Just because something happened years ago doesn't mean you've healed from it. Sometimes you've simply learned how to function around the pain.

People love to say, "Time heals all wounds."

But does it really?

Because last time I checked, time doesn't automatically heal a damn thing. Sometimes all time does is pass.

You get older. You change jobs. You fall in love. You get married. You build a career. You move across the country. Hell, you might even move to another continent.

Life keeps moving.

But what about the things you've been carrying?

What about the childhood experiences you never talked about? The relationships that left you questioning your worth? The betrayal you said you forgave but still think about? The emotions you buried because life didn't give you an opportunity to deal with them?

Did you actually heal, or did you just learn how to live with the pain?

That's the uncomfortable truth we're getting into today.

And trust me, I've had to ask myself that question more than once.

When I was a kid, healing was simple.

You fell, scraped your knee, got a boo-boo, and eventually developed a scab. The wound closed, maybe left a scar, and life went on.

But adulthood taught me that some of the deepest wounds never break the skin.

I've spent nearly 30 years learning about mental health, emotional regulation, trauma, and coping mechanisms. I started therapy around 13 years old, and over the years, I've learned different approaches to understanding myself.

But having coping skills doesn't mean I always used them.

There were times when I didn't heal.

I suppressed.

I avoided.

I buried things.

I ran.

And sometimes I became so good at functioning around my pain that I forgot there was something I still needed to address.

That's where compartmentalization comes in.

Sometimes life is throwing so much shit at you that you simply don't have the emotional capacity to deal with everything at once.

So you put something in a box.

You tell yourself, I'll come back to this later.

And sometimes that's exactly what you need to do.

But what happens when later never comes?

I've had experiences resurface years after I thought I'd moved on. Something would happen, someone would say something, or I'd watch something on television, and suddenly there was an emotional reaction I hadn't anticipated.

And there it was.

That box I forgot I'd packed.

Pause for the cause, but don't pause too long.

It's okay to give yourself time. It's okay to recognize that today might not be the day you can process something difficult.

But don't confuse putting something aside with working through it.

Growing up, I was a sensitive kid.

I was anxious, intelligent, curious, funny, and sometimes socially awkward.

My mother wanted the best education for me, so I attended a Catholic private school before transitioning into public school.

Academically, I was advanced. Socially? That was a different story.

I didn't always fit in.

I got picked on for being smart, wearing glasses, being scrawny, and even for the way I spoke.

I remember an aunt calling me a "white girl" because I spoke properly.

And then there was home.

My mother was young when she had me. She was still in high school, learning about life while also learning how to be a parent.

I recognize that now.

But growing up, I often heard something along the lines of:

"I'm the parent. You're the child. You don't have an opinion. What I say goes."

And I hated that.

Not because I wanted to be disrespectful. Not because I wanted to run the household.

I wanted to be recognized as a person.

Yes, I was her child. But I had thoughts. I had feelings. I had opinions.

And those things mattered to me.

I grew up in a family where yelling was common. People argued, debated, and raised their voices to get their points across.

Somewhere along the way, I learned to do the same.

I also learned to fight.

I remember being around 11 years old when three boys were picking on me. With my uncle making sure they faced me one at a time, I fought all three.

And I won.

That experience changed something in me.

Suddenly, I knew I could defend myself.

But that empowerment eventually became something else.

As I got older, I stopped feeling like I needed to have conversations when someone disrespected me.

I could just fight.

And I carried that behavior well into adulthood.

Looking back, I can recognize how something that initially made me feel protected eventually became an unhealthy response to conflict.

Years later, my wife, Cam, asked me a question that forced me to look deeper.

"Why do you yell?"

And without much thought, I answered:

"Because I want to be heard."

There it was.

All those years of wanting my voice to matter.

All those years of feeling like expressing myself was somehow disrespectful.

And there I was, an adult, still learning that being heard didn't require me to raise my voice.

Now, don't get me wrong. I'm a passionate person. I'm expressive. Sometimes my excitement or emphasis gets mistaken for yelling.

But I've also had to recognize that how I intend to communicate something and how another person experiences it aren't always the same.

Healing has meant learning how to express myself without feeling like I'm losing my voice.

Another lesson took me years to learn.

I love hard.

I'm patient. I'm forgiving. I'm empathetic. I try to understand why people behave the way they do.

But sometimes my ability to understand someone's behavior made me too willing to tolerate it.

I spent seven years in a toxic relationship.

Then I had another relationship that lasted five years.

Then another that lasted two or three.

And eventually, I began noticing something.

My relationships were getting shorter because my self-worth was getting greater.

I was learning what I would tolerate, what I wouldn't tolerate, and when it was time to walk away.

Before Cam and I got together, I dated someone who seemed almost too good to be true.

