No one told my heart...how to heal.

This blog is going to be a little different, a bit personal. No, it's not about home decor or artwork. It's about an artist's life...my life. I just thought my amazing audience, who love and support my artwork would like to know more about the woman holding the paint brush.

Over the last 11 years, I have journaled about my path  to healing from sickness, surgery, and where I am today. I’d like to share these journal entries with you.

Why?

Because despite our different life experiences, one thing rings true. We can always learn from one another and even find a blessing in their story.

Don’t worry…it's only a 25 minute, coffee break read. Ready?

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No one told my heart…

No sooner than the anesthesiologist said, “Count backwards from 10,” I opened my eyes to a white room lined with metal cabinets. After undergoing a 3 1⁄2 hour surgery it didn’t take me long to remember why I was in this particular room. With my eyes half open and my vision a bit blurry, I heard the shuffle of paperwork and knew that someone was in the room with me.

I opened my mouth and whispered, “Nauseous.”

I tried to swallow but my mouth and throat felt like cotton.

“Nauseous!” I attempted to say louder.

“Hello young lady,” a cheerful, male voice announced. “Your surgery went well, and we’re going to take you to your room now, okay?”

Unable to respond, I simply nodded my head.

As I was wheeled down a hallway my eyes fixated on every passing florescent ceiling light. The nausea seemed to get worse with every passing light and I attempted to say several more times in an agonizing voice, “Nauseous!” In my mind I could hear myself screaming the word, but in reality I apparently wasn’t speaking loud enough to get anyones attention. Or maybe the nurses pushing me down the hall were simply ignoring my desperate plea. Every corner we turned felt like a roller coaster ride! I had to close my eyes.

We finally came to a stop and I opened my eyes once again. I gazed to my right and through my hazy state could make out bright green and orange curtains. This room was much dimmer than the last room, not as bright and sterile looking. I looked straight up at the ceiling, wishing this nausea would just go away. I was too woozy to make out everything going on around me but could hear the loud blaring of a television and people in the room talking.

Just then, a familiar voice rang out, “We’re right here Yo!”

It was my mom’s reassuring voice. My mom and dad, bless their hearts! They have always been there for me when I needed them and now at 46 years old, I find that I need them even more.

Suddenly, my mom’s comforting voice was replaced by a commanding, masculine voice.

“Alright Yolanda, lift your bottom and scoot your body to your left!” this voice blurted out. I looked up at this male nurse who was gripping the sheet beneath me with both of his hands.

“Are you kidding me,” I thought.

It’s amazing the images that go through one’s mind in anxious situations like these. I mean this guy looked like Houdini, about to perform a magic trick. Only, this is my body! Not a table of food you can magically pull a table cloth from under. I could feel the sheet beneath me tighten.

“If I fall on this hospital floor, there will be hell to pay!” I screamed on the inside.

My look of surprise quickly turned into a threatening glare as I pictured myself jumping up from the hospital floor, stitches and all, and punching this male nurse’s lights out!

“Are you ready?” he persisted, with his loud voice shaking me from the image of his beat down.

With all the strength I could muster, I lifted my bottom and scooted my body to the left. That one scoot completely exhausted me. I closed my eyes and collapsed back onto the surgical bed.

“Open your eyes, Yolanda,” he insisted.

This nurses’ persistence was starting to annoy me. I mean, I know that he’s only doing his job but can’t he cut me some slack. I just came out of surgery. I’m still drugged from the spinal anesthesia and I feel like I’m going to barf all over this nice, green, checkered gown I’m sporting.

“We’re almost there Yolanda,” he continued. “Lift your bottom and scoot to your left.”

At that point I knew that I needed to get my body onto my recovery bed or Houdini was never going to shut up. Thinking back on this experience, I can’t recall how many more attempts it took but I eventually made it onto that bed.

I heard the screech of metal rings as the nurse pulled the colorful curtain along-side my bed to give me and my family our privacy. Finally! I was settled into my room where I would spend the next three days. My mom approached the head of my bed and held up a picture for me to see.

“Yolanda, look!” she whispered with astonishment. “This is what came out of you!”

I turned my head towards my mom, gazed at the picture and closed my tired eyes.

I must have slept for about an hour. Opening my eyes, I looked straight ahead and saw my dad sitting in a chair at the foot of my bed intently watching me. The nausea did not get any better after my hour snooze.

