Recipe for Healing

My habit of enduring, I discovered in my twenties, resulted in numbness to pain and emotions. When difficult times kicked in, my vision got clouded, as well as my mind. Instead of taking care of my needs, I rolled up my sleeves to either fix or withstand the situation.

But pain never just went away. At night in bed, at a crossroad in broad daylight, or at a cheerful wedding banquet, Han visited me. Without a word, she colored my world in blue, as if locked in a giant ice cube. I felt cold and powerless.

Recently, my therapist told me that the habit has its roots. That I need to revisit my old days and feel the pain and sorrow and walk out of it bravely. Otherwise, my present reality will continue to experience such unwanted turbulence.

I nodded and told her I wanted to think about it. In truth, though, I tried not to think about it. I didn’t want to go back to dark memories. I wished I could somehow swallow it, and move on toward something new. The very tactic I’d used for my lifetime.

But no, I shouldn’t. And I wouldn’t. Because I want something greater than forgetfulness. I want healing. I want safety. I want confidence in my decisions and strong belief in my thoughts. Light, love, liberation. I want all of them. I always had.

So these days I try. When Han comes around, wrapping my shoulder with her chill air, I pause and take a deep breath. Even when I momentarily join her world, once I find a quiet space and some hot water, I tell her, that the past is not today. That the wounds she cries about were not her fault. It was a difficult time, neh? I imagine telling her. By then, she is no longer a full grown woman; she is only a little child. I lower my gaze and stare — the child who was once myself. And, with both hands warmed by the tea cup, I hold her hand, and leave, wherever we had been.

In this way, we are no longer alone. No longer abandoned or hurt. We become stronger. We become whole.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​