I leave the room lighter,
yet my bones hum like wires after a storm.
We pulled old truths from their hiding places,
dusty, sharp-edged, still breathing.
Each sentence was a small incision,
careful, necessary, kind.
Relief pooled in my chest, warm and real,
even as my thoughts began to tire,
spinning slower, softer, asking for rest.
Healing, it turns out, is not a clean ascent—
it is walking home at dusk,
bandaged in insight,
heart steadier, steps heavy,
grateful for the ache
that proves something inside me moved.
Therapy Bits 
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