Some wounds never really close. People like to say “time heals,” but I don’t buy it. Time just teaches you how to carry the weight differently. Some days it’s lighter. Some days it drags you down so far you wonder if you’ll ever stand straight again. And more often than not it's the anchor around your feet pulling you into the deep, never to return to the surface.
I don’t always talk about those wounds out loud. Some of them are too messy, too complicated, too full of jagged edges that other people don’t want to see. But I do write them.
When I write, I let the cracks show. I let the anger and grief and heartbreak slip through the words. I let my characters say the things I can’t. I let them break down in ways I’m too tired or too stubborn to. I let them rage against the unfairness that I’ve learned to just…live with.
It doesn’t make the pain disappear, but it transforms it. On the page, it’s not just mine anymore. It’s part of a story. It’s a piece of something bigger. And sometimes, that’s the only way I can survive it—by turning it into something that doesn’t just sit in the dark corners of my chest.
The truth is, writing the wounds I don’t say out loud is scary. It means admitting the pain is real. It means facing things I’d rather keep buried. But every time I do, I feel lighter. Not because the wounds are healed, but because they’re acknowledged. They’re seen.
And maybe that’s why readers connect with these kinds of stories so fiercely. We all carry wounds we don’t talk about. We all have those shadows that creep in at night or sit quietly behind our smiles. When I write mine, I’m not just bleeding onto the page—I’m holding out a hand and saying, “Me too.”
So no, time doesn’t heal all wounds. But writing? Writing gives me a way to keep walking with them. To give them meaning instead of just pain. To let them live in the light, even when I can’t bring myself to speak to them out loud.
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