Everyone talks about healing like it’s linear. Like it’s a staircase — one step at a time until you reach the top.

But healing felt more like spiraling. Like walking in circles and hoping they’d lead somewhere.

Some days she woke up with fire in her chest — cooking breakfast to music she used to hide from him, dancing barefoot, stretching in the sunlight. Other days, she didn’t leave the bed. The ache in her ribs came back like it never left. Grief had a way of slipping under the door even when she locked it.

She missed the routine more than the man. The shared chores. The shared bed. The comfort of predictable mornings, even if they came at the cost of peace.

Friends reached out, but she didn’t always answer. Not because she didn’t love them. But because she didn’t know what to say. She didn’t want to explain why she was crying over a plate. Or how silence could still feel like betrayal.

She made mistakes. She texted him once — something neutral, like “Hope you’re doing okay.” He didn’t reply. Or maybe he did. She deleted the thread before she could check again.

She forgave herself.

She allowed the spiral, the mess, the softness. She stopped judging her process against everyone else’s. This wasn’t a race to be “better.”

It was a return to herself — and that took time.