After returning from home, I felt light.
I knew I had finally found peace within myself ready for whatever tomorrow might bring. No more haunting from the curse of questions. No more dragging chains of shame.
For the first time in a long time, I appreciated what I had: my new-found family, the people around me, and my art.
I'm ready to rewrite everything that ever tried to define me with the help of the healing hands I've found around me.
Anna and I attended a small community gathering.
To start fresh, you have to take a step.
The room smelled like new beginnings.
It didn't try to impress or hide.
It smelled of menthol, mild sweat, second chances, and fresh air like someone had just finished crying in one room and someone else was laughing in the next.
It wasn't the kind of place that begged for attention. The chairs didn't match. The windows were cracked open, letting in just enough breeze to flutter the faded curtain. There was no stage. No performance. No pity posters on the wall.
Just one phrase printed above the entrance:
"Healing Isn't Loud."
Purity walked in behind Anna, carrying nothing but her name and the war inside it.
She hadn't planned to sit. She expected to panic, maybe fake a call, maybe make a quiet escape halfway through. But she didn't.
Instead, she followed Anna's lead and picked the second-to-last chair in the circle.
There were women of all shades and stories. Some looked like they hadn't cried in years but still wore sorrow like perfume. Others had visible cracks; they weren't trying to hide healing that wasn't tucked under makeup or manners.
No one stared. No one whispered, "That's the new girl."
It was like walking into a space that already knew you were coming and had decided not to judge you for arriving late.
A soft-spoken woman with twist-outs and a burn scar on her arm spoke first. She talked about trying.
Trying to wake up without anger.
Trying to sleep without needing a reason to cry.
Trying to cook for herself without burning the stew.
Her voice didn't shake. She wasn't auditioning for strength. She was just... there. Honest. Breathing.
Then a younger woman spoke. Her story was messier, more tangled, less "resolved." She talked about deleting her ex's number five times and still dreaming of him on the sixth night. About how sometimes she wanted to stop growing just to stop hurting.
Laughter rippled through the room soft, not mocking.
It was the kind of laugh that said: you're not alone.
Purity listened with her whole body.
Her palms clenched. Her jaw tightened. But she listened.
And then
A pause.
The kind that stretches wide enough for bravery to slip in.
Anna turned slightly. She didn't push. She just invited me.
And for reasons she couldn't explain, Purity stood up.
She hadn't rehearsed.
Didn't breathe deeply. Didn't prepare.
Her legs just moved like they were tired of staying still.
She faced the women. Or maybe she just faced herself.
My name is Purity, she began. Her voice wasn't loud, but it wasn't small either.
"I used to think healing would come with noise. With rage. With fire. But it's not like that. Sometimes, healing is just... when you stop flinching when someone says your name."
No one clapped.
No one needed to.
I didn't grow up soft, she continued. Softness would've gotten me swallowed. I was raised in a house that taught survival, not safety.
So I carried that into everything: my laughter, my love, my silence.
She paused, chest tightening not from fear, but from truth finally crawling its way out.
There was a time I thought I was ruined. Dirty.
Like I was something that had already been chosen, used, and thrown away.
But last week... I went back.
Now some women looked up.
I went back to where it happened.
To the house.
To the room.
Not for revenge. Not even for answers. Just to see it.
And I sat there.
I didn't cry. I didn't scream. I just... sat.
One woman covered her mouth. Another wiped her eyes.
Purity noticed but she didn't stop.
I left the shame there.
It doesn't live in me anymore.
She looked down then, back up, stronger now.
I don't run anymore.
Not from them.
Not from the mirror.
Not even from mornings.
I've stopped chasing people who only remember me when they need someone to blame."
She glanced at Anna, her silent anchor.
I'm not healed. But I'm healing.
And maybe... that's enough for today.
She sat back down.
Silence settled over the room like a warm blanket.
Nobody rushed in to hug her.
Nobody shouted affirmations.
They just sat with her in the stillness she had earned.
After the meeting, Purity stood outside the center with Anna.
The sky was dipping into a soft orange, the kind that looked like it had forgiven the day.
Anna passed her a bottle of water.
"You did good."
Purity gave a small smile.
I didn't plan to speak.
Anna smiled wider.
I know. But your spirit did, girl.
Babe, this is a prayer answered. I want to see more of this.
You got fire, stop holding back.
They stood quietly, leaning against the railing outside the center, the hum of insects blending into the softness of dusk.
Purity breathed in deep. Not the kind of breath you take when you're exhausted, but the kind you didn't know your lungs had room for.
What just happened there?
Did I really just say all that? Out loud?
For years, her mouth had been a prison. Words lived in her throat like caged birds. But tonight, they had flown free. And now that they were out, she didn't want them back.
There was no applause. No grand revelation. Just a kind of stillness she'd never felt before.
Peace without permission. Power without performance.
I didn't bleed to entertain anyone. I spoke to stop bleeding.
Anna took a sip from her bottle. You okay?
Purity nodded. Yeah. I think so. But my heart's beating like it just ran a marathon."
Anna chuckled softly. That's what healing feels like sometimes. Like you're sprinting through memories with no shoes on.
Purity looked down at her hands. They weren't shaking anymore.
A girl maybe sixteen, thin wrists, sleeves too long for the July heat walked past them slowly. She glanced at Purity, then turned back.
Hi, the girl said. Her voice barely whispers.
Hey, Purity replied, soft but grounded.
The girl handed her a folded note and walked off without waiting for anything.
Purity opened it.
Five words.
Shaky handwriting. Heartbreaking clarity:
"I think I'm ready too."
She turned the note over slowly, as if it might evaporate in her hands.
She didn't cry.
She just folded the paper, tucked it into her pocket, and smiled.
Maybe the healing was loud. But not in noise.
In impact.
In the way one quiet voice made another find hers.
She thought of the little girl she used to be small, confused, ashamed, carrying questions no one dared to answer.
What if someone had spoken back then?
What if someone had told me I wasn't broken, just bruised?
She would've grown differently.
Maybe not without scars. But not with shame sewn into her skin.
That girl the one with thin wrists and long sleeves had reminded her of something important:
Her healing wasn't just hers.
It was a seed.
And tonight, it planted something in someone else.
Maybe I'm not meant to be a savior.
Maybe I'm just supposed to be real enough... to remind others they're not alone.
As they walked away from the center, the world felt wider. The sky stretched like a promise, and for the first time, Purity felt like she had more than survival ahead of her.
She had a purpose.
And maybe that was the loudest healing of all.