When Pain Shines Through: The Awakening of Deep Emotional Healing

I didn't start this healing journey on my own accord, or at least my ego wasn't aware of it, but now I see that I've been navigating its tumultuous waters for the past decade. It was during the quiet, unnerving stillness of the pandemic that I truly became conscious of it. The real possibility of dying from COVID-19 sparked something deep within me. The fragility of my existence suddenly became undeniable, and perhaps this awareness allowed the light of pain to zip through my body, demanding to be heard, validated, and finally faced with compassion.

It seems that every decision, every twist of fate, has led me to this very moment; a moment where my soul has expanded, not gracefully, but violently, like a crack in the rock, allowing the intense, blinding light of pain to finally break free.

This process has been far from serene. It’s been a mess, a raw and untamed spill of emotions, a chaotic dance with the excruciating sadness that has lived within me for so long. This sadness was fiercely guarded by an anger so deeply embedded that my body, in its infinite wisdom, forced itself to contain it. The pressure of this containment has worn me down, eroding my strength as if I were a stone slowly disintegrating under the relentless waves of a stormy sea.

And now, as I begin to truly understand the weight of it all, as I start to unravel the "keep safe" programs that have dictated my life for the past 55 years, I find myself utterly exhausted. The motivation that once fueled me seems distant, almost foreign. My husband, with his quiet insight, put it into words yesterday: "Having to run on over-functioning mode and finally starting to heal from it, it would definitely feel like you've lost your motivation." Perhaps he's right.

In this moment, healing feels less like a triumphant journey toward wholeness and more like a slow, arduous descent into vulnerability. It’s as if the very energy that once propelled me forward, that kept me moving at a relentless pace, is now depleted. I am left with the remnants of a life lived on overdrive, trying to find my way through this unfamiliar landscape of stillness, where the only task left is to simply be.

Healing from deep emotional wounds often begins with recognizing a profound, all-encompassing exhaustion. This isn't the type of fatigue that a good night's sleep or a restful weekend can alleviate; it's a weariness that seeps into your very being, affecting your mind, body, and soul. It’s the kind of exhaustion that forces you to stop, to sit in stillness, and to finally confront the emotions you’ve been suppressing for so long.

For years while I lived in Mexico and then migrated to Chicago, I moved through life on autopilot, driven by the need to over-function. Over-functioning became my armor, my way of coping with the unspoken sadness and anger that I carried. I was always busy, always productive, always moving, but beneath the surface, I was running from something I didn’t want to face. I filled my days with tasks, my mind with distractions, and my heart with guarded emotions, all to avoid the discomfort of confronting my deeper wounds of unworthiness.

But as with all things in life, there comes a point when the façade begins to crack.

My healing journey took a significant turn when I left Chicago to move to Canada, a decision rooted in love, but one that unknowingly set the stage for a profound transformation. Moving to a new country to marry my now-husband was supposed to be a fresh start, but it quickly became a period of deep isolation that pushed me to confront my wounding. Due to immigration restrictions, I wasn’t allowed to work for almost two years while going through the permanent residence process. This inability to engage in my career, which had always been a cornerstone of my identity, left me feeling adrift.

To complicate matters, two speeding tickets within two years in the U.S. before moving made car insurance in Canada prohibitively expensive, effectively grounding me for almost two years. Suddenly, I was 45 years old, without a job, without a car, and without a social life. The familiar distractions that I had relied on to keep my over-functioning tendencies in check were no longer available to me.

In this void, I was left with nothing but time, time to confront the reality of my situation and the confusing dynamics of my new marriage.

Neither my husband nor I knew that he was on the autism spectrum, a discovery that now makes perfect sense, shedding light on the patterns in our struggling relationship. His under-functioning tendencies, combined with my drive to over-function, created a dynamic that, while challenging, was also oddly familiar; through him, I reenacted my mother/daughter fracture.

My need to over-function found its match in his need for support, but this also meant that I was pouring all of my energy into maintaining balance in my relationship while grappling with the culture shock of a new country for a second time in my life, all at the cost of my own emotional and physical well-being.

With no other outlets, when at last I was finally allowed to work, I threw myself into my work, determined to succeed despite the limitations. And succeed I did, eventually opening my own bricks-and-mortar location just three months before the pandemic brought the world to a standstill. But when the world stopped, so did my ability to escape. There was nowhere left to run, nowhere to hide from the emotions and wounds that had been simmering beneath the surface for years. The time to dig into those wounds had begun, and with it, the real work of healing started.

The forced stillness, the quietness of those long days, stripped away the distractions and left me face-to-face with my own emotional landscape. The sadness I had buried, the anger I had suppressed, all began to rise to the surface, demanding to be acknowledged.

The result was a deep, unshakable exhaustion. I am not just tired, I am utterly depleted, as if the years of over-functioning have finally caught up with me. This exhaustion feels like a heavy weight pressing down on my chest, making it hard to find the motivation to move forward. It is as though my body, mind, and spirit are telling me that it is time to stop running, to stop hiding, and to finally let myself feel.

In this exhaustion, I begin to recognize the signs of emotional healing. The tiredness is not just a signal that I am burnt out from over-functioning; it is my soul’s way of telling me that I am finally beginning to heal.

Healing from emotional wounds is not a process that can be rushed. It requires time, patience, and most importantly, the willingness to sit with discomfort. As I started to allow myself to truly feel the emotions I have been avoiding, I realized that the exhaustion I am experiencing is a necessary part of the healing process.

Emotional exhaustion often accompanies the process of deep healing because our bodies and minds are finally working through the pain that has been locked away for so long. The energy that was once used to keep those emotions at bay is now being redirected toward healing, and this can leave us feeling drained. But this kind of exhaustion is different from the burnout of over-functioning; it’s a sign that we are doing the work, that we are moving through the pain, and that we are on the path to becoming whole.

As I am coming to understand this, I’ve learned to embrace the exhaustion rather than fight it. I’ve allowed myself to rest, to take time for self-care, and to be gentle with myself as I navigate this journey. I’ve come to see that healing is not about pushing through or overcoming, but about surrendering to the process and trusting that the exhaustion is part of the path.

In this state of weariness, there is a quiet strength. It’s the strength that comes from knowing that I am finally allowing myself to heal, that I am no longer running from my pain, but moving through it. And while the exhaustion can be overwhelming at times, it’s also a sign that I am on the right path; a path that leads to true emotional freedom and a deeper understanding of myself.

Yet, even in this exhaustion, there is a quiet, unspoken wisdom. It’s as though my body, mind, and soul are finally aligning, demanding that I listen, really listen, to what they've been trying to tell me all along.

The over-functioning was never sustainable; it was a defense, a way to keep the world at bay, to avoid the deeper wounds that now lay bare before me. And so, this exhaustion isn't just fatigue; it’s a sign, a marker of the long journey I’ve undertaken, a necessary step in the process of true healing.

What comes next is unknown, and that’s perhaps the most frightening part.

But maybe, just maybe, this place of exhaustion is where the real work begins; the work of learning to be gentle with myself, to reclaim my worthiness, and to accept that motivation will ebb and flow for a while, and that healing is not a linear path but a winding road full of unexpected twists and turns.

For now, I will sit with this fatigue, not as an enemy, but as a gentle companion; a reminder that I am human, worthy of love, that I have lived, and that I am finally, slowly, beginning to heal my mother wound.