When I ask you to tell me what hurts, I mean the kind of hurt that lives in the spaces between words. The hurt you've learned to carry so quietly that sometimes you almost forget it's there. Almost.
I want to know about the 3 AM thoughts you push away when morning comes. The conversations you rehearse but never have. The memories that catch in your throat when you least expect them. The dreams you've stopped talking about because no one seemed to listen.
Tell me about the hurts that don't make sense—the ones that feel too small to claim, too large to name, too old to still matter, too new to understand. The joy you feel guilty for missing. The grief that comes for no apparent reason. The anger that scares you. The numbness that frightens you more.
Share with me the hurt that lives in:
- The photos you can't delete but can't look at
- The messages you draft but never send
- The clothes you keep but never wear
- The paths you imagine but never take
- The words you swallow instead of speak
I want to know about the pain that doesn't photograph well for Instagram. The struggles that don't fit into inspiring quotes or neat diagnostic boxes. The messy, complicated, contradictory hurt that makes you wonder if you're doing life wrong somehow.
Tell me about:
- The kindness that wounded you
- The happiness that terrifies you
- The love that exhausts you
- The loneliness that surrounds you even in a crowd
- The success that somehow feels like failure
- The healing that hurts more than the original wound
You don't need to edit your pain here. Don't worry about making it sound reasonable or justified. Don't waste energy trying to convince me that it's real. I already know it is. Pain doesn't need credentials to exist.
Sometimes clients tell me: "But others have it worse." And yes, others do have it worse. Others also have it better. Pain isn't a competition, and hurt doesn't operate on a quota system. Your hurt matters simply because you feel it. That's enough.
When you're ready—whether that's today, next week, or months from now—tell me what hurts. Tell me in fragments or in floods. Tell me in silence or in stories. Tell me in the way that feels possible for you right now.
Because that's what this space is for. Not for fixing or rushing or judging. But for witnessing. For holding. For hearing the hurt that needs to be heard.
So one more time: Tell me what hurts.
No, really.
Tell me.
I'm here to listen.
And whatever you share, whatever you've been carrying, whatever hurts—it has a place here.
Comments