Sit with a real human for a bit and...? and!

"Strumming my pain with his fingers, singing my life with his words"

You either write or you don't, but often by sharing our experience, we wish to reveal our bravery and pragmatism. We understand our aches and can add a theory behind them only to fall the next day into…

… singing…

Whether we want it or not, wounds like to remind us of themselves, coming in all shapes and insidious forms. The pain of lost love, the phantom aches from derailed careers or deferred dreams, the dull throb of friendships fractured beyond repair.

At first, these lacerations slice us to our core, drawing blood, tears, and that soul-hollowing sensation. We bathe ourselves in self-care regimens for a couple of months to finally write on our forehead: “It doesn’t bother me any more” perpetual bliss, but the harsh reality is that deep wounds aren’t “done with” neatly or quickly.

They linger like drunk uncles at a wedding reception—crashing our inner narratives and periodically oozing the ugly parts when we least expect it. So what’s a human being to do when faced with these?

You could try a self-healing or group program: “Hi, I’m Anna, and I can’t stop picking the scab from when my music teacher couldn’t name my voice scale.” (Although the event took place, there is no scab — I have worse, but I prefer to keep it to myself).

You could also try the “grin and bear it” approach—pretend the wound doesn’t exist until one day you explode over someone leaving a toilet seat up (not that I have control freak tendencies that are held under control … it’s already been over five years!).

Or you could indulge in the time-honoured tradition of wallowing in your anguish. Wax poetic about its throbbing, aching depths. Reading all depressive poetry and listening to Adele and Ed Sheeran on an infinite loop (hey, I’ve done that not that long ago, but I’m cured from them!).

I may be playing dramatic, but hopefully, this illustrates the vast spectrum of coping mechanisms we, wounded souls, employ—from utter denial and repression to unintentionally but shamelessly bathing in melancholy.

At the end of the day, there’s no one-size-fits-all remedy for our deepest hurts.

The sympathetic approach, which sounds quite reasonable, is to show those persistent wounds some true human tenderness. Don’t fight them, reject them, or drown them out with noise and numbing vices. Invite them in for an authentic conversation. Understand their roots, their nuances, their mysterious hold over you. Get intimately acquainted with the changing tides of their impact on your psyche. Some days they may feel like a postcard you tenderly feel about and smile to yourself with the “Killing Me Softly” song, others like shards wanting to pierce your soul with a hard rock.

Through this tender inquisition, you may find that the wounds evolve, just as you do. Their layers peel back, revealing nuggets of hard-earned wisdom. Their stabbing pangs transform into summons for self-discovery, growth, and more expansive compassion—for yourself and all humans who have ever known to wound.

In this defiant act of uniting with your wounds rather than conquering or banishing them, alchemical magic occurs. The hurt transcends from affliction into a shared human experience, your exquisite fragility, and your true resilience.

So go ahead, isolate yourself and pick at that scab, if you must. But, if you want, stop running, start listening, and forge a unique relationship with the indelible hurts that make you exquisitely, reboundingly, and beautifully you.

And sure, it’s not a beauty contest, but perhaps if you sit with another real human being for a bit you might notice that your scab resembles theirs…