THE CRY THAT HEALS
Instead of continuing to cry out our pain like an infant, from about the age of two — when the ego begins to form — we learn to insist on understanding, dissecting, and rationalizing.
Instead of continuing to cry out our pain like an infant, from about the age of two — when the ego begins to form — we learn to insist on understanding, dissecting, and rationalizing. When suffering arises, we reach for explanations: the story, the reason, the why. We believe that if we can wrap our pain in words, it will dissolve. Yet trauma is not of the mind. It is an imprint on the body, an echo within the soul. It cannot be reasoned away.
The heart knows a different truth. Trauma is not asking to be explained. It is asking to be released. Its energy is dense, heavy, stored in tissues and breath, lingering like storm clouds that block the warmth of the sun. To heal is not to understand those clouds, but to let them break open.
Like a baby, unashamed of its tears, we are called to cry. Not just when we feel the pressure mounting, but whenever the soul asks us to soften, to release, to surrender. Each cry is a river returning to the sea. Each sob is a loosening of the grip that shadow once had upon the heart. In the trembling body, the wet face, the heaving breath, the locked energy begins to move again.
The mind seeks sense, coherence, and order. It builds stories around our pain, hoping that words might carry it away. But the soul’s way is simpler, and more difficult: to feel what was never felt, to release what was never released, to open where once we closed. This is not weakness but courage, not regression but return.
And where do we return? To love. Always, love. The love that holds us even as we weep, the love that waited silently through our long exile, the love that never judged, never withdrew, never ceased. Healing is not an achievement, nor a formula, nor a theory—it is the falling back into that embrace.
When we allow ourselves to cry, we are not falling apart. We are falling open. We are becoming porous once more to life, to presence, to the eternal pulse of love beneath all things. In those tears, the soul speaks the language of release, and the body remembers the rhythm of wholeness.
So let us stop rationalizing, stop clutching for explanations, and instead listen to the soul’s quiet invitation: Feel. Cry. Let go. For the river knows the way home, and love is always waiting for our return.
Nigel Lott teaandzen.org
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