I lifted my head and said to my dad, “I’m nauseous.”

My dad got the attention of a nurse who brought me a blue barf bag. I held onto that bag for dear life every time I felt like up chucking. Soon a young, female nurse brought me a cup of ice chips and injected some medicine into my IV to help ease the nausea. I pushed the button beside my bed, raising the bed to the sitting position and took a spoonful of ice chips. The ice cold moisture those chips produced in my dry, parched mouth was absolutely heavenly! After a few more spoonfuls my mom had returned and asked me how I was feeling.

“Better now,” I said.

Suddenly, the image of the photo she had shown me earlier popped into my mind.

I asked her, “Mom, did you show me a photo before I fell asleep?”

“Oh, Yolanda!” she said with a look of disbelief on her face.

“Don’t show her that photo!” my dad quickly interjected.

“A.J., you don’t have to see it but she wants to,” my mom responded.

I love my dad so much! He hates to see his family in any kind of pain or discomfort. I guess he thought the photo would upset me. My mom proceeded to tell me how long my surgery had taken and explained why. She said that the fibroids were so numerous and large that my surgeon had to take extra caution in removing them before taking out my uterus, ovaries, and cervix.

“Do you want to see it?” she asked.

I nodded, “Yes.”

She held up the photo and at first glance the image looked like a bright green bowl of large masa balls.

My mom pointed to the largest fibroid in the photo and said, “This one came off of your right ovary.”

As I stared at that ugly mass, I had flashbacks of the many times I was literally bent over in pain from that monster. I took a deep breath and the only response I could give was a sigh of relief that those things were finally out of me. I had so many reservations about this surgery over the last six months, even though I knew in my heart that it was the right thing to do. At least that’s how I felt, then. I was by no means prepared for the journey awaiting me. Writing this eleven years later, oh how I wish I could go back in time and tell myself to look at all my options; and if I was never offered any, still to wait, and dig deeper for answers.

I even went through a minor car accident just a week before the scheduled surgery and speculated that maybe it was a sign that I should not have a hysterectomy. Yet, deep down I had convinced myself that this surgery would improve my quality of life. The endometriosis and the adenomyosis had pretty much robbed me of my child bearing years and I knew that if I put off the surgery any longer, having a major surgery like this in my 50’s might come with more risks.

Mom and dad eventually left for the evening after giving me hugs and kisses and I quickly fell fast asleep. I must have slept for hours when I was awakened by my surgeon who came to check my incision line and staples. She was pleased and so was I. She told me that the surgery was a challenge but that she was happy with the outcome. After she left, I fell asleep once again. That seemed to be the pattern for the following 12 hours. I would sleep and be awakened by a nurse checking my vitals and administering more pain meds into my IV, and then I’d fall fast asleep once again.

I woke up several hours later to intense throbbing pain in the back of my neck that radiated through my head. I rang for the nurse and told her that it felt like my head was about to pop off! She told me that she had already administered my pain meds and that I would get my next scheduled injection within the hour. I attempted to just close my eyes and rest. I also prayed to God to relieve me of this pain. But it only seemed to get worse! I pressed in on my belly pillow and managed to pull myself into a sitting position. I rocked back and forth in agony while holding my head with my right hand.

“Nurse!” I cried! I can’t take this pain…please! I need something!”

Apparently, the nurse had informed my surgeon of my headache and she was concerned enough to schedule me for a CT scan the following morning. My surgeon arrived within an hour or so. She explained to me her concern that my neck and head pain might have had something to do with the combination of the general anesthesia and spinal anesthesia used during my surgery and that she had ordered a CT scan.   

“I actually feel much better, but that headache was wicked,” I told her with a grimace.

Reassured that I was fine, my surgeon canceled the CT.  I was in the hospital for a total of 3 days and was so anxious to get home. The day I checked out of the hospital was both liberating and frightening. I thought I was prepared for the recovery that lay ahead. I read all of the pamphlets my doctor gave me on what to expect from a hysterectomy, scoured the internet, talked with my family, and yes, I prayed a lot. Still, nothing could have prepared me for the waves of emotions, and adjustments to my new body.

