I have been thinking a lot lately about what we mean when we say healing.
Really mean it.
Our Program Director and I talk about this all the time. We have both been in this work for a long time, and we think about survivors in very much the same way.
Recently, I also had the most beautiful conversations with an incredible artist in Newark and with a dancer and business owner right here in Berkeley Heights.
Different people. Different work. Yet somehow we kept coming back to the same thing.
There are so many ways for a person to heal.
And maybe we need to stop deciding what healing is supposed to look like for someone else.
I have been in this field since 2003. I have spent years sitting with survivors as an advocate and a therapist. I have answered hotline calls. Sat in hospitals. Sat in therapy rooms. Listened to stories people carried quietly for years.
I believe deeply in therapy, advocacy, trauma treatment and crisis intervention. We need every single one of them.
We need to be there in the crisis. We need to help someone feel safe. We need to help stabilize what feels completely upside down.
But I don’t want our imagination for someone’s life to end there.
Because healing isn’t only about surviving what happened.
Healing is also about reclaiming your life.
And that can look like a million different things.
Maybe today someone wants to talk about what happened.
Maybe today they don’t.
Maybe today they just want to paint the damn bowl.
And maybe we don’t need to ask why they chose blue.
Maybe the crack doesn’t represent anything.
Maybe we don’t need to ask what came up while they were working with the clay.
Maybe they just really like blue.
Maybe the bowl comes out completely crooked and they start laughing with the person next to them.
Let them laugh.
Please.
Let that be enough.
We talk all the time about “meeting people where they are.”
But if we really mean that, it has to mean more than meeting someone in a crisis.
It means taking down barriers.
Opening more doors.
Creating more pathways.
Making those pathways accessible.
And sometimes giving someone an opportunity they didn’t even know existed.
Maybe someone has never touched clay.
Never planted a garden.
Never danced.
Never held a paintbrush.
Never learned an instrument.
Never written a poem.
Maybe survival has taken up so much space that curiosity hasn’t had much room.
That doesn’t mean curiosity is gone.
Think about the most incredible artists, writers, musicians, athletes, dancers and teachers in the world.
At some point, someone gave them an opportunity to discover that part of themselves.
Someone handed them a paintbrush.
Someone gave them a ball.
Someone put an instrument in their hands.
Someone gave them a book.
Someone invited them into a room they had never been in before.
And something clicked.
Imagine if they never had that opportunity.
We would all have missed something.
That is what I think about when I think about survivors.
We have absolutely no idea what lives inside another human being.
No idea.
What if the person sitting across from us is an incredible painter and has never held a paintbrush?
What if they can write something that will someday change someone else’s life?
What if they are an incredible teacher? A musician? An entrepreneur? A dancer?
What if they are the person who will create something none of us have even imagined yet?
I want more than survival for people.
I want them to have the opportunity to discover who they are now.
What they love.
What makes them laugh.
What makes them curious.
What makes them feel strong.
What makes them completely lose track of time.
What they are unbelievably good at and don’t even know it yet.
Their zone of genius might still be completely undiscovered.
Survivors don’t just need our help.
We need them.
They teach our children. They lead organizations. They start businesses. They create things we love. They care for people. They make us laugh. They make our communities better.
I don’t ever want the worst thing that happened to someone to become the biggest thing we imagine for their life.
That isn’t healing to me.
Healing has to leave room for a life.
Whatever life that person wants.
And maybe we need to think differently about what counts.
We count sessions.
Hotline calls.
People served.
Goals completed.
We have to. Those numbers matter.
But they aren’t the whole story.
How do we count someone laughing when they haven’t laughed like that in months?
Someone realizing they love painting?
Someone feeling comfortable in their body for an afternoon?
Someone discovering they can dance?
How do we count curiosity coming back?
How do we count joy?
How do we count possibility?
Maybe those things aren’t impossible to count.
Maybe we just need to get better at recognizing their value.
Because if we only make room for the things we already know how to measure, I worry about everything we miss.
I also know resources matter.
Capacity matters.
People doing this work are already carrying a lot.
I live that.
But limited resources don’t have to mean limited imagination.
Maybe that is exactly where innovation begins.
Who else can be at the table?
Who is already doing beautiful work in our communities?
What gifts are already here?
Maybe it is an artist.
A dancer.
A gardener.
A musician.
A teacher.
A small business owner.
Maybe it is a donated seat. A borrowed space. An afternoon. A conversation.
One person saying, “I can help with that.”
Maybe I am a crazy dreamer.
I’m okay with that.
Because I have two girls watching me.
And someday, when they are old enough to really understand this work, I want to be able to look them in the eyes and tell them I tried my hardest for survivors.
Not that I fixed everything.
Not that we always had enough money, enough people, enough time or every answer.
That we kept trying.
That when we saw a barrier, we tried to find a way around it.
That when a door didn’t exist, we tried to open one.
That we never decided someone’s life should become smaller because our resources were limited.
And that we believed survivors deserved more than getting through the worst thing that happened to them.
They deserved a life.
Joy.
Curiosity.
Connection.
Choice.
Opportunity.
Maybe one day someone walks through one of those doors.
They sit down.
Someone hands them a bowl.
They pick a color.
Nobody asks what happened.
Nobody needs them to have a breakthrough.
They paint the damn bowl.
Maybe nothing happens.
Maybe they just have a nice afternoon.
That counts too.
Or maybe they discover something they never knew was there.
We may never know.
But they deserve the opportunity to find out.
That is what healing means to me.
Not deciding the path for someone.
Opening enough doors that they get to choose their own.