every scar a story, every step a choice
There’s strength in letting go—but more in deciding what’s worth holding onto.
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As the night’s heavy curtain lifted, the city stirred, slowly waking under a soft wash of early light. The sun, bold and fiery, crept up from the horizon, spilling gold across the skyline. Buildings—those silent giants of steel and glass—caught the light, shimmering as if they were trying to hold onto the warmth.
But even in that glow, there was a chill.
A reminder of the cold, unfeeling world I used to know.
A place where shadows hid truths and silence said more than words ever could.
Today, though, something was different.
This sunrise wasn’t just about another day starting.
It felt like a shift. A turning point.
It wasn’t just light breaking through the dark—it was a signal. A nod from the universe saying, "This is it. Your new beginning."
The air hummed with the promise of change.
And the city, with all its noise, seemed to agree: today was about leaving the past behind. About finding solid ground after years adrift in chaos.
A step toward something better, something real.
This wasn’t just a sunrise.
It was a calling.
As the city stirred to life, something deep inside me started to shift. That heavy fog I'd been dragging around for what felt like forever was lifting.
Slowly.
Like the sun burning off the last traces of morning mist.
The numbness, the armor I'd worn for so long, was cracking. I could feel it. It wasn't just slipping away—it was breaking apart, piece by piece.
And in its place was something else. Something alive. Something real.
It wasn’t just a fleeting feeling either.
It was like this seed, buried so deep inside me I’d forgotten it was there, finally pushed through the rubble. Pushing past the scars, the regrets, the mess I thought would never clear.
And it wasn’t stopping.
This wasn’t just a good day. It was bigger. It was real growth, born from the long nights of overthinking and every single moment of reflection that nearly broke me.
Ryan Puusaari—the man who’d been stuck, locked in by his past was done.
Finished.
Buried in the wreckage of old mistakes, old betrayals, and a childhood full of ghosts.
Standing in his place was someone new.
Ryan, the one who rose from all that chaos, stronger than before.
Not defined by the pain, but shaped by it.
Eyes on the horizon, walking forward, ready to own the journey to redemption and healing.
This…
This was my rebirth.
In the wild terrain of the mind, self-awareness isn’t a destination. It’s not a box you check off, then walk away.
No, it’s a winding river, always moving, reshaping itself through constant introspection. A never-ending flow that shifts with every moment you stop to reflect.
The deeper you look, the more you realize—it’s not about finding one answer. It’s about embracing the never-ending journey of knowing yourself.
And let me tell you, that path is no straight line.
It twists, turns, doubles back, spiraling inward. Every step uncovers layers—memories, emotions, responses—that have built up over time like sediment.
Some of those layers are heavy with pain.
Trauma you thought you buried long ago, but still surfaces when the night gets quiet. Shadows that hang around, dimming even your brightest days.
But this isn't about getting stuck in the mess of what’s already happened. It’s not about drowning in the past. No, it’s about tracing the scars with your fingers. Not to rip them open again, but to understand where they came from.
Each wound tells a story, and there’s power in knowing the plot. In recognition, you find freedom. Revisiting those jagged moments doesn’t pull you down. Instead, it gives you the chance to rise above, to finally get it.
To accept it all—then move on.
It’s not easy. But it’s worth it.
In the quiet space between memories, I found myself standing in a hall of mirrors.
Not the fun house kind, with their twisted reflections, but the stark, unfiltered ones that don’t lie. Every mirror showed a version of me—young, scarred, and uncertain. Yet, there was no hiding. Just raw truth staring back.
But something changed the longer I looked.
Those scars didn’t seem so ugly anymore. They glowed, almost.
Not with pain, but with the stories they carried—of nights spent fighting battles no one saw, of tears cried when it felt like there was nothing left.
They were markers of survival. Of grit.
The kind of strength you only get from refusing to stay down.
Each reflection told a different chapter: hardship, yes, but also the grit to get back up, the quiet moments of learning, the wisdom that only comes after falling.
These weren’t just wounds. They were badges.
Proof of resilience, of navigating storms and emerging stronger.
And standing there, something clicked.
My past wasn’t a weight I had to drag along anymore. It wasn’t this burden, this thing I had to carry forever. No. It was a base. A solid one. The kind you build on.
As I walked away from those mirrors, I didn’t just carry the pain anymore.
I carried purpose.
A clearer sense of who I was.
And the undeniable belief that no matter what came next, I was ready—ready to heal, grow, and rise.
Pain doesn’t just knock on your door; it barges in, uninvited.
But once I stopped fighting it, something unexpected happened.
I started to tune in—to every note, every feeling, every flicker of emotion like I was catching a secret melody. Things I used to brush off, ignore, bury deep now stood out in sharp detail, no longer hidden.