- NEW ENTRY -

Let the Healing Begin

Sitting in a wheelchair outside of the hospital, I waited for my parents to bring the car

around. You would think that I was cradling a newborn in my arms by the way I nestled my tummy pillow against my hip-to-hip incision. With every sneeze, every movement that engaged muscles in my core, I pressed in on that pillow. It was as if the pillow had become an extension of my body.

I spent the first couple of days at my brother’s house and by the third day, I was happy to be back in my own apartment to continue my recovery. That next morning, I woke up feeling okay…not great, but just okay. I made my way to the living room and sat on the sofa. As I reached for the tv remote, I felt wetness under my tummy pillow. I looked down at the surgical tape lining my incision and saw a reddish-pink discharge spewing all over my pajama bottoms. I FREAKED OUT!

“Oh, Jesus!” I yelled!

I immediately called my mom. Upon the first ring, mom picked up the phone.

“Mom, something’s wrong! I’m bleeding at the incision!”

“Yo, call your doctor and tell her that we’re taking you to the emergency room!”

My parents arrived at my apartment within minutes. Slowly, I walked to their car, pressing my tummy pillow firmly against my incision. We spent most of that day at the hospital as my doctor treated my incision for an abscess and drainage caused by an adverse reaction I had to the staples that they used to close me up.

“I was afraid that the incision was opening,” I said to my doctor.

“No worries, she reassured me. The incision is strong and the antibiotics will take care of any possible infection.”

I would have the staples removed within a week and other than the incision drainage, my healing would give me little concern.

Before I knew it, I was walking around my apartment, doing laundry, and light cleaning. I still had to be very careful not to lift anything heavier than a gallon of milk. Although my outward incision was now healing nicely, my inward scars and gazillion stitches would require more patience and TLC as my organs shifted and readjusted to fill the cavity that was once occupied by my uterus, ovaries, and cervix. I was on a low-dose estrogen patch and had begun having hot flashes. Upon that first fierce hot flash, I realized that at the tender age of 46, I was now in surgical menopause…and feeling very much alone in this new normal.

Before I had a TAH/BSO (Total abdominal hysterectomy and bilateral Salpingo-oophorectomy), the season of helplessness and isolation I went through prior to the surgery was far worse than the disease itself that had attacked my reproductive organs. I experienced scary heart palpitations for the first time in my life. Up until the age of 42, I had never been aware of my own heartbeat. Then one day it felt like my heart was beating erratically out of my chest. Skipping beats followed by hard beats, literally stopped me in my tracks. It was frightening! Each episode sent me running to the E.R.

“I think I’m having a heart attack!” I would exclaim to the E.R. nurse.

Over the course of three years, I saw a cardiologist, wore a halter monitor on two separate occasions, and had stress tests and EKGs. All of the results came back normal each time. At one point, my cardiologist started asking me probing questions about my mental state.

“Are you depressed?” he’d ask.

“Are you in an unhealthy relationship?” he seemed to insinuate.

His last question, “When was the last time you took a vacation?”

I stared at him totally insulted and it was like a dam had burst inside me!

“THIS is not in my head!” I blurted out.

I felt my body shaking uncontrollably as the tone in my voice grew deeper.

“I’m suddenly aware of my own heartbeat, doctor! I’m in intense physical pain, and I have fibroids so big that they bulge out when I lay flat on my back. Some nights I lay alone in my apartment afraid to move because every time I turn over in my bed my heart palpitates. Some nights, I wonder if I will even wake up the next morning! I’m fatigued. I have feelings of dread and anxiety, and I’m fighting a depression that I have never experienced before.”

My rant unfortunately, got me nowhere. Granted, he was a heart specialist, not a gynecologist. Yet, from my family doctor, my gynecologist and the specialists that I was sent to, the word peri-menopause never crossed anyone’s lips. Despite my desperate pleas, I felt unheard and frankly, dismissed by the medical community. Lord, those were lonely years.

No one was on social media talking about peri-menopause. No doctor ever uttered the word to me. How could they not know!? Maybe if I were a man I would have been taken more seriously. Is the mere thought of menopause and it’s many stages (pre and post) that can start as early as a woman’s 30s, so tabu to the medical community, that a woman’s real concerns are diagnosed-down to a whisper of pity, “She’s just going through the change.”

After my hysterectomy, I was sitting in my apartment and finding myself once again, in need of a supportive community.  One late night I went on Facebook and to my surprise I found a support group. I joined the group and boy did this community open my eyes! Warning: this may be a bit graphic! I had NO IDEA what a ‘cuff’ was and sure as hell did not know that I now had one!

