This is not a healing space.

February 2022.

I heard the door close and I just sat there, wrapped in a sheet, looking at the room I was in.

He had taken everything. And I mean everything — the bags, the excuses, the version of me that still believed someone was going to come and fix this.

Nobody was coming.

I knew it the second the door clicked shut.

I had spent years being very good at needing to be saved.

Not in an obvious way — I wasn't waiting by the window.

I was doing the work. Therapy. Breathwork. The retreats where you cry on a mat and drive home thinking this time it's different.

I was seeking constantly, sincerely, and somehow always ending up in the same room with the same feeling wondering what I was missing.

What I was missing was me.

Not in the cheesy sense. In the specific, uncomfortable sense — that I had outsourced the whole thing; The healing, the fixing, the arrival.

I kept handing it to the next person, the next practice, the next version of a man who looked like salvation. And every single one of them eventually closed the door. Because that's what people do when you make them responsible for something that was never theirs to carry.

Here's what nobody tells you about doing the work: you can use it to avoid arriving. The seeking becomes its own loop. The process becomes the reason you never have to change. And the identity of someone who is always working on herself— God, I lived there for years — can be just as much a hiding place as anything else.

The loop doesn't break in a session.

It breaks in the moment you stop making someone else the answer.

I was sitting on the floor of my apartment wrapped in a sheet, and for the first time in a long time, I was completely alone with myself. No one to perform for. No one to need. Just me and the mess I had been very carefully, very sincerely, making for years.

That was the beginning.

Not of healing.

Of honesty.

This is not a healing space.

There's no relief here, no one to take the weight. What happens here is something less comfortable and more permanent — you start to recognize the reality you've been building, and you own it. Not because you're broken. Because you're ready to stop pretending you're not the one holding the pen.

The loop doesn't end when someone finally sees you.

It ends when you stop needing them to.

xlaloca