Eventually, I discovered dishonesty.

But this time, I didn't spend years trying to make it work.

The relationship lasted only a few months.

Afterward, I spent approximately six or seven months single, abstinent, and focused on myself.

I took myself on dates. I learned to enjoy my own company. I invested in loving myself.

By the time Cam came along, I wasn't even looking for another relationship.

And today, I'm grateful to be married to my best friend.

Is our marriage perfect?

Hell no.

We've had disagreements, misunderstandings, and moments when communication became frustrating.

But there's something different about this relationship.

We both do the work.

We've attended couples counseling and learned tools that help us communicate.

One therapist introduced us to family meetings where we would light candles, burn incense, pray, and set intentions before having difficult conversations.

And when things became overwhelming, we learned to take breaks.

But there was one important rule.

We established how long the break would last, and we committed to coming back.

Because taking a break doesn't have to mean abandoning the conversation.

Sometimes we need multiple breaks. Sometimes we need to apologize. Sometimes we realize we were practically saying the same thing but communicating it differently.

We're still learning.

But that's what makes the relationship beautiful to me.

We aren't expecting each other to be perfect.

We're committed to growing together.

And I've learned that a healthy relationship doesn't require you to abandon yourself to maintain it.

Now, let's talk about forgiveness.

I believe forgiveness can be an important part of healing.

But I don't believe forgiving someone means you have to welcome them back into your life.

I learned that through one of the most painful experiences of my life.

When I was 16, I was sexually assaulted by my biological father.

He was incarcerated for what he did.

It took years of trauma therapy, emotional work, and difficult conversations to get to a place where I could talk about that experience without being overwhelmed.

Before he was sentenced, I had an opportunity to speak in court.

I had written a poem about what happened and how I felt.

I read that poem to him.

And for me, that was closure.

I said what I needed to say.

I didn't need another conversation.

I didn't need an explanation.

And I didn't need him back in my life.

He never apologized.

But I eventually forgave him.

Not because what happened was acceptable. Not because I wanted a relationship with him.

I forgave him because I didn't want to spend the rest of my life carrying that same emotional burden.

Even after forgiveness, I recognize that the experience influenced parts of my life, including how easily I trust men.

Some experiences leave lasting effects.

And sometimes, even after years of healing, an unexpected reminder can bring up uncomfortable feelings.

That doesn't erase the progress you've made.

It means you're human.

I also recognize that forgiveness isn't a requirement for everyone. Some people find healing without forgiving the person who hurt them.

What matters is finding a way forward that allows you to reclaim your peace.

This might be one of the hardest parts of healing.

Learning to forgive yourself.

I've made mistakes.

I've reacted out of anger. I've stayed in situations longer than I should have. I've said things I later discovered weren't true.

I've made decisions I wouldn't make today.

And there was a time when I punished myself for things.

Growing up, I experienced plenty of punishment. I spent much of my teenage years grounded, missing celebrations, and experiencing physical abuse.

There was also a brief period during my teenage years when I struggled with self-harm.

But I've reached a place in my life where I refuse to continue punishing myself.

Because seriously, what the fuck does beating yourself up forever accomplish?

If I'm wrong, I'm wrong.

I can acknowledge it.

I can apologize.

I can evaluate what happened and commit to doing better.

But I cannot go backward and change yesterday.

What I can do is change how I approach tomorrow.

Sometimes, during meditation, I wrap my arms around myself.

I talk to little Kionna.

I apologize to her.

I tell her I love her.

I promise to treat her better.

And I mean it.

Because that little girl went through enough.

She doesn't need the adult version of herself becoming another person who punishes her.

And so do you.

Throughout my life, I've learned many ways to cope.

I've studied dialectical behavior therapy, practiced reframing my thoughts, attended support groups, worked with therapists, and continued learning through my work as a Certified Peer Specialist.

But there's something important I've discovered.

Coping and healing aren't interchangeable.

And sometimes, we change our behavior without fully understanding the emotional need behind it.

When I turned 21, I started making decisions about my body that I'd previously been told I couldn't make.

I started my locs.

I got my first tattoo.

It said "Wild Child," a nickname my grandfather and others had given me.

Over the years, tattoos became another form of expression. Every tattoo on my body has a story.

But I also recognized that, during certain difficult periods, getting tattoos sometimes served an emotional purpose connected to pain I hadn't fully processed.

That realization taught me something.

Just because you find another way to deal with pain doesn't necessarily mean you've healed from what's causing it.

Now, I don't believe every uncomfortable feeling requires months of therapy or some dramatic emotional breakthrough.

Sometimes you need rest.

Sometimes you need to cry.

Sometimes you need to have a conversation.

Sometimes you need professional support.

