I am still healing, and I am still standing. Those two truths exist together more often than people realize. Healing didn’t remove my struggles, and standing didn’t require that I be finished with them. I learned how to hold both without invalidating either.
There’s a misconception that healing should make you lighter all the time. That once you’ve done enough work, life stops hitting the same places. What healing actually did was change how I meet the impact. I don’t crumble the way I once did. I don’t disappear inside the pain. I stay present, even when it’s uncomfortable.
Still healing means there are days when old feelings resurface without warning. Familiar tightness. A sense of vulnerability I thought I’d moved past. That doesn’t mean I’ve regressed. It means healing didn’t erase my history. It taught me how to stand inside it without losing myself.
Standing doesn’t always look strong from the outside. Sometimes it looks like taking a pause instead of pushing through. Sometimes it looks like needing reassurance and asking for it honestly. Sometimes it looks like choosing rest over productivity because my nervous system needs it. None of that negates progress.
I used to think strength required certainty. That if I were truly healed, I wouldn’t hesitate or feel shaken. What I’ve learned is that strength is quieter than that. It’s choosing not to abandon myself when things feel tender. It’s staying grounded even when clarity hasn’t fully arrived.
Still healing, still standing also means I don’t rush myself through discomfort anymore. I don’t demand that I be okay before I’m ready. I allow feelings to move through me without turning them into proof that something is wrong. Healing doesn’t mean avoiding pain. It means staying regulated while it passes.
There are moments when I can feel both proud of my growth and aware of what still needs care. That awareness doesn’t discourage me. It anchors me. It reminds me that healing is ongoing, not because I’m failing, but because life keeps asking new things of me.
Standing also means I recognize my limits. I don’t force myself into situations that require constant self-regulation. I choose environments that support my healing instead of testing it. That choice didn’t come from fear. It came from respect.
I don’t measure my progress by how rarely I struggle. I measure it by how quickly I return to myself when I do. I don’t spiral the way I once did. I don’t stay lost in self-criticism. I notice, adjust, and keep moving forward.
Still healing doesn’t make me fragile. It makes me honest. Still standing doesn’t make me rigid. It makes me resilient. The combination of the two is where real stability lives.
I don’t need to be finished to trust myself. I don’t need to be perfect to keep going. I can acknowledge what still hurts while honoring how far I’ve come. Both matter.
I am still healing, and I am still standing. Not because it’s easy. But because I’ve learned how to stay with myself through it.
Final Thought
Healing doesn’t require collapse.
Standing doesn’t require completion.
You can be both at once.
Disclaimer
Healed, Not Healed Enough reflects personal reflection and lived experience. It’s not professional advice or a substitute for therapy or clinical guidance. Healing isn’t linear, and this space honors that.