Breaking Open to Heal: My Path Through the Shadows

Healing.

The word sounds so soft, so gentle—but let’s be real, it’s anything but. A true healing journey is raw, gritty, and often terrifying. It’s not a highlight reel of meditations on mountaintops or blissful moments of peace. No, it’s stepping into the shadows of yourself, facing the ugliest, most uncomfortable truths, and deciding to sit with them until you can find love in the places you once avoided.

I know this because I’ve lived it. My own healing journey has taken me through depths of darkness I never thought I’d survive. I’ve sat with the weight of molestation by a family member. I’ve carried the bruises of physical abuse from my mother and lovers. I’ve numbed myself with drugs, inflicted pain on my own body to feel something—anything—and caused harm to others in the process of my self-destruction. These aren’t things I’m proud of, but they are a part of me. Ignoring them didn’t make them go away—it just made them grow roots in my soul, manifesting as triggers, anxiety, and a constant sense of not being enough.

There was a time when the weight of it all felt unbearable. I was so consumed by pain and hopelessness that I convinced myself there was no way out. I held a .357 Magnum in my mouth, ready to end it all. In that moment, the darkness felt infinite, suffocating. But somewhere inside me, a tiny seed of hope sprouted. I didn’t know how to heal. I didn’t even believe it was possible. But I made a promise to myself: if there was even the smallest chance that I could find a way to feel whole again, I would try. That seed of hope became my lifeline, and it’s the reason I’m here today. The tattoo on my arm of that same gun, now shooting out flowers, is a reminder of that moment—how from the darkest place, something beautiful can grow.

Sitting with the Darkness

The hardest part of healing is sitting with your darkness. It’s not just terrifying; it’s excruciating. The pain becomes so intense that it feels like your soul is being ripped apart, leaving you raw and vulnerable. It’s a desperation so overwhelming that you’re removed from logic and reason, as if you’re trapped in a dream where nothing feels real. The world becomes a blur, and the agony in your chest convinces you that this might just be the end. Reliving past traumas feels like they’re happening all over again, as if time folds in on itself and drags you back to the moments that shattered you.

There were times when I thought the ache in my heart would literally kill me, like it would swallow me whole and leave nothing but an empty shell behind. I would sit, trembling, unable to breathe through the waves of grief and despair that crashed over me. My mind would scream for an escape, any escape, to make it stop. But the only way out is through, and running from it only made the darkness grow stronger.

The grief of losing my baby sister to a heroin overdose was one of those moments. The pain was a physical weight pressing against my chest, making it hard to breathe. I’d lie awake at night, haunted by memories, by what-ifs, by the things I wish I could have said or done differently. The reality of her absence felt like a knife that twisted deeper with every thought. I wanted to run from it, to push it down and pretend it didn’t exist, but ignoring it only made the grief fester. Sitting with that pain was like willingly walking into a storm, knowing it would tear me apart but also knowing it was the only way to survive.

Even now, after years of sitting with some of my trauma, I still struggle. New pain and heartache can feel just as unbearable as the old wounds, and there are days when I falter, when the darkness creeps back in and I feel like I’m starting from scratch. Full transparency: I’m starting a healing journey from my marriage, from things that have shredded me into a million pieces over the course of six years. This new pain has cracked me wide open again, leaving me in a place of full vulnerability. One minute I feel like I’m okay, and the next, a wave of pain crashes over me so hard it takes my breath away. I think I’m steady, and within five minutes, I’m falling apart all over again. But here’s the thing: I REFUSE to sweep it all under the rug like so many people I know. I refuse to pretend it’s not happening just to keep others comfortable while my sanity hangs by a thread.

People will see me struggling and think, “Some healing journey—she’s a mess and can’t even handle what’s happening now.” And maybe they’re right: I AM a mess. I AM navigating this new pain like a hot mess. But that’s what healing looks like. It’s messy, chaotic, and unpredictable. Healing isn’t about being perfect. It’s about showing up for yourself, even when you’re falling apart. It’s about acknowledging the pain instead of hiding from it, even when it’s ugly.

People have their opinions. “Krystle is a healer, but she’s completely losing it.” And maybe they’re right in some ways. But what they don’t see is that this is part of the process. Sitting with your pain—really sitting with it—looks messy to others because it’s raw and unfiltered. It’s not Instagram-worthy or pretty. It’s the ugly cries, the sleepless nights, the moments of doubt when you wonder if you’ll ever feel okay again. But it’s also necessary. Hiding from my pain, pretending everything was fine, only destroyed me from the inside out. Now, I face it head-on, even when it’s ugly, because I know that’s the only way to truly heal.

