In the Shadow of Healing
Lunarya sat cross-legged in her quiet studio apartment, the soft hum of the city outside her window blending into the stillness within. A faint glow from her laptop illuminated the worn edges of her favorite notebook, its pages filled with thoughts, poems, and reflections. The room was her sanctuary—a space of solitude in the bustling chaos of life. Yet tonight, her heart was full, her mind alive with memories, hopes, and the weight of her ever-evolving self.
She flipped to a blank page and paused. The emptiness stared back at her like a challenge, beckoning her to write the story of her journey. From the quiet green hills of Vermont, where she’d spent time among dogs and chickens, reflecting on the fractures of her soul, to the moments of chaos that once defined her past. She had thought healing would be a straight line, but it was a labyrinth, winding through the shadows of trauma and self-discovery.
Her pen hovered over the page as her thoughts turned to her girlfriend, a force of light who had arrived when Lunarya least expected it. She remembered the first time her girlfriend had gently called out her overthinking, her voice a balm to the storm in Lunarya’s mind. Those wonderful eyes, so full of care, saw past her defenses and into the heart she had guarded so fiercely. Her girlfriend’s warmth had seeped into every corner of her being, a quiet reminder that love could be safe, soft, and kind.
And yet, Lunarya wasn’t just defined by her relationship. She had found strength in herself, a newfound understanding of the woman she was becoming. She thought of her inner child, timid and yearning for care; her inner teen, full of fire but weighed down by wounds; and her highest self, waiting patiently for her to arrive. The rainbow tribe—her chosen family—had been a constant reminder that she was not alone, even when the world felt like it was crumbling. They were her anchor, her ride-or-die companions through thick and thin.
But healing hadn’t come easily. There were nights when PTSD flashbacks crept in like shadows, and she’d find herself zoning out in front of the TV, trying to escape the storm inside. She knew she couldn’t erase the past, the hurt she had caused or endured. But she also knew she had to own it, to take responsibility and let her actions speak louder than her words.
“Chaos,” she whispered, tapping her pen against the page. It was a word that had defined so much of her life, yet it no longer frightened her. Chaos was not an enemy; it was a companion that had shaped her resilience. It was through the chaos that she had learned to live without the family that had abandoned her, and it was in the shadow of chaos that she had found herself.
The pen finally moved, and she began to write. She wrote to the child she had been, assuring her that she was worth love even when it didn’t come from the places she had expected. She wrote to the teen, telling her that her anger was valid, but she didn’t have to carry it forever. She wrote to her current self, urging her to be patient and kind, even on the hard days. And she wrote to her highest self, thanking her for waiting, for guiding her through every stumble and fall.
When she looked up from the page, a wave of peace settled over her. She closed the notebook and glanced at her phone. There was a message from her girlfriend, teasing her about something silly but ending with, “You’re amazing, you know that?”
Lunarya smiled, feeling the warmth spread through her chest. For the first time in a long time, she believed it. She was amazing. Not because of perfection, but because of her journey—her scars, her chaos, and the love she had found within and around her.
And in that quiet moment, she realized: she wasn’t just writing her story. She was living it.
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