And sometimes you already have the skills to work through what you're experiencing.

The important thing is being honest about what you need.

Now here's something I really want people to think about.

Especially those of you dreaming about leaving your hometown, moving across the country, or relocating abroad.

Why do you want to move?

Seriously.

Ask yourself that question.

Are you seeking a better quality of life?

New opportunities?

Adventure?

Peace?

Freedom?

Or are you trying to escape something you haven't dealt with?

Because here's the uncomfortable truth:

You can move away from your environment, but unresolved trauma can follow you straight to your new address.

I first remember wanting to leave the United States back in 2003.

Over the years, I lived in different states, experienced different communities, and searched for somewhere I felt comfortable.

Sometimes I wondered whether I was running from something.

Was I searching for belonging?

Was I searching for peace?

Or was I trying to escape circumstances and experiences that had shaped my life?

Eventually, Cam and I moved abroad.

And I will tell you something.

Living outside the United States has given me emotional space I didn't always have before.

Colombia gave me a sense of peace and belonging that I had been searching for.

Being physically removed from certain family dynamics helped me establish boundaries I genuinely appreciate.

And interestingly enough, distance has improved some of my relationships.

People visit us. We create new memories. We explore new places together.

When I return to the United States, there's excitement about seeing family and friends.

I've learned that I can love people without needing to be constantly surrounded by them.

And I love the freedom of creating a life that works for me.

But I also know that moving abroad didn't magically erase everything I've experienced.

Now, that doesn't mean leaving is wrong.

Sometimes changing your environment is exactly what you need to do.

Sometimes you need distance from unhealthy relationships, harmful circumstances, or surroundings that no longer support your growth.

But be honest about what you're expecting that move to accomplish.

Sometimes you need to change your environment.

Sometimes you need to change what's happening within you.

And sometimes you need to do both.

After everything I've shared, I don't want you thinking healing always has to be some painful, exhausting experience.

Sometimes healing is beautiful.

For me, one of those places is the ocean.

I love the beach.

There's something about standing beside this enormous body of water that reminds me how small I am in such a massive world.

I listen to the waves.

I reflect.

I meditate.

And suddenly, whatever I've been carrying feels a little lighter.

When we were in Lima, I appreciated having opportunities to be near the ocean, reflect, and simply exist.

I genuinely believe that every time I visit the beach, another little piece of me heals.

Healing isn't only about confronting pain. It's also about making room for joy.

I've learned that I can create happiness through the choices I make, the perspective I develop, and the way I care for myself.

That doesn't mean I control everything that happens or every emotion I experience.

But I have power over how I respond.

And sometimes, as human beings, we forget just how powerful we are.

One thing I've learned is that there isn't one universal timeline.

Some experiences might take days or weeks to process.

Others take months.

Some take years.

And who's to say that every single thing we've experienced will be completely healed within our lifetime?

Different experiences leave different impacts.

For me, one of the ways I recognize healing is by noticing how I respond to something that once hurt me.

Maybe someone brings up an old experience.

Maybe I watch something on television that reminds me of my past.

Maybe I encounter a situation that once would have ruined my entire day.

And now?

Sometimes I can talk about it.

Sometimes I can laugh.

Sometimes I recognize what happened without experiencing the same emotional reaction.

I'm not bothered.

I'm not moved.

It doesn't have the same power over me.

And that's growth.

But even when something still hurts, I can recognize progress in how I handle it.

Maybe I recover faster.

Maybe I don't react as intensely.

Maybe I'm able to identify what I'm feeling and give myself what I need.

And that's worth celebrating.

So let's come back to where we started.

"Time heals all wounds."

I don't believe time alone guarantees healing.

Time gives us opportunities. It gives us distance, perspective, and experiences that can help us grow.

But we still have to be willing to participate in our own healing.

We have to examine the things we've buried.

We have to recognize the behaviors we've developed to protect ourselves.

We have to take accountability when our pain affects other people.

And sometimes we have to admit that the person we've become is still carrying something that happened to the person we used to be.

That's not always comfortable.

But that's why this series is called The Uncomfortable Truth.

Because I don't believe growth comes from pretending everything is fine.

It comes from being willing to ask difficult questions and face answers we might not necessarily like.

So before you convince yourself that you've moved on, ask yourself:

And if those answers make you uncomfortable, that's okay.

You don't have to figure everything out today.

You don't have to heal every wound by next month.

You don't have to meet anybody else's timeline.

Take it one day at a time.

And if one day feels like too much, take it one minute at a time.

But give yourself a chance to heal.

Because you deserve more than a life spent constantly surviving what happened to you.

You deserve to actually live.

So face what you can, when you're ready, and give yourself the support and compassion you need along the way.