Embracing the Threshold: Finding Meaning and Possibility Within Our Wounds
We live in a world that often encourages us to “get over it”—to treat trauma and hardship like faulty wiring that must be fixed as quickly and quietly as possible. We’re taught to think of pain as a sign that something is broken within us. And so we hustle for cures, comforting ourselves with images of wholeness and normalcy that promise a life free of suffering. The problem is, life doesn’t really work that way. Trauma is not a problem that can always be solved. Pain is not just a glitch to patch up before returning to “business as usual.” Sometimes the experiences that trouble and unsettle us are also invitations—portals to reimagining who we are, how we belong, and what it means to heal.
This post is about leaning into that invitation. It’s about understanding that our wounds, rather than being burdens we must discard, can become fertile grounds for creativity, growth, and unexpected beauty. Drawing inspiration from cultural thinkers who remind us that there are more ways of knowing than just rational problem-solving, we will explore the idea that pain and disorientation—what some have called entering a “nepantla” or in-between space—can be a necessary crossing. In these crossings, we discover new stories and reshape old identities. We dare to see ourselves as both broken and more than broken, both wounded and capable of transformation.
When Old Maps Fail
We often live by inherited blueprints—clear narratives about who we are, what matters, and how the world works. These narratives can be cultural, personal, familial. They give us guidance, stability, and a sense of direction. We rely on them to avoid chaos. But when trauma strikes, or when we encounter events that shatter our sense of order, these maps fail us. Suddenly, the lines we followed so faithfully disappear. The beliefs we took for granted no longer comfort us. What once felt solid dissolves, leaving us exposed and uncertain.
In this time of instability, we might panic. We might scramble for a quick fix. We might search for a new method, a new practice, a new expert who promises to restore our sense of normalcy. And while seeking help and support can be part of healing, what if we also allowed ourselves time to be lost? What if we acknowledged that we’ve stepped into new territory, a liminal zone where old assumptions can’t guide us?
This liminal space can feel terrifying. It’s like standing at a crossroads without a sign. Yet it is at this very crossroads—this dynamic space of in-between—that new possibilities emerge. Without the weight of old certainties, we can reimagine what “healing” might mean, and we can begin to feel our way forward.
Wounds as Thresholds, Not Mistakes
We live in a culture that tends to treat wounds—whether physical, emotional, or spiritual—as mistakes. Something happened that shouldn’t have, and now we must fix it, erase it, and return to a former state of wholeness. But what if wholeness isn’t about looking the same as before? What if wounds are not evidence of our failure, but markers of our passage through a doorway into deeper complexity?
Think of a beautiful piece of ceramic mended with gold. The cracks in the pottery aren’t concealed; they’re highlighted, turned into something luminous. The piece isn’t restored to its original form but transformed into something entirely new. The scar doesn’t vanish; it becomes meaningful decoration, a reminder that breakage can enrich rather than diminish.
Our personal wounds—traumas, losses, heartbreaks—can serve a similar purpose. Rather than rushing to seal them shut, we might consider what they’re asking of us. Pain might be an invitation to re-examine how we’ve been living, which parts of ourselves we’ve neglected, or what stories we’ve outgrown. The wound can be a threshold into new relationships—with ourselves, with others, with the unseen forces that shape our lives. It can help us recognize that life’s messiness is not something to be overcome once and for all, but something to learn to dance with.
The Power of Imagination and Myth
In times of crisis, we often rely solely on rational thought to “fix” our pain. Logic and analysis have their place, but sometimes what we need is a wider lens, a more intuitive, imaginative approach. So much of what we call “reality” is just one story among many. When old stories fail to comfort us, we can turn to the language of images, dreams, myths, and metaphors. We can explore the landscapes of imagination, where animals talk, ancestors whisper, and old gods dance.
