By: Manal Rabie
Healing has a price that only those who have walked barefoot through the paths of pain can understand—those who have tasted the flavor of bleeding and seen the shadow of silence filling the wound. Healing is not a rose blooming in clear air, but a planting in rough soil, watered with tears and pruned by patience while the trees of experience breathe around it. Whoever wishes to stitch their wound must endure the prick of the needle, must listen to the trembling of the body as it mends, and to the soul as it rearranges its breaths after the long storm, learning to love itself despite the cracks.
In every stitch with which we sew our pain, a hidden light spills out, a wisdom we never knew in the noise of easy contentment. Healing is not an escape from pain but walking barefoot across the embers of experience until they cool beneath our tired feet, until we remember that we are not prey but survivors. We may think the wound is our enemy only to find it our teacher, and think that pain destroys us only to discover it reshaping us with an unseen hand, revealing our other faces and refining our spirits.
Every prick of the needle is testimony that we still choose life, that we are not victims of our bleeding but creators of our beautiful scars. And when the wound closes, the body is no longer the same but stronger, wiser, more compassionate toward others, more willing to offer its love without fear and to open the windows of its heart to the light. Healing costs patience, and its reward is a heart that knows scars are silent poems written by the soul in its own blood to remind it that it is still alive, still growing, still flowering.
