 “I don’t dwell on it.” I often find myself thinking about my grandmother’s signature phrase. Grandma went through a lot in life – the Great Depression, WWII, and all the armed conflicts in between. She outlived seven of her fifteen children. When we asked how she coped, she simply said: “I don’t dwell on it.” Her words became my primary coping mechanism. When pain whispered, I refused to dwell on it, ignoring my tears and the feelings that went with them. I thought I knew her secret to strength: shove things aside and keep moving. Race ahead and pretend it didn’t happen. Refuse to dwell on it. But then life caught up with me. Traumatic memories played on an endless loop in my mind, storming my mind and heart like a mighty army. I realized that I had not only started to dwell on them, but to dwell in them. I finally had to deal with my pain. Healing made its way through my carefully curated collection of secret wounds, and strength surged through me. I realized Grandma had refused to dwell on things; I had refused to deal with them. I am learning to allow myself to feel the hurt when it hits because I know strength does not come from arbitrary barricades but from enforcing guardianship of my heart and mind. I now see that, while pain has been trying to invade, my God, my loved ones and my own strength have stood outside too, ready to help me fight if I would only let them in. I am now striving to be the kind of person who deals with pain but who abides under the shadow of the Almighty, and who dwells among those who are amazing enough to love me through it.
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