Far from being escapist, engaging with these imaginal realms can help us see our situation differently. A painful experience might feel unbearable if we believe we must handle it alone. But if we imagine that we’re joined by guiding presences—call them ancestors, spirits, inner figures, or archetypes—suddenly we’re not isolated in our suffering. If we dare to see that we’re connected to something larger, something that transcends linear time and literal thinking, we might feel supported as we navigate the unknown.
By approaching our wounds with curiosity—asking what they might symbolize, what stories they carry—we begin to shift our relationship to pain. Instead of viewing trauma as a closed door, we can think of it as an initiation, an ordeal that, while undoubtedly difficult, can also teach us truths we never would have discovered otherwise.
Identity and the Fluid Self
One of the reasons trauma shakes us so profoundly is that it threatens our identity. We think we know who we are, and then something happens—a betrayal, an accident, an illness—and suddenly the person we were no longer fits. We might cling to our old roles and labels, trying desperately to return to them. But maybe part of our suffering comes from that clinging. Perhaps the pain is telling us that we’ve changed, that we can’t go back to the old patterns, and that we need to embrace a more fluid, open-ended sense of self.
In the liminal space of healing, identity can become more like a river than a statue. Instead of seeing ourselves as fixed entities with permanent characteristics, what if we saw ourselves as dynamic processes? We are stories in motion. We are rooted not just in a single culture or lineage but in multiple intersecting histories. We contain contradictions and complexity. The old labels—victim, survivor, helper, hero—might feel too small now. Maybe we need new metaphors, or no metaphors at all.
This doesn’t mean abandoning our pasts. Rather, it means acknowledging that identity is always evolving, always being reshaped by experience. Trauma can help us see that we’re woven into a larger web of relations—ancestral, ecological, spiritual—that defies any simplistic notion of who we are.
Community, Ancestors, and Allies in Healing
In times of deep pain, it’s easy to feel alone. Our culture often isolates suffering, as if it’s a personal failure rather than a communal issue. But healing doesn’t have to be a solitary endeavor. We can look to community—to friends, loved ones, mentors, fellow travelers on the path. We can also look beyond the human realm: to the natural world that holds us, to the creatures who share our ecosystems, to the plants and animals who can become symbols or guides.
It might feel strange, at first, to think of healing in terms of building altars or having conversations with imaginary figures. But these practices tap into something ancient in us. Throughout human history, people have turned to ritual, art, storytelling, and prayer to make sense of suffering. They have recognized that not all problems can be solved by logic alone. Sometimes we need poetry, music, dance, silence, prayer, and dreams.
Allowing ourselves to imagine allies—whether they are ancestors, animal guides, or spiritual beings—can help us feel accompanied. It reminds us that we’re part of a much bigger story than the one that revolves around our pain. And when we feel part of something bigger, hope can seep into even the darkest moments.
The Importance of Slowness and Uncertainty
We live in a culture that prizes certainty, speed, and efficiency. Healing, however, often requires slowness. It asks us to linger in uncertain spaces rather than rushing toward closure. Sometimes the greatest gift we can give ourselves is permission to not know. To not know how long healing will take, to not know exactly what we need, to not know the meaning of our pain yet.
This can be unsettling, especially if we’re used to quick fixes and immediate answers. But uncertainty, while uncomfortable, can also be liberating. It frees us from the pressure to tie everything up neatly. It allows us to remain open to new insights that might arrive unexpectedly—through a dream, a conversation with a friend, a sudden quiet realization that comes while walking in nature.
In this slow, uncertain unfolding, we learn to trust our intuition. We learn to listen to our bodies and hearts, not just our minds. We discover that healing is not a sprint towards some goal line but a careful, attentive journey through shifting landscapes.
Creativity and Rewriting Reality
Trauma disrupts our picture of reality. It can make us question what we believe to be true, just, or stable. While this might feel disorienting, it also presents an opportunity to rewrite the scripts we inherited. If reality is partly composed of the stories we collectively tell, then changing our perspective, changing our narratives, can shift the very ground of our experience.
