Without needing to erase it.

Inside of me, there is a strange place where my thoughts collide, twist, and unravel. A place I never knew was foreign to me until recently.

For years, I fought to control what, even then, I did not know was beyond my grasp — my subconscious.

I thought I had power over it. That if I just did the right things, kept myself busy enough, and distracted myself in every possible way, I could shape my mind into submission.

I believed that if I worked hard enough, stayed occupied, and surrounded myself with enough noise, the dark corners of my mind would remain quiet.

I was wrong.

Looking back, I realize I never had control at all. It was an illusion, one I held onto tightly because the truth was far too unsettling. I wanted to believe that my mind was mine to command, that my past was something I could bury, something I could push deep enough into the void that it would never resurface.

But memories are stubborn. And pain does not disappear just because you refuse to acknowledge it.

My past trauma was never the kind that could be easily named. It was not a single tragic event that shattered my world in an instant. It was not one of those clear, defining moments that people point to and say, “This is where it all changed.”

It was an accumulation of quiet storms.

Small, sharp moments that left wounds too deep to be seen. Whispers of doubt that took root and grew into something heavy.

It was the weight of words left unspoken. The sting of memories that never truly faded. The heaviness of knowing that some things would never be addressed, never be understood.

For years, I carried them with me. Letting them sink into silence. Telling myself that if I buried them deep enough, they would lose their strength. That if I ignored them long enough, they would eventually disappear.

But silence does not heal wounds.
It only allows them to fester.

It is better to say it all than to store it inside for decades.
It’s better to face the person who became your trauma. The one who still lingers in your nightmares. The one who shaped parts of you in ways you never consented to.

It is only then that the needed realities strike.
Some things are out of your hands. Not within your control. And certainly not in your fate.

I remember the day I let everything out after years of silence. I never planned for it to happen. It was not some carefully thought-out moment of closure. It was not something I had prepared for or rehearsed in my mind.
It was raw, unfiltered. The words came tumbling out before I could stop them.

For the first time, I confronted the person who had shaped so much of my pain unknowingly. I spoke the truth, not to hurt them, not to seek revenge, but simply because I could not carry it anymore.

And in that moment, I understood something. No matter how much I tried to control the impact, some things were, and would always be, present.

I could not change them.

I could not erase them.

No matter how much I fought.

That was the moment I finally understood. It is best not to fight those things.

Let them be. Acknowledge them. Then let go.

I could not change the past or the depth with which it had scarred me. But I could choose how I moved forward.

Last year, I finally stopped trying to win an impossible battle with my subconscious. I began to realize, rather slowly, that the subconscious is not something one controls. It is not something that can be tamed or silenced through sheer willpower. It is more or less like a mirror. A mirror reflecting those hidden, ignored, or misunderstood parts of yourself.

No matter how much I tried to ignore it, my subconscious would always hold fragments of my past. The memories I buried would always find their way to the surface.

And as little as I could do about my subconscious mind, I could control my actions. I could control my conscious mind. I was finally able to choose how I reacted to my past. Even if I was not in a position to erase it.

And although it hurts to say so, I can continue speaking the truth and move on.

There are days, even now, when old wounds reopen. When that iron press bears down on me. When haunted memories crawl into my mind, I try to shake them off.

But nowadays, at least, I sense that healing is not about erasing the pain.
It is about learning to live with it.

Without letting it define me.

I have learned that some things will always be there.
And that is okay. It is not about controlling everything. It is about making peace with what you cannot control. And in that peace, I found the freedom to move on.

The journey has been difficult. And it remains so.
Yet, it has also been liberating.

Now, I know I do not have to control my subconscious to be all right. I am able to maintain a centre of focus on what I do have under control.

The choices I make.

The way I treat myself.

The manner in which I return to the world.

And that is enough. It is more than enough.

I used to think healing meant forgetting. That to truly move forward, I had to erase the past. But now, I see that healing is not about forgetting — it is about understanding.

Understanding that pain does not vanish overnight. That some wounds may never fully close. But that does not mean they have to define me.

There are moments when the past tries to pull me back. When I wake up with a heaviness in my chest that I cannot explain. When old fears whisper in the back of my mind, telling me I am still the same, still trapped in the same cycle. I still get nightmares about the same person from my past.

But I remind myself that I am not.

I have come too far to be held back by ghosts of the past. Even on the hardest days, I know I am not who I used to be. I have learned to recognize my strengths.

To accept that some memories will always linger but that they do not have to control me.

I can choose to keep moving forward.

I can choose to keep speaking the truth, even when it is hard.
I can choose to live — not just exist, not just survive, but truly live.
And that choice is mine.

That power is mine.

That is what healing looks like.

Not a perfect ending. Not a life free of pain. But a life where the past no longer holds me captive.

A life where I am free.

 

Artwork by: Federico Zandomeneghi