Why Healing Feels Like Dying First

 Before rebirth comes buffering.

The nervous system doesn’t know the difference between transformation and threat, it just screams. That’s its job. To survive whatever you’re trying to outgrow.

Healing isn’t soft light and background music. It’s the body calling an emergency meeting with every buried memory that thought it got away. When you start changing, those old versions of you panic, because you’re killing their oxygen supply.

Every time you stop pleasing, apologizing, or pretending, an identity dies. And your mind will hold a funeral for it, complete with anxiety, doubt, and the sudden urge to text your ex.

That’s the paradox no one tells you about “healing”: you don’t ascend, you decompose.

 

 The Death Phase.

You’ll think you’re regressing.
You’ll think you’ve lost your progress, your peace, your purpose.
But what’s really dying is your tolerance for distortion.

Your body starts rejecting fake safety, old coping mechanisms, familiar chaos, performative happiness.
You can’t go back to illusion once you’ve tasted the unbearable clarity of truth.

And clarity burns.

It kills every comfort that was quietly killing you.

 

 The Rebirth Glitch.

When the snake sheds its skin, it goes blind for a while.
That’s the part people edit out of the transformation montage, the blindness.
The disorientation. The “what the hell am I becoming” stage.

But that blindness is sacred.
It’s your nervous system recalibrating to a new frequency of reality, one that doesn’t need defending.

You are not dying.
You’re just debugging a lifetime of emotional malware.