Nothing to Fix: The Illusion of Healing

There comes a moment on the path (not usually at the beginning, but after much unraveling) when the illusion of “healing” begins to fall apart.

Not because healing didn’t happen. But because it was never truly needed.

The ache to fix, to improve, to become whole; it was never wrong. It just arose from the very tension it tried to soothe. A tension built of shame, fear, inherited contraction. Somewhere along the way, we began to believe that something was broken. And the belief itself became the wound.

But what if the healing isn’t in fixing?

What if it’s in the quiet allowing?

The raw, unedited presence with what is—no matter how tight, awkward, ugly, numb, or overwhelming it may seem. The grief, the panic, the shame—they don’t need to be solved. They just want to move. They just want to be felt.

The impulse to heal often comes from the same place as the wound: a grasping to be free of discomfort. But awareness doesn’t grasp. It simply shines.

And in that shining, what appeared to be broken reveals itself as never having needed repair. It only wanted to be held in wholeness.

This hasn't been a one-time realisation. It comes again and again, each time stripping away another layer of illusion. Each time you think you’ve seen it all, something subtler is revealed. Another veil drops. Another effort dissolves.

And slowly, almost imperceptibly, you notice:

There was never a self to heal.

Only life, remembering its own freedom.