Quotes About Healing

Those who were so long imprisoned in ice and darkness seem to find the sunlight jarring, painful. The longer I walk around with this grief inside me, the more I understand that. It's as if sunshine is a slap in the face that says, Look, the world's all bright and shiny! Too bad you're not.

Some people fall apart when they get hurt. Puddle into apathy and despair and never recover. They wait all their lives for someone to come along and rescue them.

What no one tells you is that when someone you love dies, you lose them twice. Once to death, the second time to acceptance, and you don't walk that long, dark passage between the two alone. Grief takes every shuffling, unwilling step with you, offering a seductive bouquet of memories that can only blossom south of sanity. You can stay there, nose buried in the petals of the past. But you're never really alive again.

Sometimes when really bad things happen, you put them in a box and never look at them again because they'll cost you the rest of your life. Some wounds never heal. You excise the savaged flesh and become the next thing.

I'm here. You're safe now. It's okay to remember. They can never hurt you again.

I know a thing about resentment: it is a poison you drink yourself, expecting others to die.

Suddenly so many things she'd overheard her brothers and Quinn saying when Grimm had been in residence made sense, and upon reflection she suspected a part of her had always known. Her love was a legendary warrior who had grown to despise himself, cut off from his roots. But now that he was home and given the time to explore those roots, he might be able to make peace with himself at long last.

Grief shared was grief lessened.

Depression gets you nowhere but tangled in an overgrown garden that can choke the life out of you.

Time will scar my wound and I'll emerge from my fugue tougher, if not healed.

When did grief end? Did it ever? Or did you just get numb from hurting yourself on it so many times?

When you refuse to think about an issue, it remains unchanged, in precisely the same state as you tucked it away." "Precisely the point of boxing it. The issue dies. Can no longer affect you. It's a damned effective tactic." "Short-term yes. Long-term, a recipe for disaster. When you next encounter whatever you boxed your feeling about, you're ambushed by repressed, unresolved emotion.

Cages were funny things. Although I'd escaped with my body long ago, only recently had my heart finally broken free. Healed by the love of a man who'd been willing to sacrifice everything, even give me up if he had to, just to see me rise.

Anyone worth knowing breaks once.

Love. You can only be broken without it.

Self-pity is wasted emotion. It merely prolongs whatever trauma you suffered by keeping it alive in your head. Dude, you survived it. Move on.

Regret is poison that kills the soul.

When someone hurts you - and I'm not talking about forgivable offenses, some things are irrevocable and demand recompense-you have two choices: slice them out of your life or slice them into delicious, bloody pieces. While the latter would be infinitely more satisfying in an immediate, animalistic way, it changes you. And, although you think the memory of the battle won will be a please-if it is a pleasure, you've lost the war.

But Band-Aids for my disease aren't what I'm after. I want a surgeon to perform an operation that leaves a deep incision where something nasty used to be, followed by a scar to remind me every day that it's over and I survived.

Kahlil Gibran says Your joy can fill you only as deeply your sorrow has carved you.

Strong enough that I was no longer afraid to be gentle. Powerful enough that I could be vulnerable. Scarred enough that I could understand and

Reflecting on something that hurts you only prolongs your pain, and when death is involved, the pain is often compounded by a relentless sense of guilt that attacks the moment you start to heal, as if duration of grief somehow proves the depth of your love for the person you lost.

Familiar routine is balm to a fragmented soul.

Karen Marie Moning