the art of healing, one stroke at a time
Not every battle is loud. Some victories are silent—like getting out of bed on a hard day.
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After losing someone who meant the world to me, I felt like I'd been thrown into a raging sea. No direction, just waves of sadness slamming into me over and over.
I craved a break. A sliver of peace.
I wanted to wake up to sunlight instead of this dark, heavy feeling that hung over me like a storm cloud. I thought healing would be some grand, bright morning, but I was wrong. I’d already begun to claw my way out.
Healing isn't a sprint.
It’s more like a song that takes its time, each note building slowly, no rush to hit the high note. Each wave of grief, every tear shed, they all add depth to the melody, making it raw, real.
It’s a bit like creating a masterpiece.
Recovery paints itself in layers, one careful stroke after another. Each realization, every deep thought, is part of a bigger picture, a blend of emotions that shift and change.
This isn’t a quick sketch—it’s a slow, deliberate process.
And like an artist pouring their soul into a canvas, it takes patience.
It takes grit.
The First Steps
My first steps towards healing were stumbled, wobbly, with a side of fear. Like walking into the unknown, unsure if the ground would hold.
Haunted by ghosts of yesterday, unsure of tomorrow, each day felt like a dare. But as the fog of grief started to thin, I realized something.
Every battle, every tear, every time I poured my heart out onto paper—it wasn’t just cathartic, it was a step forward. Facing the pain head-on, not running from it, built layers upon layers of this messy, but real, healing journey.
And let me tell you, this journey wasn’t some straight, paved road.
Nah, it zigzagged, looped, tripped me up.
Some days, I felt light, almost hopeful. The next is was slammed by a wave of sadness. It messed with my head, made me question if I was getting anywhere at all.
But here's the twist—I started to see these ups and downs as just part of the ride.
Healing wasn’t about erasing the pain, but figuring out how to coexist with it. It was about finding strength in the mess, letting myself feel everything—good, bad, ugly—instead of dodging it.
And with each twist and turn, I began to get it: healing isn’t a finish line. It’s a living, breathing process. An ongoing, ever-evolving dance with resilience and growth.
Healing Takes Time
A moment that shifted everything came on a gray, almost dreary afternoon. I found myself on this worn-out bench, tucked away in a quiet corner of the park.
No city noise, just a soft rustle of leaves, a stray bird here and there. The kind of peace that sneaks up on you when you’re not looking.
In my lap sat a book, How to Do the Work.
The title hit me like a ton of bricks—simple, direct, no frills.
Just what I needed in that messy chapter of my life. As I read, something clicked. Healing wasn’t about waking up one day and finding all the pain magically gone.
It was slow, almost annoyingly so.
Like a seed pushing through the dirt, it demanded time and patience, things I wasn’t exactly good at.
We live in a world that’s all about speed—get better fast, move on, don’t dwell. But as I turned those pages, the truth sunk in.
Healing doesn’t give a damn about society’s timelines.
It’s stubborn, like a seed that won’t sprout just because you’re impatient. It’s a process that can’t be rushed, no matter how much you want to skip ahead.
And you know what? That realization brought a strange kind of peace. The kind that makes you exhale all the stress you didn’t even realize you were holding onto. I stopped demanding instant recovery from myself, stopped expecting some fairy-tale transformation overnight.
Right there, on that beaten-up bench, I made a deal with myself.
I decided to give myself some damn grace. To accept that my wounds wouldn’t just vanish like magic. They’d take time, they’d need care, and eventually, they’d turn into scars—proof that I made it through.
The Power of Resilience
Another turning point in my healing hit me like a ton of bricks. It was late, the kind of quiet that hums in the background of an empty room. I’d just crawled out of the abyss of homelessness, settling into my bare-bones apartment.
There I was, alone, surrounded by stacks of journals on a rickety coffee table. Each page was jam-packed with raw thoughts, fears, dreams—my mind spilled out over months of survival.
Flipping through those pages, it hit me: I had been unknowingly crafting my own strength.
Layer by layer, word by word.
Even when life was hell, when I thought I was down for the count, something inside me had kept going, kept building.
This recovery thing was like peeling back the layers on an onion I didn’t even know I had. I started to see it—this quiet resilience, lurking there all along, biding its time.
I realized that even when I felt totally shattered, there was this core, unyielding and tough, that refused to give up. Every stumble, every time I picked myself up, was proof. Proof that people, even when pushed to the edge, can find a way to bounce back, to thrive.
Then came TikTok.
Yeah, that’s right. I took a leap into the chaos of social media.
My once isolated life was suddenly not so isolated anymore. Sharing my story on that platform cracked something open. Writing had always been my escape, my therapy. Now, with TikTok, it became more than that. It turned into a ray of hope, connecting me to others walking the same rocky road.
And the stories—Wow!
