Allowed to Heal — Aloud

What the name of my publication means

Just a moment ago, I had to crack open my journal. I’m in the midst of finishing this piece, planning to post it today, and all these insecurities are coming up.  

I spent a few minutes writing them out: I’m not saying anything new. Who cares? Readers are sick of me. I don’t want to be an inbox pest or a burden.

Why am I even writing this?

The last question helped me get somewhere. I’m writing this to tell you about the layers of the name of this project, “Healing Aloud,” and how they guide me. And in my little journal sesh just now, I was able to hone in on what I think is the most important aspect: that I’m doing this “aloud,” as in out there, in front of you.

I’m here to expose the ugly, hard parts, the shit we don’t talk about — while I’m actually going through it. (See journal entry above.) I’m hoping this makes some people feel less alone.

This project is a lot about dismantling the notion that I need to go deal with all the messy stuff in the dark where no one can see me and only come out when I have it all together. It’s about showing up for you vulnerably so that maybe you can see yourself in some of my experiences — and maybe you get inspired to write and share some of your own.

Before this project came to be, there were many months of “not feeling ready,” (like today). When I finally let starting it be a possibility in my mind, the name simply arrived, one of those magical flashes of insight: Healing Allowed.

… except there’s a Christian book with the same title and the Substack handle is taken.

Then it dawned on me that there was another word that sounded just like “Allowed.”

Aloud.

Aha. I could incorporate a whole other meaning.

I didn’t fully think through exactly why I was naming it what I was naming it, I just trusted my gut. And as I’ve dedicated time to writing on this theme over the past few months, I’ve started to get clearer on why I chose these words — and wow, there are so many layers! So here’s a breakdown of each aspect:

Healing, to me, means becoming more whole.

It means first letting myself fall apart. Letting the intricate, many-times reinforced ego house I built crumble. Seeing the defenses I’ve honed to protect me from my wounds and letting them fall away (or actively breaking them). Letting myself be in pieces on the floor.

And then beginning the work of repair, of tenderly putting myself back together.

It’s like the Japanese art of kintsugi, where, traditionally, broken ceramics are mended with a lacquer derived from the sap of the Japanese sumac tree (Toxicodendron vernicifluum) and finished with gold.

The luminous seams are proof of the careful work I’ve done, resulting in a vessel much stronger and more radiant than before.  

The kintsugi bowl on this small section of my vision board reminds me of the beauty in breaking.

“Kintsugi can make this relationship with breakage one of joy and learning instead of regret and loss,” writes Marie Kondo.

And — here’s the part I struggle with most — healing means being okay with doing this over and over again. Because, though I do think the initial break is often the hardest, it’s not just one and done.

I find Pema Chödrön’s words from When Things Fall Apart (shout out to Dave Williams for the recommendation!) a helpful reminder:

Things falling apart is a kind of testing and also a kind of healing. We think that the point is to pass the test or to overcome the problem, but the truth is that things don’t really get solved. They come together and they fall apart. Then they come together and fall apart again. It’s just like that. The healing comes from letting there be room for all this to happen: room for grief, for relief, for misery, for joy. 

I am allowed to heal.

As I untangle the impacts of childhood experiences, family patterns and social conditioning, I often find myself thinking: “It wasn’t that bad.”

I make a mental list of the many privileges I’ve had — which could be helpful if I could simply let those be with gratitude. But too often, that line of thinking leads to a puddle of guilt-ridden minimizing and the conclusion that I should be fine. Then I think of all the massive crises in our world.

This is all so self-indulgent. I should be stronger. I better stop wasting so much time and just suck it up and “be productive.”

I have to remind myself that I am worth it. That my pain — and that of generations past that I still carry — deserves my attention, my tender loving care. Whether it’s “worse” or “less bad” than anyone else’s doesn’t matter. My wounds are uniquely mine, they are my responsibility.

I perpetually give myself permission to do this work.

When I feel weak, I remember that it might be just the hardest thing of all, to really see my murky depths. To take myself so seriously, to value my sole, precious life so much, that I know I am worth mending.  

I also know that my healing changes the quality of my relationships, the work I’m capable of doing, the level at which I can serve. Me lovingly tending to my wounded parts transforms every interaction I have in the world.

I allow the healing process to unfold.

I can be rather impatient when it comes to self-growth. I’m like, okaaaayyyy, I’m ready! Let’s get WHOLE!  

But, goddamn, it’s a process.

I lived nearly 30 years one way before even realizing there was another way. It’s gonna take a while to undo the conditioning and figure out who I am and how to be without it. And the patterns that started well before my lifetime are a beast to break.

Just when I think I’ve totally got this, I find myself back in the same old shitty circumstances.

So I’m learning to surrender to the process. I try over and over again to give up control. To remember that my conditioned brain shouldn’t be in the driver’s seat on this journey. That I can’t make a list and plan and schedule how it’s going to go.

I try to be okay with feeling around in the dark for a while and allowing what comes.

This image, adapted from The Great Work of Your Life, helps: 

“When we are led by divine guidance, we have no idea where we are going. The lantern illuminates the path just a few feet ahead and we trust that we can make the entire journey seeing only the immediate next steps.”

I speak my truth Aloud.

When I chose journalism 10 years ago, I turned away from writing my own stories. I decided then that my experiences weren’t worth writing about. And I recently realized I’ve been resenting my 20-year-old self for that.

I resented her for not being stronger, for not believing in herself, for not owning her voice.

But I am learning that exiling this former me is holding me back and I’m trying to honor her instead. I tell her I know she chose the path she could with the tools she had at the time. I tell her I’m grateful that she never gave up on writing stories, even if they weren’t her own.

I tell her we’re now choosing to delve into deep, vulnerable places and learn to speak our truth. We’re taking the path we couldn’t take then — which means we’re facing all the Hard Stuff that we didn’t have the capacity to face then. We need each other.

Thanks to Sophie Taylor-Havens for capturing 20-year-old grumpy homework Katherine + Left Handed Toons Katherine

The aloud part is literal too — that’s why I’m recording myself reading each of these posts. I’m also trying out therapeutic yelling and taking free singing lessons on Youtube. I’m coming at it from all angles, strengthening my voice and becoming comfortable being heard.

Like I mentioned at the beginning, aloud also means in front of. I used to think I needed to be “more healed” in order to be able to do this work. I now realize that the key is to be here as I am, knowing I don’t have it all “figured out.”

This work is the healing.

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