Let the Wound Breathe
𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐧’𝐭 𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐩 𝐚 𝐁𝐚𝐧𝐝-𝐀𝐢𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐚 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭’𝐬 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐬.
When someone is in pain grieving, struggling, unraveling we often reach for comforting words like:
“Stay strong.”
“At least you had time together.”
“Everything happens for a reason.”
” Life must go on.”
We mean well.
But more often than not, it’s not about the person in pain.
It is about our discomfort in facing the rawness of their experience.
Because deep wounds make us uncomfortable.
They don’t look clean or composed.
They don’t reassure us.
They ask us to sit in silence. To stay. To feel.
And we hate to feel, we hate to be dragged down the rabbit hole with pain.
So, we reach out for band-aids, flowery ones, cute looking ones, so what if they don’t heal, they cover the wounds that’s ugly.
But not all wounds need Band-Aids.
Some heal quietly. Without dressing.
It may not look pretty to us, but healing doesn’t have to perform for onlookers.
It doesn’t need to be explained, packaged, or sped up to fit into someone else’s timeline.
Grief is not meant to accommodate the needs of the sympathiser.
It doesn’t owe clarity or closure.
There’s no deadline. No finish line.
There’s no rush.
In Option B, Sheryl Sandberg writes about “𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒖𝒄𝒌.”
That means sitting with pain instead of rushing to fix it.
Letting the tears fall. Naming the loss. Being with the ache, not against it.
In the therapy room, in communities, in my own quiet moments I have witnessed this truth over and over: The pain we avoid lingers. The pain we lean into transforms us.
Let grief be what it is.
Let healing be messy.
Let wounds breathe.
If the hurt is deep, don’t reach for a Band-Aid.
Reach for presence. Reach for connection.
And if you find yourself at a loss for words, feel tempted to reach for band-aids, choose silence, space, respect, honesty, it’s ok to admit you are equally lost. And worth to share your experience with me here: Grief and Band Aid