What Am I Healing For?

I said it out loud once: “What am I healing for?”

I was talking to a coworker about therapy—she was sharing her progress, and I was just… not in that place. I was caught in a loop, scrolling through headlines, watching everything go up in flames and wondering why I was supposed to be improving myself while everything else is unraveling.

And under that was a quieter question:

Who am I healing for?

Because sometimes healing feels like it’s only worthwhile if it’s leading somewhere. To a relationship. To becoming the kind of person who deserves the kind of person you’re trying to attract. Like it’s this character arc where you fix your issues, glow up emotionally, and end up with someone who also went to therapy and drinks green juice.

But I’m not chasing that right now.

I’m not dating anyone. I haven’t had a crush in months. I dip my toe in occasionally, but there’s no spark pulling me into that space. Every time I go on a date, I find something wrong with them. And once I see it, I can’t pretend it’s not there.

There was someone a little while ago, who made it past the initial filters. It felt like it might turn into something. I was excited in the quiet, hopeful way you get when you don’t want to jinx it. We made plans for a third date, and I had spent the whole day subtly orbiting around it—doing a face mask, waxing my armpits, going to yoga, then rushing home to get ready.

And then I found myself standing in front of the mirror, halfway through my makeup, when I got the text:

“I only have two hours. I have to go to a Hanukkah party after.”

And something in me just… paused.

Not dramatically—just internally.

Because I’d spent all day preparing for something that now felt like an afterthought. And I had to ask myself: Why am I rushing for this? Why am I scrambling to show up for someone who’s not really showing up for me?

I suggested we postpone the date and he agreed—which stung, even though I brought it up. He asked if he could call me instead, since we wouldn’t be able to meet.

But by then, I was already crying—and I didn’t want him to hear it in my voice.

So I said no.

I texted him how I felt. Not unkindly—just honestly. I said I was disappointed, that I’d been looking forward to the date, and that it didn’t feel good to be squeezed into someone else’s schedule. And I was left standing there. It felt familiar—to overextend for the bare minimum.

He apologized. But the momentum died. We never rescheduled.

It made me realize I have more to work through than I thought.

The echoes of feeling like an afterthought. Like softness isn’t met with care. The recognition. That’s healing, too.

Maybe healing isn’t always about becoming.

Maybe it’s about resting.

Maybe it’s about staying still until the noise dies down.

I think we expect healing to feel productive. We expect it to come with visible progress, beautiful journaling, podcast-worthy insights. But sometimes, it’s just… a pause. An exhale. A lack of urgency.

I’m not reaching for anything right now.

I’m not trying to fix myself in time for some imagined future.

I’m just here. Sitting in the stillness.

Letting myself be.

And maybe that’s enough