I remember asking one of the ladies in our group, “What is a cuff?”

“Wait?!” she typed in exclamation.

”Your surgeon didn’t tell you that you would have a cuff after removing your cervix?!” she asked.

“No!” I replied. At least I don’t recall.

My new Hyster-Sistah began to explain to me the details of this mysterious cuff and that if not given the proper amount of time to heal, this cuff could open, causing my lower intestines, which now sit on top of this cuff to drop and…let’s just say, “exit my body.” I’m trying to keep this PG. To say that I was mortified would be a gross understatement. I could feel the tears well up in my eyes! What I did next was something any normal, red-blooded American would do. I looked it up on Google.

***DISCLAIMER: Do not diagnose yourself on Google! The images I saw were worst case scenarios. Go see your doctor! Advocate for your health and insist that your doctor listens to your concerns. Yes, you might get dismissed like I was, but do not let that stop you! Do not let any medical professional dumb-down your symptoms. Okay…back to my shocker.

“Oh, heck no!” I shouted in my apartment, as I gawked at pictures of these poor people's intestines protruding from their bodies. Ok, so I didn’t exactly say, “heck,” but like I said before….PG.

I tossed my laptop to the side and sat on the edge of my bed.

“What have I done,” I thought to myself. I felt like a stitched-together rag doll.

In the weeks that followed, I found comfort, camaraderie, and even laughter within my new support group. Getting used to my HRT was a trial and error experience and I ended up getting off the patch and opting for herbal options of treatment. It would take me another ten years to understand the gravity of this poor, misguided decision to stop my HRTs. A  fear-based decision that I am now quite furious about. But I’ll explain more about that later. Those scary heart palpitations completely dissipated within months. By the time I returned to my job, six weeks later, my body was on the mend. My heart was a whole other matter.

I now see why medically, it’s preferred that women take a complete year to heal from a hysterectomy. The fact that women are sent back to work so soon after this major, life-altering surgery is beyond me! I understand going back to work out of necessity. However, had I known back then what I know now, I would have insisted my doctor sign me off on a leave of absence from my job. Still, it doesn't surprise me. Even new moms barely get enough healing and bonding time through maternity leave. And many of them had c-sections. I even asked my surgeon at my 6-week checkup if I could have more time and she replied that medically she saw no reason to keep me off work.

“Seriously?” I thought to myself.

I am literally stitched-together and not completely healed, I still can’t lift a small child…oh, and did I mention that I am a preschool teacher? Lastly, I’m a hormonal, emotional mess. But I digress. Send me in, coach!

- NEW ENTRY -

Digital painting I created while I was still working in Preschool field.

On my first day back at work, I was met with warm hugs from the staff and from my little students. I was genuinely happy to be back, but there was still a voice deep down in my heart whispering, “I’m not ready for this.” One day I bolted for a toddler who was about to fall from a trike and little did I know that my concerned coworker was simultaneously bolting for me.

“Wait, Ms. Yolanda,” she shouted…”Don’t pick him up!”

Those gory images I saw on Google popped into my head for an instant, and I was like, “Crap!” I completely froze as my co-worker swooped in to help the small toddler. I, on the other hand felt utterly useless. I wanted to get my purse and just go home. Weeks went by and as I was adjusting to my new normal, I tried to prove to my coworkers and let's face it…to myself, that I was still useful and could protect these little kiddos who were entrusted to my care.

As I mentioned in the previous chapter, my body had a hard time adjusting to my HRTs and it all manifested one day when I was sitting in the classroom with my students. The classroom started to close in on me and I felt like I was going to jump out of my skin. Talk about fight or flight! This was terrifying! I made my way to the front office and told one of the admin that I felt like I was having a heart attack! She called an ambulance and tried to keep me calm. The EMTs arrived and checked my vitals. What I in fact had was a full-blown panic attack. After this attack, I ended up on herbal supplements to treat menopausal symptoms and stopped the estrogen patch altogether. Okay, as promised earlier, I will tell you why I am now so angry by my misguided decision to stop taking HRTs.

The 2002 Women’s Health Initiative Study, published in the Journal of The American Medical Association, has put fear into a lot of women. They announced that while hormone replacement therapy has benefits, those benefits were far outweighed by the health risks, particularly an increase in blood clots, stroke and breast cancer. Decades later, this study is now seen as flawed and has come under great scrutiny. Warning labels that the FDA put on estrogen products added to these fears…including mine.

