Letting the Light In

There's a misconception that healing is about fixing what's broken.

I don't think that's true. Mostly because I don't think any of us are actually broken.

I think healing is about letting in light—just enough to see what's actually there.

For years, I kept certain rooms dark on purpose. Not because I was in denial, but because I genuinely believed that looking too closely would undo me. That opening those doors would mean falling apart, and I'd worked too hard to hold myself together to risk that.

What I didn't understand then is that those dark rooms were already affecting everything. The way I showed up in relationships. The limits I placed on my own joy. The exhaustion I couldn't explain. The patterns I kept repeating without knowing why.

Letting light in didn't mean flooding the space all at once. It meant cracking the door. Sitting on the threshold. Letting my eyes adjust.

Not all rooms need renovation. Some just need acknowledgment. Some need grief. Some need compassion. Some need a chair and a moment of rest.

Some rooms, I discovered, just needed to be seen for what they were—not monsters in the dark, but spaces that held younger versions of me who were doing the best they could with what they knew.

When I wrote The Room to Be Brave, I wasn't trying to offer answers. I was offering permission—for us to return, to reflect, to tell the truth about what shaped us without turning it into a life sentence.

Because here's what I've learned: healing isn't a dramatic transformation where you emerge completely different. It's a series of small, honest moments where you choose to see yourself clearly. Where you stop running. Where you sit down in a room you've avoided and realize you're still standing when you leave.

Healing doesn't require bravery every day. It requires honesty, practiced gently.

If you've been walking through these rooms with me—in the book, in these posts, or quietly on your own—I hope you feel less alone in the process.

And if you're not ready yet, that's okay too.

The doors don't disappear. They wait patiently.

And when you're ready, even a crack of light is enough to begin.