The Myth of Getting Somewhere

For a long time, I thought healing meant progress.

Steps. Stages. Improvements you could chart.

There was always a ladder, even if it was invisible.

Better sleep. Fewer symptoms. More coping.

Somewhere up ahead, a version of me who had “made it.”

It’s such a seductive myth — the idea that we’re heading somewhere better.

That one day, we’ll feel how we’re supposed to.

That we’ll wake up in a body that behaves.

That the shame will dissolve.

That we’ll become normal enough to be left alone.

Mental health services are built on this premise.

The idea that wellness is a destination.

That it can be measured, assessed, risked, signed off.

But the truth is stranger.

Real healing doesn’t always feel good.

It doesn’t arrive on time.

It doesn’t give you certificates.

It doesn’t necessarily make you easier to manage.

Sometimes it makes you louder.

Or stiller.

Or more unbearable to the systems that tried to fix you.

Sometimes it returns you to your power — and that power is disruptive.

I’ve been at rock bottom.

I’ve also known moments of grace that can’t be described.

What I’ve learnt is this:

Peace isn’t the end point.

It’s the ground underneath all of it.

And the more I stop striving, the more I remember it’s always been there.

There’s no “arriving.”

Just a gradual return to the self.

A becoming undone in all the right ways.