I encourage you and any woman you’re concerned about to view this very informative interview which took place this year: FDA Expert Panel on Menopause and Hormone Replacement Therapy for Women .

Well, thanks to an amazing doctor I discovered on social media in 2024; a doctor who has fought passionately to bring the TRUTH of perimenopause and HRTs to light, I now firmly believe that had I continued my HRTs, the chances of me experiencing better health and wholeness would have far outweighed the flawed, fear-based consequences touted by these two major organizations.

You see, I’m now 57, dealing with stubborn weight gain, high cholesterol, high blood pressure, degenerative bone disease, wicked hot flashes, memory lapses, and the list goes on. This amazing doctor I am talking about has been a pioneer in helping millions of frightened women like me, understand that they are not crazy, nor are they alone in this fight. She is Dr. Mary Claire Haver.  Dr. Haver and other doctors are now lighting a fire under the FDA to wake them up to the harsh reality of negligence and disservice women have received due to fear-based, distorted statistics that have led women worldwide to toss their HRTs into the trash out of concerns for their own mortality. As I listened to her research on the health benefits of HRTs and how the Women’s Health Initiative and FDA misled so many women with skewed statistics, and black label warnings, I was infuriated! Sadly, it’s been more than ten years since I stopped taking HRTs to treat my menopause and there’s a chance that I’m no longer a candidate for the health benefits of HRTs. I encourage you to look up Dr. Haver’s videos on YouTube. The link to her amazing website is here.

Going back to my days of employment, one night after a long work day, I was home relaxing and felt overwhelmed with emotion. I could not identify this emotion as fear or even sadness. All I know is that it was unsettling. I sat on my bed and started crying. To this day, writing these words, I have no idea how I ended up from my bed onto the floor. But there I was, in a fetal position crying as if I had been punched in the gut. I pulled myself up onto the bed and swept my arm across the covers, feeling for my tummy pillow. I’ve never been one of those people who hear inner voices or say things like, “I heard God say….” But that night I did hear an inner utterance. It wasn’t loud. Just a matter of fact as it whispered in my ear.

“You’ll never  experience the joy of having children.”

All I could do was rock back and forth on my bed, cradling my tummy pillow against an empty space held together with surgical stitches and a cuff that was still healing.

I remember years before my hysterectomy, a doctor’s advice to me after a gynecological exam.

“If you want children, you’d better do it soon.” he stated.

Before even considering a hysterectomy, I tried other options including a uterine fibroid embolization. It didn’t work. I was determined to keep my organs intact and have my babies. That is, until my body raged against me to the point I couldn’t handle it anymore. The golf-ball sized fibroids, endometriosis, and adenomyosis took over my reproductive organs and I signed the forms for the hysterectomy.

Years before in my 30s, my doctor told me that I was experiencing hyperovulation and that I was a candidate for twins. My mom carried twins but unfortunately lost them. To this day, she still celebrates their Heavenly birthday. One day I was daydreaming in my apartment and as I looked out the window I imagined myself walking along a river, holding the hands of two little boys. When I shook myself from this open dream, I called my mom in excitement and told her that I had a vision of my future. I told her that I was going to have twin boys. It was months later, that my doctor would tell me that I was experiencing hyperovulation. I thought it was confirmation of my vision. But on this bitter evening, it just feels cruel.

So you see, I read all the pamphlets, talked to loved ones, and I prayed to God in contemplation of this surgery. But how could I have prepared my heart for such grief? No one told my heart that it would break…not like this! Granted, my surgeon’s words to me when I told her that I wanted a hysterectomy were not without warning:

“Many women who have the surgery experience feelings of regret,” she explained.

Though, after all was said and done, regret just seemed less permanent than grief. Even if I could reconcile with regret; even forgive myself, I couldn’t go back and undo the surgery. I heard her words. Still, my uterus morphing into a lumpy stone, the intense pain, heart palpitations, and the quality of my life that had been reduced to an unhealthy amount of pain killers, rang much louder than my surgeon's gentle heed.

