Healing the Parts of Me That Hurt the Most

Healing is not always about fixing what is broken. Sometimes, healing means learning how to live gently with the parts of yourself that have been hurt by experiences you never expected to face. For a long time, I thought healing meant forgetting the painful moments of my past. I wanted to wake up one day and feel as though the years of disappointment, grief, heartbreak, and uncertainty had never happened. But eventually, I learned that healing doesn’t erase the past. It changes the way you carry it. My journey taught me that some of the deepest wounds are invisible, and healing them requires patience, compassion, and the courage to finally face what hurts. My emotional journey began with a dream that mattered deeply to me. I wanted to become a mother. I imagined building a family, raising children, celebrating birthdays, creating traditions, and experiencing all the beautiful everyday moments that come with motherhood. I never imagined that this dream would become one of the most difficult journeys of my life. In 2015, I was diagnosed with infertility. Hearing that diagnosis was heartbreaking. Suddenly, something I had always assumed would happen became uncertain. I felt confused, disappointed, and afraid of what the future would look like. I couldn’t understand why something that seemed so natural for other people had become such a difficult journey for me. I wasn’t ready to give up on my dream, so I pursued IVF. I believed that there was still hope, and that hope kept me going. What I expected to be a temporary challenge eventually became a seven-year journey filled with fertility treatments, medications, procedures, appointments, waiting, uncertainty, hope, and disappointment. Every treatment brought another possibility. Every possibility gave me another reason to believe that things might finally work out. But every setback also left another emotional wound. I learned how painful it can be to hope for something over and over again. I learned how exhausting it can be to keep believing when disappointment keeps returning. And I learned how difficult it can be to explain that kind of pain to someone who has never experienced it. During those years, I became focused almost entirely on becoming a mother. My thoughts revolved around treatments, appointments, results, and possibilities. I was so focused on the future I wanted that I slowly stopped paying attention to the person I was becoming in the present. Then, in 2017, I lost my mother to heart disease. That loss created a completely different kind of pain. My mother was someone I loved deeply, and losing her while I was already struggling with infertility made the emotional burden even heavier. I wanted her beside me during my fertility journey. I wanted to tell her about my hopes and fears. I wanted her advice when I felt overwhelmed. I wanted her to see the future I was trying so hard to build. But suddenly, she was gone. I had to continue living while carrying the grief of losing someone who had been such an important part of my life. I learned that grief doesn’t always look dramatic. Sometimes it looks like getting up, going through your responsibilities, talking to people, and pretending you’re okay while carrying sadness that nobody else can see. I became very good at hiding my pain. Then, in 2019, something happened that gave me hope again. After years of IVF treatments and countless prayers, I finally became pregnant. I was told I was expecting a baby girl. For the first time in years, I allowed myself to imagine a future that felt beautiful. I imagined holding my daughter. I imagined watching her grow. I imagined celebrating birthdays and creating memories together. I imagined telling her about the grandmother she would never have the chance to meet. I finally believed that maybe everything I had been through was leading somewhere. Then came the ultrasound appointment that changed everything. There was no heartbeat. Losing my baby was one of the deepest wounds I have ever experienced. I wasn’t only grieving a pregnancy. I was grieving the future I had already imagined. I was grieving the memories I thought I would have and the life I had already begun picturing in my mind. There are some losses that change you permanently. This was one of them. After the loss, I continued IVF treatments because I wasn’t ready to let go of my dream. I kept hoping that another treatment or another opportunity might finally bring the future I wanted. But emotionally, I was becoming exhausted. I was carrying grief from losing my mother, heartbreak from losing my baby, disappointment from infertility, and exhaustion from years of medical treatments. I didn’t know how much pain I was carrying because I had become so used to functioning through it. Eventually, the emotional weight began affecting my physical health. My weight reached 195 pounds. When I looked in the mirror, I barely recognized myself. My confidence was low, and I felt disconnected from my body. For a long time, I thought my biggest problem was my weight. But eventually, I realized that the weight was only the visible part of something much deeper. I was carrying years of stress. I was carrying grief. I was carrying disappointment. I was carrying fear. I was carrying emotional exhaustion. And I was carrying a version of myself who desperately needed compassion. Then I experienced a severe allergic reaction to one of my hormone medications and ended up in the emergency room. That experience forced me to stop and think about my life. I couldn’t change infertility. I couldn’t bring my mother back. I couldn’t undo my pregnancy loss. I couldn’t erase the years of IVF. I couldn’t rewrite the past. But I could choose what happened next. On November 27, 2022, I made a decision that changed the direction of my life. I