The Confessions of an Unhealed Healer

A raw reflection on the paradox of guiding others while still finding your own way

Would it shock you to hear that I still struggle to feel safe in my own body, in my own nervous system and in my own life?

Would you believe that even after 15 years of breathwork, plant medicine and mentors, I’m still unravelling the old stories, beliefs, and patterns that keep me playing small at times?

Would you understand if I told you that some days I don’t want to get out of bed, that I wake up feeling anxious and constricted? That even after years of teaching others to breathe through discomfort, I sometimes forget to breathe myself?

The irony is that I’ve helped thousands of people across the world dissolve trauma and access profound states of peace, clarity and freedom.

I’ve held people as they released lifetimes of pain and let go of the wounds that once defined them.

I’ve witnessed bodies soften, breaths deepen and souls remember what it means to be free.

And yet, within myself, I’ve only touched that same level of liberation a handful of times, fleeting moments of pure relaxation before the old tension and constriction return. It lives in my shoulders, in the tightening of my solar plexus and in the part of me that still doesn’t fully trust it’s safe to let go.

For years, my body tried to speak to me through chronic inflammation and psoriasis that would flare whenever I was pushing too hard or holding too much. My skin became the mirror of my inner world, revealing everything I tried to hide.

Beneath the surface was a lifetime of unprocessed emotion: heartbreaks I never fully grieved, dark nights where I questioned my existence and moments of depression that left me numb and disconnected.

The truth is, I’m still learning how to be human. I’m continuing to peel back the layers, remove the masks, release the control mechanisms and take off the emotional armor I built to survive.

Some days feel expansive; others, I’m barely hanging on. Some mornings I wake up inspired and open-hearted, others I scroll my phone just to avoid myself.

For a long time, I felt like an imposter. I thought I had to be “healed” before I could help others and that to lead meant to have arrived.

But what I’ve come to understand is that the real journey of any healer is teaching and sharing what we’re still learning to embody ourselves. We often become masters at helping others get transformation while struggling to find it ourselves. We guide people into wholeness, yet forget that our own cracks are part of what make us human and holy. It’s easy to forget that healing isn’t a title we earn, it’s a relationship we keep returning to.

The Wounded Healer Archetype

Carl Jung called it the Wounded Healer, the one who discovers their ability to heal through their own suffering.

At first, I resisted that truth. I wanted to outgrow my wounds, transcend them, rise above them. But the further I walked this path, the more I realized: our pain isn’t something to fix or escape, it’s something to understand, to integrate, to love.

The wound becomes the doorway.
The scar becomes the teacher.
The challenge becomes the gift.

To be in integrity with your work doesn’t mean you’ve healed everything; it means you’re walking your talk, meeting your own shadows with honesty, courage, and compassion.

It’s the willingness to meet yourself again and again, in the joy and the mess, the expansion and the contraction, the divine and the human.

So if you’re someone who feels the call to teach and guide others, but you still doubt yourself because you’re not “there” yet, let this be your permission slip to serve.

Because it’s not your perfection that heals, it’s your presence.

Know that authenticity is your medicine and your willingness to walk beside others, even while you’re still finding your own way, is what makes you a true healer.

Reflection Questions

Take a moment to sit with and journal these questions:

1. Where in my life am I still waiting to feel “ready” before sharing my gifts?

2. What would shift if I trusted that exactly as I am right now, is enough?

3. How might my own tenderness become part of the medicine I bring to the world?

Drop a line below and let me know your thoughts.