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Quiet Revolution of Healing



We walk around in bodies built of stardust and soil, cradling hearts that never asked to be born but beat nonetheless—steady, loyal, wild. And yet, for all this divine architecture, we don’t trust ourselves to stay well.


We’ve grown up in a culture that trades in subtle whispers of dread. From the moment we first scrape our knees or catch a winter cold, we are quietly trained to suspect the body of betrayal. We become adults who prod our skin in the mirror for signs of lumps, who study our parents’ autopsy reports like they’re horoscopes. We make a ritual of anxiety, laying ourselves bare on paper-covered tables under fluorescent lights, awaiting the verdict.


And when the verdict comes—and it always does, because we expect it to—we call it normal. “She was perfectly healthy,” they say, shaking their heads, “and then out of nowhere…” But was it really out of nowhere? Or did we, as a people, collectively build a shrine to disease and sit before it daily, feeding it belief?


We do not doubt the road from health to sickness. That path is paved, well-trodden, mapped out by experts. We nod along with it like scripture: of course the cells would mutate, of course the immune system would go rogue, of course the heart would stumble mid-beat.


But flip that script—suggest that the body can return from illness to health, spontaneously, or with little more than attention and belief—and you’ll be met with patronizing smiles, maybe even warnings. Be realistic, they say. Don’t get your hopes up.


Tell me—what is the difference between the two journeys? From health to sickness, or sickness to health? One is called inevitable, the other a miracle. Why? Who decided that one direction is natural, while the other is fantastical?


The truth—at least the truth that pulses in the quiet corners of ancient wisdom and deep knowing—is that both are simply movement. Energy shifts. A body responding to story, environment, memory, love. Or fear. The very same soil that grows a weed can grow a flower, depending on what you plant and how you tend.


And yet we barter for healing like beggars, instead of remembering we are the temple itself. We kneel and plead with doctors, priests, strangers on the internet. We hand over our sovereignty to those who may not know that healing begins long before the surgery, long before the drug trial, long before the test result.


Healing begins when we say, I still believe in you, to the body we’ve spent a lifetime doubting. It begins when we stop looking for the villainous cell and start looking for the forgotten song in our bones that reminds us: you were born for life. Not decay. Not doom.


We place our hope in intervention, as if illness needed help getting in but healing needs an entire army to escort it out. But did you need a pharmaceutical chariot to get sick? Did your heartbreak or your bitterness or your generational grief require FDA approval? Of course not.


And so I say this as gently and fiercely as I can: stop giving your power away. Stop letting people in white coats or dark suits or frightened families tell you what is and isn’t possible. Start believing—like, really believing—that you are well, that you are held, that your body knows what it’s doing even when it stumbles.


This isn’t naïve. This isn’t denial. I go to my checkups like anyone else. I look at the lab results. And when something shows up, I say, “Ah, there you are. I must have forgotten something. Let’s get reacquainted.” I might cry. I might grieve. I might even be afraid. But I will not give up my belief in healing—not ever. Because I have seen it. In people who were told to go home and die, and instead learned to live. In myself, when no one could explain why the pain left or the scans came back clean. In the quiet certainty that life, by its very nature, is always reaching for balance, for wholeness, for light.


Healing is not a miracle. It’s your birthright.


So plant that thought in your chest like a seed. Water it with attention, with breath, with every small act of love you can muster. And when doubt creeps in—and it will, because we are all still children of this culture—sit it down gently, and tell it a new story.


God is great. And so are you.


Hari  Om  Tat  Sat

 
 
 

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