Journeying With Wisdom

On the afternoon of March 15th, 2024, flames consumed our garage and threatened the sanctuary of our home. The terror was real, the loss tangible. But one detail etched itself into my heart more than anything: our cat, hiding in the drawer beneath the guest bed, a silent witness to chaos.

He was rescued, yes—but not healed.

For over a year, he refused to return to that room. The place of his comfort had turned unfamiliar, hostile. He preferred the outdoors, its anonymity perhaps more bearable than the intimacy of trauma. It wasn’t until June 2025—14 long months later—that he tiptoed his way back to that spot. At first unsure, then slowly, cautiously, reclaiming the place where he once napped so innocently.

And that’s when it hit me.

Why do we expect human beings to heal quicker?

Why do we push ourselves to be “okay” in the very rooms where grief exploded into our lives? We’re expected to return to work, continue conversations, smile through anniversaries—yet the soul is still navigating the wreckage. Like my cat, our healing is not a matter of strength, but of safety. And safety, after trauma, takes time to rebuild.

Grief rewires our sense of place. The familiar becomes foreign, and the ordinary becomes overwhelming. Our hearts retreat, often silently, because the world rarely pauses for our recovery. But healing, true healing, is not linear. It’s a quiet drawer under a bed, revisited one day at a time.

So if you’re grieving, remember this: it’s okay to take your time. It’s okay to sleep outside metaphorically. And when you’re ready to come back—to whatever “drawer” once held your peace—may you do so gently, and on your own terms.

Your Thoughts Matter Have you experienced healing in unexpected ways—perhaps through the quiet presence of a pet, a space reclaimed, or simply the passage of time? I’d love to hear your story. Share a comment below and let’s honor our journeys together.