decided to choose myself. Choosing myself didn’t mean that I suddenly stopped caring about the things I had lost. It didn’t mean that the grief disappeared. It simply meant that I finally realized my own life deserved care and attention too. For years, I had been waiting for one particular dream to come true before allowing myself to feel complete. I had been telling myself that I would be happy when something changed. But eventually, I realized that I couldn’t keep putting my life on hold. I had to start living the life that existed in front of me. I began rebuilding my health one step at a time. I started working with a registered dietitian and completed a medically supervised detox program. I began learning healthier habits and developing a different relationship with food. I realized that food had sometimes become a way for me to cope with emotions I didn’t know how to process. Instead of judging myself for that, I started trying to understand myself. I learned that I didn’t need to punish myself for how I had coped in the past. I needed to learn new ways to care for myself. Then, in January 2023, I joined a gym and started working with a personal trainer. At first, my goal was physical. I wanted to lose weight and become healthier. But the longer I continued, the more I realized that I was healing emotionally too. Every workout became a promise to myself. Every time I showed up when I didn’t feel motivated, I proved that I could depend on myself. Every small improvement gave me another reason to believe that I was capable of change. Slowly, I began rebuilding my confidence. I also started seeing my body differently. For years, I had focused on what I believed my body had failed to do. Through my fitness journey, I began appreciating everything my body had survived. My body had carried me through years of medical treatments. It had carried me through stress. It had carried me through grief. It had carried me through heartbreak. It had survived things I never thought I would have to experience. Instead of being angry with my body, I started becoming grateful for it. Instead of criticizing myself, I started showing myself compassion. That was one of the most important parts of my healing journey. I realized that I couldn’t hate myself into becoming healthier. I had to care about myself enough to make healthier choices. Then I discovered Aquabike classes. What began as exercise became a source of connection and happiness. I met people who encouraged me and celebrated my progress. I started looking forward to classes. I enjoyed moving my body. I enjoyed being part of a community. I began creating new memories that weren’t connected to medical appointments or disappointment. For years, my life had been filled with memories of infertility, treatments, grief, and loss. Now I was creating memories filled with laughter, movement, friendship, and achievement. That felt like healing. Eventually, I decided to become a certified Aquabike fitness instructor. Helping other people become healthier and stronger gave me a new sense of purpose. My own struggles helped me understand what it feels like to feel stuck. I understood what it felt like to struggle with confidence. I understood what it felt like to look in the mirror and not recognize yourself. I understood what it felt like to wonder whether change was possible. Now I could encourage someone else. My pain had become part of my purpose. My struggles had become lessons. My healing had become something I could share. My physical transformation became another important milestone in my journey. On November 27, 2022, I weighed 195 pounds. Three years later, on November 27, 2025, I weighed 125 pounds. Losing 70 pounds was an accomplishment I was incredibly proud of. But the number on the scale wasn’t the most important part. The greatest change happened inside me. I learned to trust myself again. I learned to respect my body. I learned to celebrate small victories. I learned that consistency matters more than perfection. I learned that one difficult day doesn’t erase years of progress. And I learned that my worth was never determined by my weight. It was never determined by fertility. It was never determined by the things I had lost. For years, I thought my pain defined me. I thought of myself as the woman struggling with infertility. The woman who lost her mother. The woman who lost her baby. The woman who gained weight because she was emotionally overwhelmed. But those were experiences I lived through. They were not the complete definition of who I was. I was also resilient. I was also hopeful. I was also capable. I was also strong. And I was still here. That realization changed everything. Healing also taught me that I don’t have to forget the people or dreams I lost in order to move forward. I still miss my mother. I still remember my baby. I still remember the years of infertility and IVF. Those experiences will always be part of my story. But they don’t have to control the rest of my story. I can remember and still smile. I can grieve and still experience happiness. I can acknowledge what I lost and still appreciate what I have. I can honor my past without allowing it to decide my future. For a long time, I thought healing meant reaching a point where nothing hurt anymore. Now I understand that healing is different. Healing means that painful memories can exist without controlling your life. Healing means learning how to respond to difficult emotions with compassion instead of judgment. Healing means accepting that some wounds may always be tender while still choosing to live fully. Healing means understanding that progress isn’t always visible. Sometimes healing happens quietly. It happens when you stop blaming yourself. It happens when you forgive yourself. It happens when you finally allow yourself to