Price Of Admission

Pain’s the price of admission, not a punishment. You’ll pay either way—might as well learn something through the hurting. Just make sure it buys you something worth keeping.

Some pain doesn’t start with you—but it sure as hell tries to end with you. Family pain has a way of sneaking in quiet, like background static you were raised in. You don’t even realize you’re carrying it until you’re halfway through a reaction that doesn’t match the moment. The shame, the silence, the addiction, the anger—they get passed down like heirlooms. Generational ghosts dressed up as personality traits. But just because it ran in the family doesn’t mean it gets to run you.

We like to think pain is optional—something we can sidestep if we just behave well enough, plan smart enough, or play by the rules. But pain doesn’t negotiate. It shows up whether you’ve earned it or not, and it collects its toll on your heart, your body, your belief in yourself. And when you’ve inherited pain that wasn’t even yours to begin with, it hits different. But here’s the thing: if you’re going to hurt anyway, don’t waste it. Don’t hand that kind of currency over without getting something real in return. Pain will empty you—but it can also clear the space for truth, for grit, for whatever the hell it is you were always meant to uncover. You don’t get to skip the fire, but you do get to decide what you carry out of it. And if all it teaches you is how to feel again—how to stop running from your own damn soul—maybe that’s enough.

#actuallyican #recovery #traumahealing #mentalhealth