I talk a lot about growth because I don’t know where else to put the pain.
Not the kind that screams — but the kind that lingers.
The kind that lives just under the surface, tucked inside half-formed questions like:
Why did that happen?
Why does it still hurt, even now?
Writing is how I trace it.
Not to fix it. Not to pretend I’ve got it all figured out — because I don’t.
I write because I feel the need to understand it.
To feel the shape of it more clearly.
To figure out what it’s been trying to tell me all this time.
It’s like I’m walking backward through a dark forest, retracing footsteps I don’t remember leaving there in the first place.
Every sentence is a branch brushing against me as I pass, making me look back to identify the culprit.
Trying to see what snagged me in the first place.
“Because if I can just find the source — the thorn, the fracture, the echo — maybe then I’ll understand where it began… and what it needs to end.”
That’s why I write.
Not because I’ve healed.
But because I need to make meaning of the ache.
I need to make sense of the pain.
Because the alternative is silence —
and staying quiet has never been my strong suit.
Not when something inside me is begging to be named.
Some days, that reflection brings clarity.
Other times, it just makes the ache louder — and adds depth to the pain.
Because there’s something especially hard about the moments when you do get what you need —
when someone reaches out, when someone tells you they’re proud, when people show up and mean it.
It fills something, yes.
But it also shines a light on everything that’s missing:
- The people who used to be main characters in your life who are no longer even in the script.
- The versions of yourself you had to let go of just to survive.
- The kind of love you’ve always wanted but still aren’t sure you’ll ever fully trust.
And that’s the paradox, isn’t it?
Laughing and crying at the same time.
Feeling proud and heartbroken in the same breath.
Holding joy in one hand and loneliness in the other, wondering how it’s possible to feel so much all at once.
Some days I show up, do the work, say the right things, write the right words —
and still walk away feeling like I’ve somehow fallen short.
Like I’m somehow still a failure.
Like I’m working at my highest capacity and still not getting it right.
Like I’m doing the invisible work behind the curtain… and no one even knows the curtain’s there.
Like I’m carrying too much at once —
and the only person blaming me when I drop something… is me.
And I hate that.
Not just the pressure — but the way I turn it all inward,
like turning a knife on myself.
“The way I can write beautifully about healing while still hating myself some days for being the kind of person who feels this much.”
Who speaks too honestly.
Who can’t let things go.
Who notices the silence in spaces and relationships where there used to be connection, friendship, and care…
and then wonders if it’s my fault.
That doesn’t mean I’m not grateful.
When I look around at my life and how far I’ve come, I feel proud of myself.
I feel humbled by where I’ve landed.
I feel like all the long nights, the tears, the hard work, the constant pressure, and the impossibly high standards —
maybe it wasn’t all for nothing.
But I also hate the cost.
I love the lessons and hate the loneliness.
I love the growth and hate how much it took from me just to keep going.
Maybe healing isn’t an arc.
Maybe it’s a loop.
A spiral.
A shape that keeps folding in on itself until one day, maybe, it opens.
Not into peace. Not into perfection.
But into truth —
the kind that doesn’t always make the blog.
The kind that lives behind the words.
The kind I’m finally learning how to write.
And now, because I’m writing them down — and sharing them for the world to see —
they’ll linger with me, long after I press Publish.
Like echoes I can’t unhear.
Like rain I can’t unfeel.
Like fractures I can’t unbreak.
© 2025 Kimberly Beth Thomas. All rights reserved.
A raw, unfiltered reflection on how growth and pain often walk hand in hand. What the Silence Gave Back explores the quiet ache of healing, the paradox of pride and loneliness, and why speaking the truth can be both a wound and a salve.
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