The Three D’s of Healing: A Trail Through Your Own Becoming

You arrive here first.
Maybe without even realizing it.

The trail is foggy.
Visibility is limited.
You tell yourself you’re fine.
That it wasn’t that bad.
You push forward, but find yourself walking in circles, disoriented and tired.

You’re not failing.
You’re waking up.

Imagine this…

You’re sitting at the kitchen table, staring at your coffee, telling yourself it was just a bad night.
Everyone fights sometimes.
It’s normal, right?

Even though the way they shouted at you — the way they threw those cruel words across the room like knives —
left you feeling two inches tall.

Even though you woke up with that heavy, sinking feeling in your chest.
The kind of feeling you can’t quite name — but you know it doesn’t feel like love.

Still, you scroll your phone.
You pour another cup of coffee.
You smile for the neighbors.
You tell yourself it’s fine.

Because it’s easier to call it a bad night than it is to call it what it really was.

Denial doesn’t always shout.
Sometimes it whispers:

“It’s not that bad.”
“They didn’t mean it.”
“Everyone has flaws.”
“Maybe I’m just too sensitive.”

You’re not lying to yourself because you’re weak.
You’re lying to yourself because you’re trying to survive.

You are not broken for not wanting to see.
You are not foolish for wishing it was better than it was.

But there comes a moment —
a quiet, holy moment —
when the small voice inside you grows too loud to ignore.

When the fog begins to thin.
When the truth begins to rise.

And when it does, your healing challenge will be this:

To see clearly.
To let truth rise to the surface, even if it stings.
Not to punish yourself — but to free yourself.

“Reality is what it is. You can’t change it by denying it.”
— John Allison

John Allison, former CEO of BB&T and a passionate advocate for truth in personal development, believed that self-deception was one of the greatest barriers to freedom.

It takes courage to face the truth —
but truth is the beginning of traction.
It’s the first unsteady, sacred step toward your own becoming.

And once you begin to see,
the fog begins to lift.

Dwelling Falls Overlook

You clear the fog — and you find… breathtaking beauty.

A shimmering lake.
A glorious waterfall.
Wildflowers swaying in a golden haze.

It’s easy to sit here.
Easy to stay.
You find a bench. You breathe. You relive. You replay.
You dwell.

At first, it seems harmless.
You’re just thinking it through, you tell yourself.
You’re trying to make sense of it all.

But dwelling has a way of setting emotional traps you don’t even realize you’ve stepped into.

You find yourself replaying conversations —
Scenes that hurt you.
Scenes that embarrassed you.
Moments you wish you could erase or rewrite.

It’s not always because you want the person back.
Sometimes it’s the opposite.
Maybe you wouldn’t take them back even if they came begging.
Maybe you know, deep down, that walking away was the right thing.

And yet… the mental movie keeps playing.
Without your permission.
Without your desire.

You wonder why you can’t seem to control your own thoughts.
You tell yourself:
“I don’t care anymore.”
“They can do whatever they want.”
“It’s over.”

But your mind keeps dragging you back into the old scenes anyway — analyzing, dissecting, overthinking every little detail of how it all went wrong.

You start questioning yourself.
“Why can’t I let this go?”
“Am I losing my mind?”

You’re not.

You’re just caught in the gravity well of dwelling —
A place where pain loops, memories stick, and your heart keeps trying to solve a puzzle that cannot be solved.

Sometimes, the trap isn’t about anger at all.
It’s about hope —
The dangerous kind.

You might find yourself stuck in a fantasy:
Maybe they’ll come back. Maybe it’ll work this time. Maybe they’ve changed.

And sometimes, it’s the heart-wrenching guilt that chains you there:
If only I had said it differently.
If only I had been better, calmer, more loving… then maybe they wouldn’t have hurt me.

This is especially true if you loved someone who was emotionally abusive or narcissistic.
They trained you to believe every explosion was your fault.
That if you just apologized the right way, if you just bent far enough, gave enough, bled enough —
it would all go back to calm, to love, to peace.

But in reality?
Even if you gave your very last ounce of yourself — it still would never be enough for them.

Dwelling traps you in these old loops.
Not because you’re weak.
Not because you’re broken.
But because you cared deeply.
Because you wanted it to mean something.
Because your mind is trying — desperately — to make sense of something senseless.

You are not crazy.
You are not broken.

You’re just sitting at the overlook too long.

And eventually, there will come a moment when you realize:
The view was never meant to be the destination.

It’s time to rise.
And step back onto the trail.

Developing Ridge Trailhead

One day, you rise.

You brush the grass from your hands.
You take a breath.
You step back onto the trail.

The air is clearer here.
The trail curves upward, unfolding into a wide, open ridge.
From here, you see possibilities: valleys, rivers, mountains, and endless ways forward.

You notice the trail is easier to walk now.
The path widens.
The colors are brighter.
The sky feels bigger.
You start to hear the birds singing again.

Signs of life surround you —
and for the first time in a long time,
you realize you’re not surviving anymore.
You’re beginning to live again.

Perhaps you’re reading books like Power vs. Force by Dr. David Hawkins,
or listening to one of Dr. Wayne Dyer’s messages on audio.
Maybe you spend quiet time in prayer, devotion, and reflection,
reading your Bible and letting its truths strengthen your spirit.

Whatever your development path looks like,
you are taking steps to grow daily —
and that is a beautiful, sacred place to be.

Healing doesn’t end here.
It stretches forward, over the next rise, and the one after that.

And along the way,
you might find yourself becoming the kind and loving soul
who leaves quiet notes along the trail —
small encouragements left behind for others who will pass through after you.
Whispers of hope.
Signs that say:
“You’re doing better than you think.”
“You’re not alone here.”
“Keep going — it’s worth it.”

Because you’ll remember what it felt like to walk through the fog.
You’ll remember what it felt like to dwell too long at the overlook.
And you’ll know just how precious it is to keep moving.

No benches now.
No guilt, no shame.
Just quiet strength.
And a path that belongs to you.

You remember the sign reads:

Developing Ridge Trailhead
“Your Story Is Still Unfolding.”

You realize:
Healing isn’t a finish line.
It’s a lifelong unfolding.
An invitation to grow, to choose, to become.

If you’re looking for additional inspiration as you continue your journey,
consider checking out our Recommended Reading List
or exploring our Mini Course Offerings designed to support and strengthen your path.

You Are Here.

Wherever you find yourself today — fog, falls, or on the high ridge of development —
You’re not alone.

Every step you take is part of your healing.
Every breath, every realization, every small forward inch matters.

Your story isn’t over.
It’s still unfolding.
And it’s yours to write.