown me what unconditional care really looks like—not just love, but presence. Selflessness. Safe, consistent kindness. It’s a beautiful thing to be known by someone who expects nothing of you but your truest self.

Alongside that, I can’t speak about healing without talking about therapy. Trauma work, somatic processing, and EMDR have been game changers for me. These healing tools helped me understand what my body had been holding onto for years. They gave me space to breathe again, to speak, to feel in ways I didn’t know were possible. Most importantly, they gave me the safety to be.

And maybe that’s the heart of all of this: feeling safe. In my body. In my story. In my space. In who I am.

I’ve found joy in the smallest things. In quiet rooms. In making art. In good people. In places that feel like they were made with softness in mind. I can’t say enough good things about what happens when you find the right support—when you give yourself a chance to stop performing and start becoming.

So this is where I am now. Still healing. Still learning. Still tender. But also—more whole than I’ve ever felt. I’m learning to live in the in-between, and it’s strangely beautiful here.

If you’re on your own journey—especially if it feels confusing, or like you’re just starting to see things clearly for the first time—I hope you know that you’re not alone. Healing isn’t a destination. It’s a process. A daily unfolding.

And it’s okay to grow slow. It’s okay to be soft. It’s okay to be figuring it out.

You’re already doing the work. And that’s enough.

X. DIONEL