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The Machine
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How It Heals
It does not heal
by choosing the right person
or learning the right language
or finally being unafraid.
It heals more quietly than that.
It heals when the body learns
that closeness can arrive
without catastrophe.
Not all at once.
Not convincingly.
Just enough to be noticed.
It heals when the impulse to run
is met with curiosity
instead of shame.
When the freeze is allowed
to finish its sentence.
It heals in the presence
of someone who does not rush the fear
or make it mean too much.
Someone who can stay
without gripping,
who can leave
without disappearing.
The nervous system is not persuaded
by insight.
It is educated by repetition:
a voice that stays steady,
a boundary that does not punish,
repair that actually happens.
It heals when rupture is survived.
When the world does not end
after a misstep.
When anger is expressed
and connection returns.
Slowly, the body updates its math.
Approach no longer equals danger
every time.
Distance no longer equals abandonment
every time.
The loop loosens.
The scanning softens.
Choice reappears
where reflex once lived.
And one day, without ceremony,
you notice you stayed.
Or you left without self-erasure.
Or you asked for what you needed
without bracing for punishment.
This is healing.
Not the absence of fear,
but the presence of capacity.
Not safety guaranteed,
but safety possible.
Not a cure.
A relationship with the pattern
that no longer runs the room.
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