Healing with Luna

I do believe in good things. I do find joy in tiny moments. But pretending that’s the whole picture? That’s exhausting.

Trauma doesn’t clock out because I decided to be uplifting today. It lingers. It triggers. It makes me question if I’m broken for not being ‘healed enough’ yet.

So if this blog has ever felt like sunshine and rainbows only… know that behind the posts there are days I cry in the shower, days I can’t get out of bed, days I feel like a fraud for smiling..

We don’t have to fix it all right now. We just have to keep showing up, even when it’s messy.

I’ve spent so long being the one who says ‘it gets better’ that I forgot it’s okay for me to say ‘it’s still really fucking hard.’

The positivity isn’t fake…..it’s survival. It’s me refusing to let the past win every single day.

But refusing to let it win doesn’t mean it disappeared.

Some nights it crawls back in, whispers the old lies, makes my body remember what my mind tries to forget.

I’m tired of pretending the scars don’t ache just because I’ve learned to smile anyway.

So here’s the truth, from the soul:

I’m grateful for the growth. I’m proud of how far I’ve come. I am still in pain.

Your bath is more than water—it’s sacred space. Today, let it hold you.

Gather your ingredients with intention:

• Epsom salts (for releasing tension and stress)

• Lavender buds or essential oil (for calming and reconnecting)

• Rose petals (for self-love and gentle healing)

• Chamomile tea bag (to soothe your spirit)

• Optional crystals: rose quartz, clear quartz, or amethyst (for deeper energetic support)

As you fill your bath, whisper into the water:

“I am safe here. I am held here. This moment is mine.”

Step into the water. Allow yourself to soften.

As you soak, place your hands on your heart. Whisper gently:

“I release what no longer serves me. I honor the softness in my soul. I reclaim my peace.”

Stay as long as you feel called to. When finished, step out slowly—renewed, restored, and returned to yourself.

Drain the bath, visualizing everything you released flowing gently away from you.

“Hard days don’t mean you’re failing. They mean you’re feeling.”

Healing isn’t always peaceful.

Some days feel like grief. Some days feel like rage.

And some days, it feels like nothing at all — just numb, just tired, just surviving.

But what we’ve learned is this:

The mess is sacred. The breakdowns are breakthroughs in disguise.

The silence you sit in? That’s where your nervous system starts to trust again.

We’ve talked about this truth often:

🌿 Healing is not linear.

🌿 Light doesn’t always look like joy — sometimes it looks like rest, boundaries, or saying no.

🌿 The hardest part is not fixing yourself — it’s remembering you were never broken to begin with.

So if today is heavy, you’re not lost. You’re deep in the process.

Let it be messy. Let it be holy.

And if you need a ritual today:

Place one hand on your heart.

One on your belly.

Breathe, and whisper: “Even now, I am returning to myself.”

You’re doing more than you think.

You’re carrying the light through your own roots.

Light a single candle today.

It doesn’t matter the color.

What matters is your intention.

“I thought I had to find my way back to the world. But really, I just needed to come back to myself.”

As you inhale, say silently:

“I call my energy back.”

As you exhale, release what’s not yours to carry.

Place your hands over your heart.

Feel it beat. Feel it be. You made it here.

Whisper to yourself:

“I am not lost. I am returning.”

“I am not broken. I am remembering.”

“This body is my home. This moment is safe.”

Let the candle burn as long as you need.

Then blow it out like a soft spell —

Some weeks don’t spiral—they surge.

Everything came in waves: overstimulation, shutdown, then a burst of energy that didn’t last. I cried after doing too much. I got mad at myself for doing too little. I second-guessed everything—even the things that help me.

Neurodivergent dysregulation isn’t just “feeling off.” It’s the nervous system saying, “I can’t keep pretending this pace is sustainable.”

And when you’re also someone who feels everything, it’s easy to blame yourself. To feel broken. To want to fix it all at once.

But this week taught me that sometimes, survival is sacred.

That showing up at all—messy, unsure, and overstimulated—is still showing up.

If you’ve been overstimulated, shut down, or stuck in a loop you can’t explain, you’re not alone.

Not everyone will understand why you’re tired.

Not everyone will see the war you’ve been fighting—energetically, emotionally, ancestrally.

But you’re not here to be understood by everyone.

You’re here to heal timelines. To soften what was hardened. To remember what the world forgot.

There is no rush on a soul like yours.

You are not behind— you are healing on ancient timelines, pulling light through lifetimes of shadow.

If today feels slow, it is because your spirit is tending to things your mind cannot yet name.

You are not lazy, broken, or lost.

You are sacred.

Some healing looks like stillness. Some growth comes in whispers. Some awakenings require deep rest.

Take what you need. Let your breath become your prayer.

