You are allowed to want more... the wanting is not the problem

aybe you've started to see it. The way things were in your family that weren't quite right. The criticism that came disguised as love. The needs that went unmet so consistently you stopped knowing you had them. The ways you learned to make yourself smaller, quieter, less — just to keep the peace or earn a moment of warmth.

Naming it is a big deal. It takes courage to look at what happened and call it what it was. To de-normalize the poor behavior, the lack of attunement, the criticism, or the violence that adults brought to our childhood. And, even more, to realize that other people relate to each other differently. To know that what pained you didn't happen to everyone. 

But then something unexpected happens. You name it — but nothing changes.

The wound is still there. The patterns are still showing up in your relationships. The beliefs you thought you'd dismantled are still running in the background. And a voice somewhere inside starts to whisper: Maybe I'm too broken. Maybe this works for other people but not for me. Maybe I've wanted too much for too long and there's nothing left to want.

I want to speak directly to that voice. Because it's lying to you. And I know it feels true — but that is just habitual thinking masquerading as your inner voice. Feeling true and being true are not the same thing.

Naming the wound doesn't tame it. It was never supposed to.

Naming is the threshold. It's the doorway that lets you in — to a world of your own creation, a life built on your own terms. But walking through a doorway doesn't mean you've arrived. It means you've left the familiar behind and stepped into somewhere new.
And somewhere new is disorienting. That's not a sign that something is wrong. That's exactly what new feels like.

I don't love the word "healing" because it implies the wound disappears. I don't think it does. What I think happens instead is that we grow into something else around it — something of our own design, made out of our own love. Something so much bigger and more beautiful than the wound that even if the scar remains, it no longer defines the landscape.

You are not broken and unfixable. You are disoriented. And disorientation is navigable.

What do we do when we find ourselves somewhere unfamiliar? We orient. We find landmarks. We get a map.

Not the kind of map that tells you exactly where to go — that map doesn't exist yet, and that's okay. The old kind of map. The kind that shows you the lay of the land and gives you enough information to take a first step.

In your inner world, orienting looks like this. You start by finding your “YOU ARE HERE” sticker. You ask yourself: What am I sure of about myself? What do I know matters to me? What am I absolutely certain I do not want?

These questions aren't small. For someone who has spent years doubting their own perceptions, being asked what they know to be true is an act of reclamation. Let yourself answer slowly. Even one thing is enough to begin.

From there you can start to move. Not toward a fully formed destination — you don't need that yet. Just toward something that feels more true than what you're leaving behind. What is drawing you? What was wanted or needed that was never fulfilled? What direction feels more like yourself?

There are a couple of things worth knowing as you begin to move.

The first is that without some awareness of what we're actually looking for, we tend to reach for a different version of the familiar. When I was a teenager I felt unseen, unloved, like no one cared about me. I moved from searching for this from my parents — to no avail — to looking for boys to love me. Without any understanding of what caring love actually looked like, I predictably fell into the hands of people who didn't make me feel cared for either. I wasn't going toward something new. I was just trying to solve the old problem with new people.

This is why the orienting process matters. Not so you have all the answers, but so you have some sense that you’re moving toward what you want, rather than just away from what you don’t want.

Often, our wounding impacts our ability to trust ourselves. This is an important reclamation that happens over and over along the way. This work in our inner world is mostly not linear. It’s in our best interest not to expect that it will be. 

Because when we’re navigating the world differently, and it feels new and unfamiliar, it’s easy to think we’re lost or going the wrong way. Others (who benefitted from our lack of trust in ourselves) will definitely try to tell us this. And, at the same time, it’s also true that people who love us may have more information in these realms than we do, and they can help guide us. It’s important to discern the difference between these two kinds of people in our lives. 

Listen to those who want for you what you want for you. But you still don’t have to follow their advice.

And then we start moving. We make changes. We try things out, and because we started the journey in the realm of the unknown, we learn as we go. We start out in a direction and unexpected things happen. Sometimes we course correct, sometimes we keep feeling our way through, sometimes we grab a hand of a friend who’s traveling with us for now. 

Over time we build our resilience to the trial-and-error process of becoming. 

This is reclamation. This is becoming who you couldn’t be when you were small. It’s a wholeness that couldn’t have existed before this moment because it’s built from everything you’ve lived through.

But it’s here now. 

You are not the exception to this. You are not too broken, too damaged, too far gone, or too much. You are someone who didn't get what they needed, who named that truth, and who is now standing at the threshold of something different.

You are allowed to want more. The wanting is not the problem. The wanting is the beginning.

Don’t forget to embrace it. Even if it isn’t done. Celebrate anyway. Enjoy anyway. 

Maybe that’s what feels like healing.