Why Healing Feels like a Fight: On Grief, Boundaries, and Emotional Whiplash

The Messy Middle of Healing, Grieving, and Moving Forward

There’s a funny thing about healing—it doesn’t come with a clear set of instructions. No one hands you a roadmap when your life cracks wide open and demands to be rebuilt. It’s messy, nonlinear, and full of surprises—like crying on two back-to-back nights over a divorce I’ve wanted for so long, I thought I’d feel nothing but relief once it was finally happening.

I’ve spent 31 years suppressing emotions, and now it feels like all those tears are coming out at once—grief for my marriage, for the person I thought I was supposed to be, for the life I thought I was building. Grief for the time I poured into a relationship built on lies—not malicious lies, but the lies we told ourselves about who we were and what we wanted. And grief, too, for the moments I let myself shrink to keep the peace.

But tonight, I hit a wall. After days of supporting Alex through his own storm of emotions—his gender dysphoria, his transition, the mental and physical changes he’s navigating—I finally had a moment where I needed reassurance. Just a simple, “Are we okay?” Nothing loaded, nothing dramatic. But his response? “I’m not responsible for taking care of your emotions anymore.”

It felt like a slap in the face.

Grief’s Companion: Anger
I don’t even know what I’m angrier about:

That I’ve been here for everything—for all his spirals, confusion, self-discovery—and the one time I needed a crumb of emotional grounding, he pulled back?
That he kept me in a marriage under false pretenses for months, insisting we stay together while he processed his identity, only to now draw some moral high ground about emotional independence?
Or that I let myself pour so much energy into keeping things stable for him when I was drowning in my own grief?
I’ve been Alex’s anchor through all of this, but now that the tables have turned, it’s apparently “not his responsibility” to offer me the same? What the actual hell?

Healing Feels Like a Fight
Here’s the kicker: I get why Alex said it. He’s drawing boundaries to protect himself during a messy transition, and maybe I triggered some fear in him about slipping back into emotional dependence. But understanding it doesn’t make it hurt any less. Boundaries are necessary—but they can also sting when they’re placed clumsily, especially after years of shared emotional weight.

What I’ve realized tonight is this: healing isn’t just about grieving the big, obvious things, like a marriage or a faith system. It’s about grieving the small, invisible things, too—the tiny betrayals, the times you put yourself last, the moments when someone’s words hit you like a wrecking ball, not because they’re wrong, but because they scrape against an old wound you didn’t realize was still tender.

The Emotional Whiplash of Moving On
This divorce is complicated. It’s not just the end of a marriage—it’s the dismantling of an entire identity. For years, I was a Mormon wife and mom, trying to fit myself into a role I didn’t choose. Now, I’m unraveling it all, piece by piece, and learning who I really am outside of the church, outside of this marriage, outside of the expectations that were forced on me. It feels like performing brain surgery on myself—painful, disorienting, and terrifying.

I’ve been holding so much grief, anger, and love all at once. I’m allowed to be pissed at Alex while still respecting his journey. I’m allowed to grieve this marriage even though I want it to end. And I’m allowed to sit here, raw and messy, knowing that I’m doing the best I can to process it all.

Healing feels like a fight, but I’m learning that it’s not about fighting for a past I’ve already lost. It’s about fighting for the person I’m becoming—and for the life I want to create moving forward.

Closing Thoughts
Tonight wasn’t just about Alex’s comment or my reaction. It was a reminder that this process is going to hurt, sometimes in unexpected ways. But the pain is temporary. What comes after—the clarity, the freedom, the self-acceptance—is worth fighting for.

If you’re in the thick of your own messy, nonlinear healing process, know this: it’s okay to feel everything at once. It’s okay to be angry and sad and hopeful all in the same breath. And it’s okay to give yourself grace when the tears won’t stop falling. You’re not alone in this.