Healing is Not a Destination

Here’s the hard truth: healing isn’t a destination. You don’t wake up one day and say, “I did it, I’m healed.” It doesn’t work like that. Healing is a lifelong journey. Even after years of work, I still find myself falling back into old habits of darkness. But now, I catch myself faster. I know the signs, and I’ve learned how to pull myself back onto the path. That doesn’t mean it’s easy, and it doesn’t mean I’m perfect. Healing is messy, nonlinear, and full of setbacks, but each step forward—no matter how small—is progress.

Yes, I’ve become that weird girl who seems a little crazy and off her rocker. But you know what? That’s because I no longer fake my way through life. I no longer pretend that everything is fine or hide from my darkness. Hiding only destroyed me from the inside out. Now, I face it head-on, even when it’s ugly, even when it hurts. Because I know that the only way to heal is to feel. Ignoring the pain doesn’t make it go away; it just buries it deeper, where it festers and grows until it consumes you. This is exactly what happened in my marriage. While I was so focused on trying to heal from my childhood and adolescence, I allowed this new pain to creep in and take over, unchecked. It manifested into rage and anger, and from the outside, it probably looks like I’ve completely lost it—like I’m bat-shit crazy and unstable. But the truth is, I’ve been hurt again, and again, and again. It’s not instability; it’s the weight of unaddressed agony breaking me open.

And here’s the thing: I know what to do. Feel to heal. Yes, it’s messy. Yes, it’s uncomfortable for everyone involved. And to those who think it’s selfish or wonder, “Why is she so angry?”—let me laugh for a moment. HA! Of course I’m angry. Of course I’m messy. I’ve got work to do. But I’m doing it. I refuse to keep brushing this pain under the rug to keep others comfortable. By working through this, I’m not only healing myself; I’m creating a story that can help others. My pain, my healing, and my process have purpose. My story will guide others on their own journeys, and my healing will be the light they need to find their way. Healing requires you to bring it to the surface, to sit with it, and to release it—over and over again.

Moving Beyond Triggers

Healing doesn’t mean you’ll never face difficulties again. Life will always bring challenges—that’s part of being human. But healing gives you the tools to navigate those challenges with grace. It teaches you to recognize when you’re triggered, pause, and choose a different response instead of falling into old patterns. It’s not about perfection; it’s about progress.

In my marriage, I’ve come to see how pain, when left unaddressed, can create new triggers that intertwine with old wounds. The repeated hurts I experienced didn’t just reopen the scars from my past—they added layers of complexity to my healing journey. Navigating this pain hasn’t been easy, and I’ll admit that I haven’t always handled it well. I’ve lashed out, I’ve crumbled, and I’ve let anger take the wheel more times than I can count. But here’s the truth: I’m trying. I’m genuinely, wholeheartedly trying to approach this new chapter of pain with what I’ve learned, even if I stumble along the way.

I have no shame in admitting that I haven’t done it perfectly. It’s my journey, and whether others see progress or not, I know it’s there. Each time I pause and choose to feel instead of react, each time I sit with the discomfort rather than run, I’m moving forward. The work isn’t pretty, and it’s far from finished, but it’s mine. And through this process, I’m learning how to turn my pain into purpose. By confronting these triggers, I’m not just healing for myself—I’m creating a roadmap for others who feel lost in their own darkness.

A Light in the Darkness

When you make the decision to face your pain, you’re not just walking through the fire for the sake of suffering. You’re creating a life where you’re no longer shackled to the weight of your past. Healing doesn’t erase the scars, but it allows you to carry them differently—as reminders of your strength rather than anchors holding you down.

It’s about reclaiming your power, one piece at a time. With every painful truth you sit with, you gain clarity. With every tear you shed, you create space for something new to grow. Healing gives you the ability to experience life fully again—to laugh without guilt, to love without fear, and to show up in a way that feels authentic and true.

For me, this process has been a journey of rediscovery. I’ve learned that joy isn’t something you find on the other side of healing; it’s something you learn to welcome back into your life as you release the pain. It’s the quiet moments of peace, the deep breaths where you feel your chest expand without the weight of grief crushing you, and the connections you build with others when you share your story.

Yes, it’s terrifying to peel back the layers and face the darkness, but what you’ll find on the other side is worth it. You’ll find yourself—the version of you that was always there, buried under the pain but never truly gone. You’ll find a life where you’re not constantly triggered by every memory or fear. You’ll find resilience and an ability to navigate the chaos of life with more grace and strength than you ever thought possible.

So if you’re in the darkness right now, know this: it won’t last forever. Every step you take, no matter how small, is bringing you closer to the light. You don’t have to have all the answers today. Just take the next step. Trust that even in your most broken moments, you are building something beautiful. And when you look back, you’ll see that the darkness wasn’t the end—it was the beginning of something extraordinary.

-Krystle Simpson