When we decide to see wounds as potential teachers, to view healing as transformation rather than restoration, we subtly alter what we consider possible. By daring to imagine a future where our pain leads us into greater depth and meaning, we invite that future into being. We practice “as if” thinking—behaving as if new realities are already underway. Over time, these new realities can become tangible, shaping our relationships, communities, and cultures.
This is not to romanticize trauma or suggest that pain is “good.” Pain is pain, and suffering is suffering. But within the crucible of hardship, there can be gifts—unasked for and undesired, but gifts nonetheless. Sometimes it’s only by entering the darkness that we glimpse new constellations of meaning.
Letting Go of Old Definitions of Healing
We may have grown up believing that healing is about returning to “normal.” But what if normal was part of the problem? If our old lives depended on ignoring certain truths, on suppressing certain feelings, on closing ourselves off from wider connections, then maybe “getting back to normal” is not what we truly need.
Instead, we can envision healing as a form of becoming more fully alive. Healing might mean becoming more sensitive, more open to the world’s complexity. It might mean acknowledging our interdependence and caring more deeply for others and the Earth. It might mean facing shadow aspects of ourselves and society, not to judge them harshly but to learn from them.
This understanding of healing doesn’t require us to dismiss the severity of harm or the importance of justice. Rather, it expands our sense of what’s possible. Justice and healing both can be enriched when we realize that we’re not just fixing what’s broken; we’re forging new paths, building new worlds.
Embracing the Mystery
As we walk through the aftermath of trauma, we have choices. We can view ourselves solely as victims or survivors locked into a before-and-after narrative. Or we can also see ourselves as explorers, stepping into a mysterious in-between space, a nepantla, where we shed outdated definitions and discover new ways of being.
This isn’t a linear process. We’ll have days when the old pain flares up, when we wish desperately to return to old certainties. We’ll have nights when all our careful progress seems to vanish into confusion. That’s okay. The process of healing is more like weaving a tapestry than following instructions. We pick up threads of memory, pain, insight, and grace, and we weave them together as best we can.
Over time, we may find that we’ve created something unexpected—an intricate pattern that includes both our wounds and our wonders, both our despair and our delight. This tapestry won’t be perfect, and it won’t end neatly. But it can be rich, honest, and meaningful.
Conclusion: Walking Forward with Courage and Compassion
If you find yourself disoriented by trauma, struggling to understand what healing could possibly mean, remember that you are not alone. Many have walked this path before, and many are walking it now. There are guides and companions all around: in the words of writers and thinkers who encourage us to open up to the unknown, in the caring presence of trusted friends or therapists, in the quiet wisdom of nature.
Give yourself permission to slow down, to imagine, to question old stories. Let the wound breathe. It might teach you something invaluable. Allow yourself to be surprised by what emerges in the in-between spaces. Healing need not be a frantic race back to a lost innocence; it can be a brave journey into the heart of complexity. In that complexity, you may discover a wholeness that isn’t about erasing scars but about finding meaning within them, allowing new forms of beauty and connection to take root.
When we embrace this understanding, trauma no longer stands as a final verdict on who we are. Instead, it can become a portal—messy, painful, but also generative—leading us toward deeper authenticity and expanded horizons of the possible.
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References and Further Reading:
Akomolafe, B. (2017). These wilds beyond our fences: Letters to my daughter on humanity’s search for home. North Atlantic Books.
Anzaldúa, G. (2020). Light in the dark/Luz en lo oscuro: Rewriting identity, spirituality, reality (A. Keating, Ed.). Duke University Press.
Chödrön, P. (1997). When things fall apart: Heart advice for difficult times. Shambhala Publications.
Gutiérrez, F., & Hernández, R. D. (Eds.). (2011). Decolonizing epistemologies: Latina/o theology and philosophy. Fordham University Press.
Hollis, J. (2020). Living between worlds: Finding personal resilience in changing times. Sounds True.
Levine, P. A. (1997). Waking the tiger: Healing trauma. North Atlantic Books.
Solnit, R. (2005). A field guide to getting lost. Penguin Books.
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