Healing is the most savage, relentless battle you’ll ever fight—one that will tear you apart from the inside out. It’s not neat. It’s not tidy. It’s a war zone littered with shattered pieces of your soul, bloodied and bruised, bleeding in ways no one sees. Those who preach forgiveness with empty smiles have never been dragged through the hellfire of true trauma. They don’t know what it’s like to wake up choking on your breath at 3 a.m., eyes wide and wild, trapped inside a nightmare so thick and suffocating you forget where you are—forget what’s real. Your heart pounds like a drum in a war march, and the cold sweat sticks to your skin as your mind screams for mercy that never comes.

They don’t know what it’s like to walk through a crowded grocery store and see the faces of your tormentors twisted into every stranger’s eyes. Every smile, every glance is a dagger stabbing through your chest. You can’t breathe. Your lungs burn. Your hands shake so hard you drop the cart, and all you want is to run—run away from the ghosts clawing at your sanity.

They don’t know what it’s like to sit alone at your desk, at 5 a.m., when the world is still silent, and pour your bleeding heart into the cold glow of a laptop screen because if you don’t scream your pain into words, you will die a thousand deaths inside your mind. The flinching at shadows and innocent touches, the instinct to curl up in the smallest, darkest corner of your house—anywhere, just to feel a shred of safety. The endless, grinding war inside your head where monsters lurk in every corner, whispering lies, dragging you deeper into the void.

Healing never comes clean. It never washes away the stains or erases the scars. It never straightens the twisted bones or smooths the shattered glass. It leaves behind a mess of raw, ragged edges and broken pieces that don’t quite fit—but somehow, you learn to carry them. You wear your scars like armor, even when they sting and bleed fresh pain.

But here’s the brutal truth: the person you become after facing all that—after surviving the horror no one dared to name—that person is a warrior forged in fire. You are bloodied and broken, but unbowed. You’ve stared into the darkest abyss of humanity and clawed your way back from the edge. And the fight never ends. Because now, you have to survive the battlefield inside your mind.

That’s why healing never comes clean. It’s ugly. It’s painful. It’s brutal. And it’s the hardest thing you will ever do. But if you survive it, you don’t just live—you rise. You become something fierce and unbreakable.