A few months ago, a new-to-me singer/songwriter popped up on my Instagram feed and captivated me with his music. The post was just a few bars of a song that was both hauntingly beautiful and lyrically profound, and I blinked back unexpected tears as I listened again and again. Under normal circumstances, I find music to be a singularly powerful and transportive force, but this song hit me in the solar plexus—a punch of emotion that cracked me wide open.
It wasn’t until after I had listened to most of his tracks and scrolled through his social media feeds that I could admit the draw of Mon Rovîa for me went far beyond the ethereal lilt of his songs. This twenty-something folk singer who has branded his own genre of music (Afro-Appalachian—a bridge between his homeland, Liberia, and his new home of Tennessee), ticks so many boxes on my unique life-list it’s not even funny.
Liberia ✔️
Adoption ✔️
Loss ✔️
Faith ✔️
West African music and culture ✔️
Hope ✔️
Healing ✔️
When I discovered that Mon Rovîa would be in concert just two hours away from my hometown, I knew I had to go. I also know I would probably sob through the entire concert. Spoiler alert: I did. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I stood just a few feet from the stage while he sang:
open up your eyes down to the bone * when pain is gone and grace is calling you home
But I wasn’t the only one. I had tissues in my purse and passed them around while my fellow concert-goers cried with me. How appropriate that the tour is called: Heal with Others. I think we did.
My healing journey is my own, just like you get to walk your own crooked road. But as I was reflecting on the concert this weekend and trying to metabolize the hope that seeped into my skin in the sacred space of that dive bar turned simultaneously concert hall and therapist’s couch, I came face-to-face with three lies that I have spent most of my life believing. It felt so good to write them down and cross them off—literally, on the back of my church bulletin, and metaphorically as I left them in the dust of my own long, winding, and often broken pilgrimage to peace. Maybe something here will resonate with you.
Lies We Believe About Mending the Broken
Heal Thyself… is the only acceptable form of healing. Anything else is weakness.
Bootstrap theology (as in: “buck-up, Buttercup” and “just muscle through” and “fake it ‘til you make it” and, of course, “pull yourself up by your bootstraps”) is the best and only way to fix whatever has splintered inside. This is a singular, solitary journey that you must muster the strength to undertake on your own, somehow managing to play every part yourself: wounded and healer—as well as everything in between. If you choose to see someone (a counselor, therapist, doctor, or pastor), please don’t talk about it. Or if you do, expect that opinions will abound, and accepting help will diminish you in irrevocable (and irreparable) ways.
Heal in Secret… is the only way to endure heartache and make it to the other side with relationships intact. Yes, of course, friends and family will be supportive when the bad news breaks and the wound is fresh, but as it refuses to heal, you can’t possibly expect them to stick around while your pain festers. It’s gross and messy. Exhausting. “Thoughts and prayers” from a safe distance are much nicer than witnessing the ooze up close, so you will always be better off pretending that you’re on the road to fine and not slowly bleeding out beneath the wreckage. Sadness is a secret best kept to yourself.
Heal Before… well, anything and everything. Heal before you laugh again, love again, try again. Before you take a risk or step outside of your comfort zone or make a potentially life-altering decision. Because you are in a scorched-earth season, nothing good can grow—so don’t try to cultivate even a square inch of it. If you do, you will always wonder if whatever sprouts is tainted by the bitter root of suffering that marred your whole world during that interminable era. And if you do dare to try, you will feel crippling guilt that in the midst of such hurt you could crack a smile, feel joy, find beauty. It’s best to get the healing out of the way before you dare to live again.
Hear me well: these lies I believed were not thrust upon me by others. The people who have surrounded me during difficult seasons in my life have always responded with kindness and grace that has never failed to astound me. And yet. I’m a forty-something grown-up woman who still has to daily deconstruct the lies I’ve somehow convinced myself to believe. It defies understanding. Maybe you can relate.
I bought a t-shirt at the Mon Rovîa concert that simply says: Heal With Others. It’s not a grand statement and it certainly doesn’t need explanation. It’s just three little words that act as a reminder and a catalyst. Sometimes healing together might look like answering honestly when someone asks: “How are you?” Or it might mean making that appointment, taking your mask off with a friend, asking for help. Sometimes it translates into crying in a dark room with a bunch of strangers—and once again leaving with the knowledge that we are, and always will be, better together.
Thanks for reading. xoxo - Nicole
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I love this, Nicole. It touched my heart deeply. Because what is the best thing we can do, but help each other heal. Thank you.
Really beautiful Nichole. Thanks for sharing your journey with the world.