No longer enemies.
Just markers, showing me where I had been and where I was heading.
I quit playing that old game of avoidance.
No more fake smiles plastered over cracks.
No more shrugging off what hurt or pretending nothing did.
Instead, I leaned in. Really leaned in.
I let the grief roll over me, let the anger burn hot.
And the tears…
I let them fall, full force, and with every drop, something inside me loosened.
Turns out, letting yourself break isn’t weak.
It’s power. Real power.
Because facing those storms head-on without looking away…
That’s strength.
Raw, undeniable strength.
It’s not about surrendering; it’s about standing in the middle of the chaos, arms wide open, and saying, "I can take this."
In owning my emotions, I didn’t lose control.
I gained it.
I found that the real release comes from feeling it all, deeply and without shame. The catharsis, the clarity—it all came from letting go of the masks and stepping fully into what was real.
Because here’s the thing: true strength isn’t about never falling.
It’s about facing every emotional wave that hits, staying grounded, and knowing you’ll come out the other side, not just surviving, but stronger. By letting myself feel, really feel, I wasn’t crumbling—I was rising.
Building something authentic. Something real. Something unstoppable.
Over time, self-awareness stopped being some rare, fleeting thought and became a daily ritual—like brushing my teeth, but for the soul.
Sunrises, sunsets…
They didn’t just divide the hours.
They marked chapters. Moments of reflection. Milestones of growth.
And in the middle of all this came journaling. At first, it was just scribbles. Random words on paper, catching whatever thoughts zipped by.
But what started as a few scattered lines turned into something deeper. Something bigger. Each page was a conversation with myself.
A canvas for every wild, raw thought swirling in my head.
Suddenly, emotions had form.
That tangled knot of pain wasn’t just this invisible weight anymore. It had words. It had shape.
And joy…
Well, it wasn’t just some passing thing but a moment, inked down, solid. Real. Each sentence felt like peeling back a layer, exposing the truest parts of myself.
But this wasn’t just storytelling.
No, it was therapy.
With every word, every scrawled line, I wasn’t just documenting.
I was letting go.
Turning chaos into clarity. Giving my feelings a place to breathe.
The journal soaked up more than ink—it absorbed the burdens, the unspoken heaviness. And in doing that, it lightened me.
Each entry was a little release, a step toward understanding.
Toward healing.
I wasn’t just jotting down memories; I was having conversations with past me, present me, and future me.
No judgment. Just acceptance. Growth.
Peeling back the layers of my mind was like opening a locked box I didn’t even know I had. It wasn’t just emotions spilling out—anger, sadness, all that messy stuff—but buried beliefs, quietly running the show.
These weren’t harmless thoughts. They were scripts, written long ago, shaping everything I did without me even realizing it.
For years, they hummed in the background, like a bad song stuck on repeat.
That I wasn’t worthy of love, yep, that one held me back, kept real connection just out of reach.
The idea that failure was my destiny wasn’t just a thought; it crept into everything I touched, making me doubt before I even started.
And then there was the constant voice, telling me I didn’t deserve happiness. It was subtle, but always there, making me pull back right when I should’ve leaned in.
These beliefs, woven from old hurts, from things people said, and from the stories I told myself, built an invisible cage.
A cage made of limits. Of doubt. Of walls I didn’t see but always felt.
But now…
Now I was waking up.
The light of self-awareness was beaming through, and suddenly I could see the prison for what it was. A bunch of lies I had lived with for too long. It was time to face them.
I didn’t just accept these beliefs anymore.
I started asking, where did you come from? Why do you have power over me?
And in that digging, I realized something.
These weren’t truths.
They were just distorted shadows of my past, exaggerated by fear.
So, I started rewriting them.
I wasn’t going to live by those old, tired scripts.
No more seeing myself as some victim of fate. No more letting old stories dictate my future. I was taking the pen back. The story was mine now.
The switch was radical.
I began swapping the old doubts for new truths. Worthiness replaced inadequacy. Possibility took the place of failure.
This wasn’t just about throwing out the past—it was about reclaiming who I really was. Building something new. Owning my narrative.
Because, sure, the past shaped me. But it didn’t own me. And it never will again.
—Ryan Puusaari
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P.P.S. "Stop running from the storm. Plant your feet, raise your chin, and let the wind remind you of your strength."
Healing Thoughts — A Journey of Reflection, Poetry, and Healing, Made Possible by You
Healing Thoughts isn’t just another book—it’s a living, breathing collection of reflections, inspiring quotes, and poetry, all pulled from the heart of this community.
Through the highs and lows, the moments of growth and vulnerability, your support made this book a reality.
Each page is a step toward healing, filled with wisdom, introspection, and emotional insight to guide you on your personal journey.
This book is more than just words—it’s our story.
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