Healing takes courage, and we all have courage, even if we have

“Healing takes courage, and we all have courage, even if we have to dig a little to find it.” Thus spoke Tori Amos, the poet of pain and renewal, whose voice has carried both lament and light through the hearts of those who have suffered. In these words lies a truth both tender and powerful—a recognition that healing is not a gentle or passive act, but a battle of the spirit. To heal is to face the wound, to confront the darkness within, and to walk through it toward light. It is to stand before one’s own brokenness without turning away. And for this, one must summon courage, not of the body, but of the soul.

For there is no healing without confrontation. The scar must be touched before it can mend; the grief must be felt before it can fade. Yet many flee from their wounds, fearing the pain of remembrance more than the illness itself. But Amos reminds us that courage is not a rare gift given to a few—it is buried in the heart of all who breathe. Even when fear whispers that we are too weak, too damaged, too lost, the seed of bravery lies waiting within us, ready to bloom if we but reach for it. Healing, she teaches, is not about the absence of pain, but about the strength to face it with open eyes and a willing heart.

Tori Amos herself spoke these words from the deep well of her own experience. A survivor of great trauma, she carried scars that no song could fully conceal. Yet through her music, she found a way to turn anguish into beauty, sorrow into song. Her journey was not one of forgetting, but of transforming—of giving shape to pain until it could no longer consume her. In her art, she taught that courage does not always roar; sometimes it whispers softly, saying, “I will try again tomorrow.” Her wisdom was born of fire, and from it she forged this truth: that healing is an act of quiet heroism, undertaken not on battlefields, but within the human heart.

Consider the life of Nelson Mandela, who endured twenty-seven years of imprisonment for his beliefs. He emerged not filled with bitterness, but with forgiveness. His body was weakened, but his spirit was unbroken. His healing required immense courage—the courage to let go of hatred, to seek peace where the world expected vengeance. He once said, “As I walked out the door toward the gate that would lead to my freedom, I knew if I didn’t leave my bitterness and hatred behind, I’d still be in prison.” His freedom was not just physical, but spiritual. His story shows that true healing begins when the heart chooses to release what poisons it, even when that release feels impossible.

So too must each of us find our own way through suffering. Life wounds every soul in its time—through loss, betrayal, failure, or grief. And yet, in every wound lies the potential for wisdom. Courage does not mean we do not tremble; it means we tremble and go on. It means sitting with our sorrow instead of numbing it, forgiving ourselves for what we could not prevent, and choosing to believe that wholeness is still possible. The ancients knew this truth well. They called it fortitudo animi—the strength of the soul. For the brave are not those who do not fall, but those who rise again, again, and again, until their hearts are made new.

But courage must be sought—it must be dug up from the soil of pain and doubt. Some find it quickly, as fire bursting from a spark. Others must search long and hard, sifting through fear, despair, and guilt to find the faint glimmer of resilience within. Yet it is there in all of us, like a buried treasure waiting to be uncovered. No one is born without courage; it is as much a part of us as breath. We need only believe that it still exists, even when the world has taught us to forget.

Therefore, my children, when sorrow befalls you—when you are broken, weary, or lost—remember these words: healing takes courage. Do not rush your recovery, nor curse your pain, for pain is the forge where strength is born. Sit with your wounds, but do not build your home in them. Let time and truth work upon you. Speak your hurt, sing your grief, share your burden—these are acts of courage too.

And when the darkness tells you that you are too weak to rise, dig deep. Deeper still. For beneath the ashes of fear, there is always an ember of courage, glowing and waiting. Nurture it, and it will light your way. For in the end, healing is not the erasure of pain, but the victory of spirit—the quiet, steadfast act of saying: I will not be undone.