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Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about how I’m “sick of healing”. It feels like I’ve been in a perpetual healing process since my sophomore year of high school, and likely earlier with my parents’ divorce. Yet, when I think about it, the times of my life when I wasn’t in a healing process were the times with the most darkness, when I felt most detached from who I am, and when I was most ignorant of the toxicity that I or my environment held.
I know it’s not the healing that is dreadful. It’s the sense of constant awareness, constant self-reflection, resurfacing memories, mistakes, and pain. It’s facing the fact that I have been in perpetual circumstances that have warranted such healing. Even though true healing requires facing those moments that make you feel the smallest and the most detached from yourself and God, it’s that process- it’s finally taking the box of insecurities and sorrow off the shelf, dusting it off, and being vulnerable with God that helps you close the gap of divine disconnect. He can’t turn your weaknesses into strengths if you can’t even acknowledge them. This is what it means to sacrifice to God: giving him everything you have. That vulnerability is what He wants. It shows Heavenly Father that we are willing to turn to Him for strength and that we recognize the love and power he holds. The Savior atoned for our sins so that we could give these sorrows up and learn how to heal.
But yes, I’m tired of the healing process. I’m tired of what my limited mortal mind views as constant emotional work that seems to repeat in dozens of slightly different life scenarios daily, monthly, and annually in my life. But the difference is that I can have this healing. I’m able to clear out that box of pain and self-declared shortcomings that so quickly turn to guilt, shame, self-criticism, and worse. I’m fortunate enough to have faith to ground myself in. And I know that I’m most myself when I’m most connected to God. There’s nothing more relieving than making decisions that better align you with the truest version of yourself. And since we are all eternal beings, divine spirits from our Heavenly Family, we are most ourselves when we turn into that power and light.
I know that the Savior’s atonement is what grants me the strength to grab this box and face its content time and time again without crumbling from the sheer weight of it. Everybody has it. But with the Savior, I get to live through these things instead of indefinitely living with them, and I can be better for it.
Healing then gets to be a beautiful thing. The more you go to Christ to collect strength, the more you will have at your disposal the next time.
Ultimately, I believe it is beyond our capacity to understand what healing means and how the process now will benefit our eternal personas. However, I know it is much more than facing a lesser version of yourself, more than the pain, and more than the unsettling realization of its nonlinear course. This is the refiner’s fire. This is how we learn to ground ourselves and our worth in who we really are. How to not lose sight of the Savior when our inevitable mortality, imperfections, and darkness feel more potent. This is how we learn to love when we are hurting and feel love we didn’t know was possible when we need it the most. Both are the most Christlike, most delicate, and sacred forms of love that can only be accessed through this level of sacrificial healing.
Though it seems a lonely and broken process at first understanding, healing is what the atonement was made for. Christ is our healer and this is how we connect to Him. He wants us to come to him and feel the love and potential associated with healing that we rarely fully experience once our minds get in the way. That’s the blessing in its constant cycle. The joy in connecting to God, your true self, and receiving a higher version of love is a guaranteed reservoir of strength that you can draw from.
However, this doesn’t take away from the pain and the work entangled in healing. It simply means that the real purpose is so far evolved from that focus, that the pain is seemingly insignificant.