Not Every Wound Is Meant to Heal

We’re told to fix what’s broken, to move on, to let go. But some pain stays with us, shaping who we are and how we see the world. Not every wound needs to heal for us to move forward

A Golden-Cracked Pottery (Kintsugi) - Picture generated on Substack Generate tool

There are moments in life that change us forever. Moments that split us open and leave behind a mark so deep, we know it will never fade. Losing my father was one of those moments.

When he passed away, the grief was immediate and all-consuming, like a tidal wave that pulled me under. People told me, “Time heals all wounds,” and I wanted so badly to believe them. I thought if I waited long enough, if I leaned into my pain and worked through it, the ache would eventually subside.

But the truth is, it didn’t.

---

The Ache of Loss

In the days and weeks after his passing, I felt like I was walking through a fog. My world had tilted on its axis, and I couldn’t figure out how to stand steady. Grief didn’t move in a straight line - it was jagged and unpredictable.

Some days I could function, even smile, and then the smallest thing - a song he loved, the scent of his cologne - would break me all over again. I thought I was failing at grief because I couldn’t make it go away.

For years, I carried that ache in my chest like a secret. I believed the pain meant I was doing something wrong, that I wasn’t “healing” the way I was supposed to. I pushed myself to try harder - more therapy, more journaling, more letting go.

But the ache never left. And over time, I began to understand that maybe it wasn’t supposed to.

---

The Wound That Stays

I used to think that healing meant going back to the person I was before. That if I worked hard enough, I could undo the loss and become whole again.

But I’ve learned that some wounds don’t close completely, and that’s okay.

The ache I feel when I think of my father isn’t just pain - it’s love. It’s the bond we shared, the moments we laughed, the times he was my anchor when life felt impossible. That ache is proof that he mattered, that his presence shaped my life in ways I still feel every single day.

I wouldn’t trade it. Even if someone could take the pain away completely, I wouldn’t want them to. Because to erase the pain would be to erase the love, and I could never do that.

---

The Lessons Grief Taught Me

Grief is a brutal teacher, but it teaches lessons we might never learn otherwise. Losing my father showed me how fragile life is, how quickly everything can change. It taught me to hold the people I love a little tighter, to tell them how much they mean to me while I still have the chance.

It also taught me resilience - not the kind that comes from “bouncing back” but the kind that comes from learning to live with the cracks.

There’s a depth to who I am now that wasn’t there before. Losing him forced me to look at life differently. It made me softer in some ways, harder in others. I know now how to sit with pain - my own and others’ - without needing to fix it.

And though I wish I could have gained that depth without losing him, I know that’s not how life works. Some lessons can only be written in the language of loss.

---

The Wounds We Keep

Not every wound needs to heal for us to move forward. Some wounds become part of us, shaping who we are in ways we don’t fully understand until years later.

The ache of my father’s absence hasn’t faded, and I don’t expect it to. It’s not just a reminder of what I’ve lost - it’s also a reminder of what I had. A relationship so meaningful, so profound, that it left a mark on my soul.

I carry that wound with me now, not as a burden, but as a testament. A testament to love, to loss, to the ways we are shaped by the people who matter most to us.

---

Healing Isn’t Always the Goal

We often think of healing as erasing the pain, as closing the wound completely. But what if healing isn’t about erasing? What if it’s about integration - about finding a way to carry the loss with us, honouring it as part of our story?

There’s a quiet kind of freedom in accepting that some wounds don’t close neatly. They stay open, reminding us of what we’ve endured and how we’ve grown.

Not every wound is meant to heal. And that doesn’t mean we’re broken - it means we’re alive.

---

The Beauty of Scars

In Japanese culture, there’s an art form called kintsugi, where broken pottery is repaired with gold. The cracks aren’t hidden; they’re celebrated, highlighted as part of the object’s story. The repaired piece isn’t less valuable - it’s more so because of what it has endured.

I think of my grief that way now. The pain of losing my father is a scar, yes, but it’s also a mark of love, of connection, of the life we shared. It’s a part of me, woven into the person I’ve become.

I carry that scar with pride, not because it’s beautiful, but because it’s real. It’s a reminder of what I’ve survived and how much I’ve loved.

Not every wound is meant to heal. And maybe that’s the point.

---

Recommend QuietlyBecoming to your readers

If you enjoyed this post, please consider subscribing and supporting my work. Every subscription helps me continue sharing essays like this and building a space for connection and understanding. Your support means the world, and I’m deeply grateful for every single one of you.