They came pouring in from every corner of the planet.
People I’d never met, from places I’d never been, telling their own tales of struggle and healing. The realization that I wasn’t alone in this mess was affirming. We weren’t just sharing stories; we were weaving this massive web of resilience, each of us adding a thread to the larger narrative of what it means to endure.
With every post I shared and every comment I received, my courage grew.
Knowing that my pain wasn’t just mine—that others got it, lived it, too—gave me a jolt of strength.
The deeper I went into this recovery journey, the clearer it became: this wasn’t just about stitching up the broken parts.
It was about uncovering a core of resilience, forging new bonds, and rewriting my story from one of survival to one of growth and transformation.
No Longer the Same Man
As I pen these words, I’m not the same guy who started this mess.
Healing has reshaped me, but not by wiping away the scars. No, it’s taught me to rock them like badges of honor. That heartache, which once felt like an Everest, is now just a valley I’ve crossed—a gritty reminder of what I’m made of.
The crushing despair is behind me now.
It’s a battle I fought, a war I won, proof of my grit.
Each day, I add another stroke to this messy, beautiful canvas of recovery. Another note to the chaotic symphony of my survival. Another chapter to the wild tale of my growth.
My journey kicked off in the middle of a storm, right when a relationship fell apart.
But guess what?
That chaos is where I found my core.
Sifting through the wreckage, I unearthed my stubbornness, my will to keep going. And from the darkest pits of my grief, I stumbled upon the seeds of healing.
Now, I’ve learned to sit with my pain. Not fight it, not hate it—just live with it.
Pain’s not the enemy, it’s the teacher. It’s shown me resilience’s depths, the art of patience, and the quiet beauty of healing that refuses to be rushed.
So here I am, seeing recovery as a journey, not a sprint.
An adventure dotted with wins and setbacks, smooth roads and potholes. It’s not some magical transformation overnight, but a dawn that slowly breaks, light creeping in inch by inch.
It’s not an endgame; it’s a never-ending process—a complex composition of my unbreakable spirit. A story, still being written, of how I came out stronger.
Growing from the Ashes
Today, I’m more than just someone patching up old wounds—I’m persistence wrapped in a person, lighting the way for others on similar paths.
I’m a mosaic, a medley of recovery.
Each dawn isn’t just progress; it’s a leap forward, clawing out of the dark, into the light, note by note, step by step.
And you know what?
There’s comfort in realizing I’m part of something bigger, contributing to this collective tale of human grit.
That ship once lost, aimlessly drifting in a sea of sadness has got a compass now.
I’m not just hanging on—I’m thriving.
Sailing with resilience as my North Star, fueled by hope, steering toward a fresh start.
The journey is ongoing.
The music is still playing.
The mosaic is constantly evolving, sketching out the epic of my recovery.
I’m proud to be the artist, the composer, the captain. I’m the architect of this healing, the voice behind the story, the builder of my own destiny.
To You, I Share This Message
We all carry within us a wild, raw power—one that can rebuild, redefine, and rise from the rubble. Life’s storms may knock us down, sure, but they also carve out the grit buried inside.
That pain. Those challenges.
Are just plot points, not the final chapter.
You, too, can blaze out of the ashes, tougher, brighter, unstoppable.
It’s not about how many times you trip, but how many times you get back up.
Your life’s soundtrack can hit those triumphant notes—if you decide to lead the orchestra. Just like I’ve steered my own course, trust that you’ve got the same fire to chart yours, to pen your own recovery saga, to compose your personal victory anthem.
Own your journey.
It’s yours and yours alone.
Flip your challenges into fuel, turn those roadblocks into stepping stones.
Understand this: your resilience us your secret weapon. Grab it with both hands, and let it guide you—and others—out of the dark.
By celebrating our wins, we light the path for others to find theirs.
Keep moving, keep growing, and remember this: You’re the hero of your story.
Stand tall, thrive, and let your brilliance shine!
—Ryan Puusaari
P.S. Your time and engagement with this edition mean a lot. Every reader adds value to our journey together. Thank you for being here!
P.S.S. "Healing isn’t a sprint; it’s a marathon where every slow mile counts. Pace yourself—no one wins this race by rushing."
Stepping into yourself—bold move. Props to you for that.
But don’t kid yourself; this isn’t a one-and-done deal. It’s a relentless trek inward, and trust me, it never really stops, just shifts and twists with time.
And to give you a hand, here’s something I’m stoked about: the 365-Day Shadow Work Series. Think of it as your deep dive into self—no fluff, just real, raw reflection.
This series doesn’t play around.
It throws you into the thick of it, with pointed questions that push you through the muck of sadness, self-doubt, and grudges.
Every page, crafted to steer you, challenge you, and yeah, maybe even break you open a little. It’s not just a journal—it’s your new ritual in self-discovery.
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