I still consider my surgeon to be a great doctor and a kind human being. However, navigating the uncharted waters of perimenopause and feeling like I was losing my mind, did lead me to cross paths with some unkind medical professionals. One such experience happened when I went to the E.R., and this doctor arrogantly told me that my palpitations were in no way, related to my fibroids. He actually appeared to be insulted that I would even attempt to diagnose myself. He went on to say that I was just anxious and handed me a prescription for Xanax. Hmmm…I’d love to talk to him today about his warm bedside manner.

After the hysterectomy the only people I could share my grief with were the ladies in my Facebook support group. When I mistakenly mentioned my emotional struggle to a family member and a few coworkers, their answers were all the same.

“Why don’t you just adopt?”

“How cold.” I thought to myself.

I say that my heart is grieving the loss of my womb and all that it represented, and you tell me to just adopt. Well I guess you’re off the hook now. No need to occupy this space of grief with me.

Why is it when we don’t have an answer for another person’s pain, we brush them off? Is it to avoid one’s feelings of discomfort or inadequacy?  Or is it simply a lack of interest? The thing is, I never expected those who I poured my heart out to, to understand my grief. Heck, I couldn’t even wrap my own head around it! My only appeal was for human connection. Because the truth is, we all hurt at times…many times too deep for words, and the only solace is often found in knowing that we don’t have to hurt alone.

On one occasion when I was told to just adopt, I dug into my bag of grief and pulled out this response:

“Think back to when you first felt your baby’s kick in your belly or the first time you heard their cry after giving birth. Imagine going home to your beautiful children today, hugging them, hearing them call you mommy, hearing their laughter, and experiencing that overwhelming love for a child that only a mother could know. Now, imagine it was all a dream and due to circumstances beyond your control, you will never have these phenomenal, unforgettable experiences. How do you feel?

Silence.

“Well, I concluded, I’m sorry but you just need to get over it. After all, you can just adopt…right?”

I created this artwork about nine years after my surgery.

After expressing myself in this way, this person and I never spoke again. She simply stared at me as if I was boring her with my melodrama and she walked away. It’s okay though because once I identified what my heart was feeling, and held it, I was then ready to give it over to the only One who could put the pieces back together again.  I should have given it to Him sooner!

There was a period when I was angry at God. Why did I have that vision of twin boys only to never see their faces manifest in my life? Why did my body reject my strong desire to bear children? Since becoming a Christian, here is one thing I learned about my relationship with God. His Love for me is final and unconditional. He can handle my outrage. He’s the only one able to hold the broken pieces of my heart in His hands, and see what I was too angry to see; a future where I was healed, whole, loved, and open to love. He’s a Father, in every sense of the word. He knows I will have pain on this earth. He knows I will have questions. Yet, He wants me to trust that He will walk me through the pain. He sent His Son Jesus, to save me! Jesus endured unbelievable pain and rejection. Yet, He said, “Father, let your will be done” and He endured the Cross…for me. If that isn’t a Father’s Love, I don’t know what is!

Since that confrontation with a person I genuinely care about, I gave myself an irreplaceable gift that allowed for real healing. What did this gift look like? Well, it looked a lot like this:

💙 Coming to terms with the fact that something did die that day on the operating table; my ability to birth my own children, and wondering if they would have been my beautiful twin boys. Now, allow healing to begin.

💙 Accepting the fact that for a season, I may not be ready to accept invites to joyous occasions like baby showers, even if it means being ridiculed and losing friendships. After all, when people leave, that’s when you find your tribe.

“Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning.” - Psalm 30:5

💙 Believing in my heart that this decision that I made from fearfulness and tiredness, from daily, hourly pain, was a human one. It was reached after much prayer, endless tears, and deserving of much grace. Whether that grace comes from people is no longer important to me. Whether it comes from God and ultimately from myself, well, there in lies the real beauty that I’ve found in the brokenness. The surgery is permanent. But God has the final word concerning my future!

“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” - Jeremiah 29:11

My identity is not rooted in bodily organs that return to dust. Nor is my worth weakened by the absence of my womb. I’m no less of a woman. If anything, I’m more! I still have a mother’s heart and it is wide open. My hope, my ability to love and be loved are very much alive and well! That my friend, is the beautiful gift of healing. It’s allowing yourself to feel, to be expressive rather than suffer in silence or shame, and to hold on to hope. It’s a gift I gave to myself. It’s a gift that you can give to yourself as  well.  Okay…break over.