rest. It happens when you choose a healthier habit. It happens when you ask for help. It happens when you stop comparing your life to someone else’s. It happens when you decide that your past deserves compassion instead of shame. I learned that I didn’t need to become the woman I was before my pain. I needed to become the woman I wanted to be after it. That distinction changed the way I saw my journey. I wasn’t trying to go backward. I was moving forward. There were still difficult days. There were moments when grief returned unexpectedly. There were times when I questioned whether I was truly healing. But I stopped seeing those moments as failures. Healing isn’t a straight line. Some days are easier than others. Some memories return when you least expect them. Sometimes you feel strong, and sometimes you feel vulnerable. That doesn’t mean you’re going backward. It means you’re human. One of the greatest lessons I learned was that I could hold two emotions at the same time. I could miss someone and still be grateful for my life. I could grieve my past and still be excited about my future. I could acknowledge what I lost and still celebrate what I gained. I could have difficult memories and still create beautiful new ones. Life doesn’t require us to choose one emotion and reject the other. There is room for both. If you are carrying your own painful experiences, please remember that you don’t have to heal everything at once. You don’t have to wake up tomorrow and suddenly feel completely different. Give yourself time. Give yourself patience. Give yourself compassion. Start with one small step. Take care of your body. Protect your peace. Talk to someone you trust. Move your body in a way that feels good. Create healthier habits. Allow yourself to feel what you feel. And most importantly, don’t measure your healing only by how little you hurt. Sometimes healing is measured by how differently you respond to the pain. The past may still hurt, but perhaps you no longer allow it to stop you from living. That is progress. My journey taught me that I cannot change everything that happened to me. I cannot change the years of infertility. I cannot bring my mother back. I cannot undo my pregnancy loss. I cannot erase the difficult memories. But I can decide how I carry them. I can carry them with compassion. I can carry them with gratitude for what they taught me. I can carry them without allowing them to define my future. Today, I see my past differently. I don’t see only the pain anymore. I see the strength that grew from it. I see the resilience I developed. I see the lessons I learned. I see the person I became. I see the purpose I discovered. And I see the life I am still building. The parts of me that hurt the most also became the parts that taught me the most about compassion, patience, strength, and hope. I never wanted to experience those losses. I never wanted those years to be so difficult. But I can choose what I do with the story they left behind. I can use my experiences to encourage someone else. I can remind someone who feels broken that broken doesn’t mean finished. I can remind someone who feels lost that they don’t have to know the entire path forward. I can remind someone who feels stuck that one small decision can begin a completely different chapter. Most importantly, I can remind myself. I survived things I once thought I couldn’t survive. I made it through chapters that felt impossible. I rebuilt parts of my life that I thought were gone forever. And I learned that healing doesn’t mean becoming untouched by the past. It means becoming strong enough to carry the past without letting it control you. Today, I don’t try to hide the parts of me that were hurt. I don’t feel ashamed of the woman who struggled. I don’t judge the woman who cried. I don’t blame the woman who didn’t always know what to do. She was doing the best she could with what she had at the time. I have learned to have compassion for her. Because she is the reason I am here. She kept going when she didn’t know what the future would bring. She kept hoping when hope was difficult. She kept moving forward when life felt unfair. And eventually, she chose herself. That choice changed everything. My healing journey is still continuing. I don’t believe healing has a final finish line. There will always be new lessons, new challenges, and new opportunities to grow. But I no longer fear that. I know I can face difficult days. I know I can start again. I know I can ask for help. I know I can choose myself. And I know that my past doesn’t have to determine my future. The parts of me that hurt the most are still part of me. But they are no longer only reminders of pain. They are reminders of survival. They remind me how far I have come. They remind me that strength can grow in places where we once felt weakest. They remind me that healing can begin even when we don’t know how. And they remind me that a painful chapter doesn’t have to become the ending of our story. I once believed that my greatest losses had taken away the possibility of a beautiful future. Today, I understand that beauty can exist alongside loss. Hope can exist alongside grief. Strength can exist alongside vulnerability. And a new beginning can exist alongside a painful past. I cannot change what happened. But I can choose what happens next. I can continue taking care of myself. I can continue growing. I can continue helping others. I can continue creating new memories. I can continue choosing hope. And I can continue healing the parts of me that once hurt the most. Perhaps that is what healing truly means. Not becoming someone who was never hurt. But becoming someone who knows that even after being hurt deeply, she is still worthy of love, happiness, purpose, and a beautiful life. And that is the lesson I carry with me today.