Let your presence be enough.

You are not here to keep up—you are here to return to your truth.

If you never felt safe growing up, your Root Chakra remembers.

It’s the part of you that asks, “Do I belong? Am I secure?”

And when life said no—your body adapted.

That tension in your jaw. The constant bracing.

The feeling that rest isn’t safe—it all starts here.

But healing the root isn’t about fixing yourself.

It’s about reminding your body:

You’re here now. You made it. And you’re allowed to stay.

So today—put your feet on the ground.

Breathe deep into your belly.

Say it with me:

You showed up. They didn’t.

And somehow, you’re the one left apologizing.

Grieving what you didn’t get—while learning not to abandon yourself just to feel included.

You call first. You text first. You show up first. You swallow your pride and take the high road because your mom raised you right—and still, you get nothing in return.

No message. No call. No real relationship. Just crumbs. Silence.

And then there’s the part no one talks about:

The resentment that builds when people expect access to you—even though they’ve never truly supported you.

What makes it worse is knowing you’re not even allowed to be upset about it.

Not if you want to keep the peace. Not if you want to be seen as “mature.”

So you stay quiet. Civil. Composed.

But healing doesn’t mean silence.

It means learning to honor what hurts without letting it harden you.

It means giving yourself permission to care, to grieve what you didn’t get, and still decide you’re worthy of peace.

You don’t need their call to validate your worth.

You don’t need their effort to prove you’re lovable.

You showed up—and that’s enough.

Letting go doesn’t mean you never tried.

It just means you’re done chasing love that never knew how to stay.

I grieved her when I was five.

By the time her heart stopped beating,

I had already lived years without her in mine.

People think death is the hardest part.

But they don’t understand the kind of grief

that starts when someone leaves without dying.

When they choose to disappear

while you’re still learning how to hold a fork.

I cried for her when I asked where she was.

When I stopped setting a place for her in my imagination.

When I tore up pictures and prayed to start life over.

So no, I didn’t cry when she passed.

She had already been gone.

What was left to mourn

I used to think some of the emotions I carried were just “my issues.”

The fear, the overthinking, the deep sadness that showed up without warning.

But what if some of it never began with me at all?

Reading It Didn’t Start With You shook something loose in me.

One line said:

“Sleeping inside each of them were fragments of traumas too great to be resolved in one generation.”

And suddenly it made sense—why healing feels so heavy sometimes.

I’m learning that trauma can pass down like eye color.

That grief, fear, and even silence can live in the body for generations.

But so can healing.

I’m choosing to be the one who breaks the cycle.

This isn’t just personal work.

This is ancestral repair.

🖤 For anyone carrying pain that feels too big to explain:

It may not have started with you.

Their presence alone can pull something primal out of you, your nervous system tenses, your breath shortens,and you’re suddenly in fight or flight before a word is even said.

It’s not drama.

It’s not being too sensitive.

It’s your body remembering what it had to survive.

You don’t owe anyone access to you just because they show up with a smile or a memory.

Your peace is not up for negotiation.

Healing means noticing those pulls—and choosing safety over familiarity.

Every time.

From that point on, every room I entered, I knew the exits, the layout, and the danger.

The instinct never left me. Even when there was no real danger, I was already on edge.

That week changed everything.

A green car that didn’t belong.

A bike dropped in the dirt.

And a gut feeling that would never fully go away.

I didn’t have the words for it back then — just a knowing.

And that knowing grew quiet… but stayed.

Read the full story + healing tools here:

healingwithluna.substack.com

Sometimes it’s quiet. Its a sloppy Mess. A little lonely.

Like waking up one morning and realizing you don’t recognize your own reflection anymore, and deciding to start over anyway.

If that’s where you are right now, I want you to know something:

You’re not too late!

You’re not broken!

And just because you lost yourself for a while doesn’t mean you’re any less worthy of being found—especially by you.

The world told you who to be. Survival shaped parts of you.

But now, slowly, gently; you get to choose who you’re becoming.

Come home to yourself.

Even if it takes time. Even if you have to do it a hundred times.

I write for the ones who were told to be quiet.

For the ones who felt everything and didn’t know why.

For the ones who learned how to survive before they learned how to speak.

This space is for healing—mine, and maybe yours too.

June 21, 2025

The Sun has officially moved into Cancer.

The Moon is in Pisces.

Mercury and Jupiter are sitting in Cancer too.

This is not a “get it done” kind of day.

It’s a feel it day. A day to let your nervous system catch up with your spirit.

You might cry for no reason. You might remember something you thought you buried. You might feel both heavy and wide open.

That’s not regression. That’s release.

Let the softness stay.

Let the quiet guide you.

Let your body speak—before your mind tries to make sense of it.