The Enemy You Keep Refusing to Heal

I used to think the problem was everyone else.

My spouse didn't get it. My family didn't understand. My colleagues kept creating drama. If they would just change, if they would just see things differently, everything would be fine.

Turns out, I was looking in the wrong direction.

Here's one of those lessons that lands like a gut punch: Sometimes the enemy isn't "out there." It's the version of yourself you keep refusing to heal.

The Part of You That Keeps Running

We do this thing where we blame everyone around us for the chaos in our lives. We point to our relationships, our work environments, the people who hurt us. And sure, sometimes those situations are genuinely hard. Sometimes people do cause real harm.

But there's a question underneath all of that: Why do I keep choosing this? Why do I keep staying here? Why does this pattern keep showing up in different forms with different people?

The answer usually isn't comfortable.

Because the real enemy—the one doing the most damage—is the unhealed part of you that keeps running. The part that avoids anything that would actually force you to face yourself. The part that would rather blame everyone else than admit you might need to change.

I know this because I've been that person. I've spent years running from the very things that could heal me, convinced that if I just found the right job, the right relationship, the right environment, everything would click into place.

It doesn't work that way.

What Healing Actually Looks Like

Let's talk about what healing isn't.

It's not journaling with your favorite pen in a pretty notebook. It's not meditation retreats and morning affirmations and posting about your growth on Instagram. Those things might be part of your practice, but they're not the healing itself.

Real healing? It's raw. It's painful. It's a slow death to the version of yourself that no longer serves you.

It's looking at the things you've been calling healthy and realizing they're actually just comfortable patterns that keep you stuck.

It's sitting with the grief of letting go of relationships, identities, beliefs that felt like home—even when you know they're holding you back.

It's forgiving yourself for the things you think you should have known. For the situations you believe you should have avoided. For the ways you've hurt yourself and others while you were still figuring it out.

And here's the part nobody tells you: Just because you know something needs to change doesn't make it hurt any less.

You can be completely certain that you need to let go of something and still grieve it deeply. You can understand intellectually why a relationship has to end and still feel gutted by the loss. You can know you're making the right choice and still wake up some mornings wondering if you made a terrible mistake.

That's part of the process. The knowing doesn't protect you from the feeling.

But here's what I've learned: The peace that comes after that kind of grief? It's different. Deeper. The kind that doesn't need everything to be perfect to exist.

The Valley You Have To Walk Through

Becoming who you were called to be isn't a walk in the park.

It's not a smooth upward trajectory with clear mile markers and a finish line you can see from the starting gate.

It's walking through valleys. Sometimes long ones. Valleys of hopelessness where you can't see a way forward. Valleys of helplessness where you realize you can't control your way out of this one. Valleys of isolation where nobody seems to understand what you're going through. Valleys of doubt where you question if any of this is worth it. Valleys of fear where you're terrified you're making the wrong choice. Valleys of frustration where you want to scream because this should be easier by now.

I wish I could tell you there's a shortcut. There isn't.

But here's what happens when you stop running from those valleys and actually walk through them: The pain that tried to take you out becomes someone else's proof that it's possible.

Your story—the messy, hard, unfinished parts of it—becomes the thing that helps someone else take the next step they've been too afraid to take.

Your Healing Is For You, But It's Not About You

I think we've gotten confused about this.

We've bought into this idea that healing is a personal journey, a private thing, something we do for ourselves in isolation. And in one sense, that's true. You can't heal for someone else. Nobody can do this work but you.

But your healing? It's not just for you.

It's about becoming who God needs you to be in this season so that His will—not just your comfort, not just your preferences—actually gets done.

Every time you delay your healing, you're also delaying someone else's breakthrough.

Every time you choose to stay stuck because it's familiar, you're keeping someone else stuck too—because they're waiting for your story, your example, your proof that it's possible to change.

This isn't meant to shame you. I'm not here to pile on more guilt about all the ways you're not measuring up.

But I am here to tell you the truth: Healing is waiting for you. Not to punish you. Not to judge you for how long it's taking.

It's waiting to meet you in your yes.

The Invitation

So here's my question for you:

What are you still blaming on everyone else that might actually be about you?

What pattern keeps showing up that you've been too afraid to face?

What version of yourself are you clinging to because letting go feels like losing yourself entirely?

And what if—just what if—your healing could be the thing that finally breaks the cycle? Not just for you, but for everyone watching your life, waiting to see if change is actually possible.

The enemy isn't out there.

It's the part of you that keeps choosing comfortable dysfunction over painful growth.

And the only way out is through.

Your healing is waiting.

The question is: Are you ready to meet it?

A Final Thought

I'm not writing this from the other side, like I've figured it all out and now I'm here to show you the way.

I'm writing this from the middle of it. From the place where I still catch myself running. Where I still have to choose the hard conversation over the comfortable silence. Where I'm learning—again and again—that being present, intentional, and boundaried isn't something you master. It's something you practice.

So if you're in it right now—in the valley, in the grief, in the hard middle of choosing growth over comfort—you're not alone.

And if this stirred something in you, I'd love to hear about it. What's the thing you've been avoiding that this brought to the surface? You can share in the comments below, or just sit with it. Either way, you're exactly where you need to be.

The healing is waiting.

So am I.

-AG