️Healing Isn’t Linear, But It’s Beautiful
Let’s just say it: healing rarely looks like a Hallmark movie montage. It’s more like a GPS recalculating every few exits with a little nausea, some tears, and a whole lot of grace.
I’ve learned this the long, slow way. Healing, whether physical, emotional, or spiritual, never moves in a straight line. It loops. It spirals. It retreats just when you thought it was marching forward. It stops to tie its shoes, spills something sticky on your favorite rug, and occasionally yells from the bathroom, “I think we’ve got a situation!”
And yet, it’s still beautiful.
Not because it’s tidy. For me, it’s definitely not because it’s fast. But because real healing reshapes us, not into the person we were before, but into someone wiser, more compassionate, and deeply aware of what it means to be whole. I’ve found that my struggles, traumas, and illnesses allow me compassion for those on the same road.
The Scenic Route: What My Memoir Taught Me About Healing
There’s a chapter in my memoir I recently wrote where everything was supposed to be getting better. I had prayed, journaled, cried, detoxed, and cried some more. I had begged God for justice, peace, and resolution. I thought I was nearing the end of the valley. But then, just like that, another neighbor storm, another diagnosis, another twist in the plot.
It was the opposite of resolution. And yet, I wasn’t the same person facing it this time.
I had more tools. More truth. A deeper anchor.
I thought healing would mean being free from hardship. But it turned out to mean I was no longer undone by it.
That shift was everything.
The Wellness Side: It’s More Than One Protocol
When I first started learning about root-cause healing, I was already deeply familiar with pain. Decades of mysterious symptoms, misdiagnoses, and being told, “Your labs are fine,” while my body felt anything but well. Turns out, my system was drowning in inflammation, toxic mold exposure, heavy metals, and layers of tick-borne infections that had been partying in my bloodstream like it was spring break.
And still, healing wasn’t linear.
Some things improved more quickly than others: once I started lymphatic drainage, binding toxic mold, gently detoxing, helping my system hold on to nutrients and supplements, and healing my gut, my brain fog cleared enough for me to string a sentence together again. Switching to anti-inflammatory, whole foods helped ease joint pain I didn’t even know I was compensating for. My gut started to repair as I ditched the ultra-processed snacks, dairy, nightshade plants, and grains and embraced locally sourced and processed meats, organic veggies, fermented foods, bone broth, and targeted support.
But it didn’t all fall into place at once.
Some days, I had more energy than I’d had in years. The next, I could barely lift my head off the pillow. Geomagnetic storms, full moons, and new moons are known for causing flare-ups. Once I learned this, I kept a calendar and saw the pattern that had been unpredictable for several years. I learned quickly that “better” didn’t mean perfect and “setbacks” didn’t mean I had failed.
Healing was a thousand micro-decisions repeated with love:
- Saying no to sugar when I wanted comfort. It’s been at least ten years since I’ve consumed sugar. Hello, Fronen Ice Cream, and thank you for your existence.
- Choosing to move my body when I wanted to freeze. This has been slow and gentle with chair yoga and wall pilates. I had to give up the gym, but it isn’t gone for good.
- Allowing rest without shame.
- Sobbing through a detox flare and trusting it was part of the process.
And above all, learning to tune into the subtle wisdom of my own body, the beautiful, fearfully made vessel that had been trying to speak to me all along.
Why We Need to Talk About the Middle
We don’t talk enough about the middle.
Not the crisis. Not the resolution. The middle, where you’re no longer in shock but not yet thriving. Where you’re showing up but still aching. Where your story is still being written, and you don’t know the ending yet.
That’s where most healing happens.
It’s in that middle space where faith grows roots. Where nervous systems relearn safety with online programs like DNRS. Where inflammation starts to cool with the help of anti-inflammatory foods and low-dose naltrexone. Where grief is honored, and joy begins to peek out again.
If you’re in the middle, I want you to know you’re not alone. I’ve been there, bedridden, discouraged, searching for answers, and wondering if the climb was even worth it. Spoiler: it is. But it’s okay to acknowledge that the climb is also exhausting.
What “Better” Really Looks Like
Better doesn’t always mean back to where you were. Sometimes, it means building something entirely new.
Better might mean:
- Sleeping through the night without your heart racing irregularly at 3am.
- Saying no without explaining yourself.
- Doing an easy chair yoga routine without needing a recovery day.
- Not spiraling after someone else’s opinion.
- Catching yourself before burnout instead of after.
Better is still healing.
And it’s okay if it doesn’t look like what other people call “normal.” You’re not here to fit someone else’s recovery timeline.
You’re here to honor your own.
The Beauty in the Jagged
The truth is, some of the most holy and beautiful moments of my healing haven’t happened on the mountain peaks or around other people, which is amazing for this extrovert-at-heart gal. They’ve happened in the valleys when a friend sent a card that made me cry, when I finally wept after a correct diagnosis after stuffing it all down, when I heard God whisper, “You’re not forgotten,” even as I waited for answers that didn’t come.
Healing made me softer. Stronger. More discerning. It made me walk slower and hug longer. It made me listen better to God, to others, to myself.
It gave me my voice back.
And it reminded me of this stunning truth from Isaiah 61:3:
“To give them a crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of joy instead of mourning, and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair.”
That doesn’t happen overnight. It doesn’t happen without resistance. But it does happen.
A Few Anchors for Your Healing Season
If you’re on your own winding road right now, here are a few simple but powerful things I return to regularly:
- Whole foods, real nourishment: Think anti-inflammatory meals, herbal teas, clean proteins, and enough filtered water to keep your lymph moving.
- Gentle detox: Castor oil packs, dry brushing, sweating in infrared saunas, Epsom salt and baking soda baths, and binding support for mold and heavy metals.
- Gut love: Fermented foods, three different targeted probiotics, and lots of grace on days your stomach says, “not today.”
- Restorative sleep: Magnesium, magnesium oil for the legs, screen limits, ear plugs, eye mask, grounding mat or sheets, Neuroscience Calm CP (this is my favorite professional-grade sleep aid), DaVinci Melatonin spray, lavender on the feet or in a quality diffuser that uses ultrasonic diffusion at 1.7 million waves per second, and reminding your brain that the world will not fall apart if you go to bed early. Our bodies can’t heal if they aren’t getting at least 6 hours of restorative sleep each night.
- Emotional drainage too: Journaling, counseling, brain or neural pathway retraining (DNRS or other similar programs), prayer, or simply deep breathing with long exhales that tell your body, “You’re safe now.”
You’re Still Healing and That’s Still Beautiful
Healing might not be tidy. It might not be share-worthy every day. But it’s still holy.
So, if today’s progress looks like getting out of bed and putting your feet on the floor, I’m cheering for you.
If it looks like making a smoothie instead of skipping breakfast, that’s beautiful.
If it looks like unfollowing someone who triggers your nervous system, deleting a toxic email, or canceling a commitment so you can sit outside with your Bible, that’s not selfish. That’s sacred.
You’re still healing. And healing isn’t linear.
But it is absolutely breathtakingly beautiful.
Let’s keep going, slowly, kindly, honestly.
Because even in the zigzags, the sacred is still unfolding.
Carolyn Deevers 