Finding the Bruise

When healing means protecting what is still tender.

Before the conversation ever happened, I pictured her with her finger pointed in my direction, telling me what I should be doing.

In my mind, I grabbed her finger, looked her straight in the eye, and firmly said, "Listen here..." before launching into the most brilliantly worded defense I could imagine.

And that's when it hit me.

I was triggered.

The truth is, I have been on the receiving end of the finger point many times—being told what I should do to fix someone else's problem. So what I was imagining wasn't dramatic. It was familiar.

It was an unfortunate reality I had lived through before.

And although grabbing someone's finger and fighting back certainly isn't the answer, preparing for a conversation that hadn't even happened revealed something I hadn't expected.

I found the bruise.

A bruise doesn't hurt all the time. You can almost forget it's there until someone presses on it. Then suddenly you're reminded it never fully healed.

A few years ago, I would've told myself to get over it. Suck it up. No one meant to wound you there anyway.

But healing no longer gives me permission to abandon myself.

Healing invites me to pay attention to my inner world. To explore it with curiosity instead of judgment.

So I paid attention.

When I imagined this conversation, I realized I only had three responses.

Fight.

Fawn.

Or leave.

Fighting wouldn't lead to healing.

Fawning was my old specialty. Smile. Nod. "I know. I will."

Then walk away offended while changing absolutely nothing.

Neither response felt honest.

So I stayed home.

This is what a boundary looked like for me.

Not a wall.

A fence.

Something meant to protect the relationship, not punish the people inside it.

I wasn't asking anyone else to show up differently.

I wasn't trying to teach anyone a lesson.

I simply recognized what I could handle, and I honored it.

The truth was, I needed to process the anger first.

That particular relationship couldn't hold the weight of my raw emotions. I knew I wouldn't be met with the curiosity or compassion my heart needed in order to heal.

And I wasn't ready to have that conversation without those raw emotions spilling everywhere.

So I simply said,

"I'm feeling triggered. I'm not sure I can respond graciously if this topic comes up. I won't be attending the event."

Notice what's at the end of that sentence.

A period.

No blame.

No shame.

Just an awareness of what had happened inside of me, what I needed, and what I was choosing.

As I sat with that decision, I could hear an older version of myself speaking up.

"Right...but how do you KNOW that's what would've happened? You didn't even give them a chance. Isn't that rude?"

And I answered her gently.

"Sweetheart...what evidence do we actually have that this conversation would've been different?"

"I know you want to give everyone another chance, and I love that about you. But wisdom also believes people when they consistently show you who they are."

"Wasn't it just last week that you found yourself on the receiving end of the finger point again?"

"It's okay to let people be who they are."

"And it's also okay to recognize that you don't have to absorb the dysfunction."

"It's okay to acknowledge that something is still tender. You don't have to keep putting a bruise where it will likely be pressed."

Staying home wasn't the healing.

It simply created space for healing.

I didn't stay home so I could pretend the trigger didn't exist.

I stayed home so I could get to know it.

I sat with the sadness.

I listened to the anger.

I asked questions.

I brought the wounded part of my heart into the light because I want it to heal—not just be managed.

And I didn't stay home because I never wanted to have that conversation.

I stayed home because I wasn't ready to have it yet.

I'll know I'm ready when I can enter the conversation with both honesty and compassion. When I can ask questions with genuine curiosity. When I can share my experience without needing to defend it.

Years ago, I thought healing meant learning to endure hurtful situations without falling apart.

Now I think healing sometimes looks like honoring what's still tender while it becomes whole.

That day, I wasn't running away from a difficult conversation.

I was running toward healing.

And in doing so, I protected the healing that had already taken place—and the healing that was still happening.