When the Healer Loves
There are moments in life
where we glimpse something, or someone,
that awakens us.
Not because they are ours,
but because they remind us
of what we carry,
what we’ve healed,
what we’re still learning to love.
This is a meditation on that kind of encounter:
where attraction becomes a mirror,
and restraint becomes a form of devotion.
There is something maddening and miraculous about attraction.
When presence meets presence,
and you feel the invisible thread tighten between two gazes.
Not with words.
Not with logic.
But with some ancient knowing.
Yesterday evening,
my eyes met his,
and for a flicker of a moment that was also eternity,
I felt him feel me.
The twitch in his eye said it all.
Not flirtation.
Not play.
But that raw spark that lives somewhere
between curiosity and hunger.
I felt it like a rush in my bloodstream,
like time bent itself around us,
like my entire body leaned in
without moving a muscle.
That’s the thing.
It stirred me.
His presence stirred these quiet fires,
dormant, maybe, for years
as if something inside me had been waiting
for this particular kind of ignition.
But I can’t name it.
I don’t even think I want to.
It wasn’t his words.
There weren’t many.
It wasn’t anything obvious.
But in that moment,
it was like my soul recognized his.
Something passed between us:
wordless and invisible,
but unmistakable.
Neither of us really understood what was happening.
I’m not sure we had the emotional language
or awareness to decipher it.
But it didn’t matter.
The moment held its own weight.
It felt sacred in its not-knowing.
And then,
somehow,
our hands met.
In a magnetic choreography,
as if our palms remembered something
our minds had long forgotten.
Skin to skin.
Just once.
Just enough to send a hush
through the noise.
I still can’t name the captivating force about him.
Not exactly.
Only that his silence felt loud,
like something unfinished,
like a story I already knew the ending to,
even though we’d barely spoken.
It wasn’t his physique
or even the gravity of his complex mind,
though there was something magnetic
in the way he carried it.
It was the ache beneath it.
The unsaid.
The flicker in his gaze
that didn’t reach for me,
but somehow reached into me.
And maybe that’s what soul recognition really is.
Not certainty,
but a sudden ignition.
A quickening in the blood.
A fire that’s less about them,
and more about the parts of you they awaken.
Because something unspoken
lit up inside me.
Something wild and ancient.
Something I thought I had buried,
or integrated,
or outgrown.
But there it was:
the pulse of longing,
the ache to merge,
the hunger to offer,
to pour myself
into the hollow places
of someone else.
But then came the wave of knowing
the kind of knowing only a healer understands.
Because I saw more than his beauty.
I saw his ache.
His ache spoke in silence.
His ache called out in frequencies
only my nervous system understands.
Because I have carried that ache.
I have held it.
Tamed it.
Learned it like a language.
Mastered it into art.
And here is the great cosmic trick:
When you are a healer
who has made peace with your wounds,
you don’t just see pain in others.
You feel summoned by it.
Drawn to it.
As if loving them better
could somehow rewrite your own history.
But I know better now.
I know love is not healing someone.
Love is not fixing someone.
Love is presence.
Love is God.
And God does not interfere.
Love includes everything.
It is not light over shadow.
It is shadow wrapped in light.
It is seeing someone’s brokenness,
and bowing to its timing.
But how do I hold that line?
How do I love someone’s becoming
without shaping it?
How do I not offer the medicine
when it sits ready in my palm,
and I know it could ease the edge
of what’s ahead for them?
That is the division
between my ego
and my higher self.
The ego whispers:
You are here to help.
You can guide him.
You have the tools.
Look how close he is
to cracking open.
But higher awareness
she reminds me:
Healing cannot be forced.
Timelines are sacred.
To interfere with someone’s process
is still control,
even if it wears the costume of compassion.
And so,
I am learning a more courageous love.
The love that holds without holding on.
The love that witnesses without rescuing.
The love that allows someone to stay
messy and unfinished,
without making their chaos
a project.
I am learning that sometimes
the attraction is not about them.
It is about me.
The part of me ready to receive.
The part of me that longs to be seen
the way I see others.
The part of me that wants to be loved
without earning it.
Without guiding anyone back to themselves
in exchange.
This dance between us may never bloom.
Or it may bloom into something
I cannot yet imagine.
But its gift
is already rooted in me.
That is gratifying.
And rapturously delicious.
It is showing me how far I’ve come.
How deeply I feel.
How much I trust my intuition.
How ready I am
to love
without needing to lead.
I wonder how many of us
have stood in this place.
This in-between.
Where your soul says yes,
but your wisdom says wait.
Where you feel the pulse of potential,
and yet bow to the art of patience.
To the lovers,
the healers,
the space holders,
the ones who see into the cracks of others,
I say this:
You do not need to shape someone into their healing.
You do not need to prove your love
by sacrificing your boundaries.
You do not need to collapse
into the ache of their becoming.
Your presence,
your stillness,
your own healing
is enough.
Let love be an invitation,
not an intervention.
Let love be a quiet flame,
not a wildfire.
And if they rise,
if they rise into themselves
and meet you there
with open eyes and open hands,
then may that be holy.
But if they do not,
let that be holy too.
You are not here to save them.
You are here to stay true
to the sacred path
of your own becoming.
And sometimes,
that is the highest form of love
there is.