writingtoheal

There’s a quiet pain in losing touch with who you once were, a grief that lingers even when you don’t realize it. I spent years writing letters to my struggles—to anxiety, depression, addiction, and more. Each one was a battle fought on paper, a way to make sense of the chaos inside my mind. But the hardest letters weren’t to my struggles—they were to the parts of me I had forgotten.

The Forgotten Self

We don’t lose ourselves all at once. It happens gradually, in the silent moments of surrender—when we let fear, shame, or survival strip away pieces of who we are. For me, it happened in the shadows of mental illness, when the weight of life’s demands made it easier to focus on just getting through the day than remembering who I was beneath it all.

There were parts of me I buried without realizing: the dreamer who believed anything was possible, the child who laughed freely, the teenager who saw strength in vulnerability. Those parts faded into the background as I fought to keep my head above water. And for a long time, I didn’t even notice they were gone.

The First Letter

I’ll never forget the day I sat down to write my first letter—not to my struggles, but to myself. It felt like writing to a stranger, someone I used to know but hadn’t spoken to in years. How do you address the person you left behind? What do you say to the version of yourself who still believed in magic, in endless possibilities, in their own worth?

I started with this:

“ Dear Me,

I’m sorry. I’m sorry for the years I’ve ignored you, for the times I let the noise drown out your voice. I’m sorry for the moments I told you that you weren’t enough. I forgot how brave you were, how hopeful, how full of life. I forgot you. And I don’t want to forget anymore.”

It was one of the hardest things I’d ever written. The words felt heavy, not just with guilt but with longing—with the deep ache of someone who missed a piece of themselves they thought was lost forever.

The Lessons I Learned

Writing those letters taught me that the self isn’t something that disappears—it’s something we leave behind, piece by piece. And just as we can lose parts of ourselves, we can reclaim them. Here are some of the lessons I discovered along the way:

1. Forgiveness Is Key

The hardest part of writing to myself was acknowledging the ways I had let myself down. I had to forgive myself—not just for the mistakes I’d made, but for the times I abandoned my own needs in the name of survival.

2. Who We Were Still Lives Inside Us

The child who believed in wonder, the dreamer who envisioned a better future, the version of me that felt whole—they hadn’t disappeared. They were waiting for me to remember them, to bring them back into the light.

3. Healing Isn’t Just Forward—It’s Backward, Too

We often think of healing as moving forward, but sometimes it’s about going back. Back to the moments we lost ourselves, to the dreams we left behind, to the parts of us we thought we’d outgrown but still need.

An Invitation to You

If you’ve ever felt like you’ve lost touch with yourself, I invite you to try writing a letter. Not to your struggles, but to the parts of you you’ve forgotten. Start small. Write to the version of you who once felt hopeful, or fearless, or free. Write to the child who saw the world with wonder, the teenager who dreamed big, or the adult who believed in their own strength.

It might feel strange at first—uncomfortable, even—but give it time. Let the words come slowly, let the memories resurface, let the connection rebuild. Because those parts of you, no matter how long they’ve been buried, are still there. And they’re waiting for you to come back.

A Letter to Myself

In closing, I want to share one of the letters I wrote during this process—a letter to the dreamer I thought I had lost:

“ Dear Dreamer,

You were always so brave. You believed in things others couldn’t see, in futures that felt impossible. I lost sight of you for a while, buried you beneath the weight of reality. But I see you now. And I want you to know that I haven’t given up. I still carry your dreams, even when they feel heavy. Thank you for teaching me to hope, even in the hardest moments. Thank you for reminding me that the light we need is often the light we carry within ourselves.

Yours,

Me. ”

The Journey Home

The hardest letters I wrote weren’t just to the parts of me I had forgotten—they were my way of finding my way back to myself. Each word was a bridge, each sentence a step toward wholeness. And while the journey isn’t over, I know now that it’s one worth taking.

Because when we reconnect with the pieces of ourselves we thought were lost, we rediscover the strength, the courage, and the light that were always there. And in doing so, we begin to heal—not just the wounds we carry, but the relationship we have with ourselves.

– Corey Welch

Author | Mental Health Advocate

#EmotionalHealing, #HealingJourney, #Introspection, #MentalHealthAwareness, #SelfDiscovery, #RediscoveringIdentity, #SelfReflection, #PersonalGrowth, #OvercomingChallenges, #Resilience, #WritingTherapy, #StrengthInAdversity, #Vulnerability, #SelfEmpowerment, #SelfForgiveness, #ReconnectingWithYourself, #MentalHealthBlog, #LifeLessons, #LoveAndHealing, #writingtoheal

#WritingThroughIt

I took my daughter to the park today. This is not an uncommon occurrence; we like to go two or three times a week when we can, and there’s not a pandemic keeping them closed. My little one, currently a terrific two-year-old, is fearless and completely undaunted by the unknown (a trait I wish I shared at times). And she likes to play on the 5-12 playground, of course.

My mom instincts want to herd her away to the little, more safe playground. It’s easier, smaller, more familiar. But my daughter, with a glint is determination, rushes straight over to the big playground and starts to climb. Anxiety claws through me; am I a good parent for letting her do this? It seems like it’s unsafe...I don’t want her to fall. I hover protectively for a while, watching her every move.

Until she gets to the bridge. It’s a swaying plank bridge with big gaps between the slats. And I see the fear in her eyes. I can’t save her; she’s going to have to cross it or find another way to get down. And she wants to cross it. Still timid and fearful at first, she starts to cross, testing the swaying bridge with her little foot. She starts to put her weight into it, still nervous but growing more confident. She grabs for my hand through the bars to steady her; she knows I’m near but she wants to do this. And step by step, with a boldness that surprises me, my little two-year-old crosses this bridge. I saw the biggest grin break across her face, and she exclaimed, “I DID IT!” and jumped up and down.

I realized a few things in this moment, as a parent, as a daughter of Christ, as someone who struggles with mental health.

As a parent, I learned that even though my child is only two, she is bold, ambitious, strong, determined, and more beautiful than I ever realized— and I want her to always know that. I want to support her as she dreams big, beautiful, impossible dreams like my parents did for me.

I’ve also learned (or, I’ve been learning for a while now) that sometimes you have to do it afraid. Even when you’re crossing a bridge you don’t know if you’re even capable of crossing— that others have told you specifically NOT to cross, sometimes you just have to swallow your fear and hold on to faith in that moment. One step at a time. I get so tired of letting anxiety rule my thoughts and keep me from the joy of the present, and the future. All it takes is one step at a time.

I want to be bold like my daughter, childlike wonder in my eyes, joyful expectation that there is goodness on the other side of the bridge. Even if I have to inch my way across, I want to cross the bridges the Lord lays before me, holding fast to His hand all the while.

Blogging at heardbelievedloved.com

#Anxiety #writingtoheal #Depression #Parenting #Faith #faithandhope #Christian #Christianity #MommyBloggers #faithoverfear

I took a deep breathe and tried to calm my twelve year old nerves.

I walked through the doorway into the living room, he was sitting in his recliner to my left. I turned to him, my hands nervously grabbing at my clothes, my shoulders slumped, and my eyes turned down.

“I was talking to someone at school” I began, “and they told me what we do isn’t right. I don’t want to do that stuff anymore.”

He looked at me. I wonder, had he been younger and more able, if I’d have been released from his grip so easily. Maybe it was his fear of what I was saying at school.

“Okay” he replied, monotone and emotionless.

That’s all he said, but I remember thinking, it’s over, he was going to stop. Still, there was no real relief.

So I turned and went back outside to play, and left my grandpa sitting in his recliner in the living room.
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#Memories #processing #mystory #csasurvivor #ChildhoodAbuse
#PTSD #PTSDawareness #Trauma #Traumaawareness #writingtoheal #PTSDWarrior #courage #Survivingchildhoodtrauma #ChildhoodSexualAbuse