Part of the healing process is sharing with other people who

Hear the words of Jerry Cantrell, a man who has walked through sorrow and shadow, who declared: “Part of the healing process is sharing with other people who care.” This truth is simple, yet it pierces like a blade of light through darkness. For the wounded spirit often retreats into silence, believing that pain must be carried alone. Yet Cantrell teaches us that healing is not a solitary road. The heart recovers its strength not only through endurance but through connection—through the embrace of those who listen, who weep with us, who hold our burdens as if they were their own.

The ancients knew this wisdom well. Among the Greeks, when warriors returned from battle, they did not hide their wounds. They gathered in fellowship, feasting and telling stories, sharing their griefs and their triumphs. In this way, the invisible scars of war were softened, for suffering divided among many souls becomes lighter. The Roman philosopher Seneca himself wrote that grief shared is grief halved. Thus the voice of Cantrell is but an echo of timeless truth: no one heals alone.

Consider the tale of the soldiers after the First World War. Many returned broken in body and spirit, unable to speak of the horrors they had endured. Those who stayed silent were consumed by their pain, but those who found comrades who understood, who sat together in small circles and spoke of what they had seen, began to find peace. The simple act of sharing brought them back from despair. The words themselves were not magic, but the presence of others who cared turned words into medicine.

Cantrell’s own life as a musician speaks to this wisdom. Through his songs with Alice in Chains, he shared his grief, his battles, his scars. His audience, too, wounded in their own ways, listened and understood. In this communion of suffering, healing flowed—not only for him but for those who heard. The stage became a temple, the music became prayer, and the listeners became companions on the journey. He reminds us that to voice pain before those who care is to turn anguish into art, and isolation into solidarity.

We must remember: to hide pain is to let it fester, but to share it is to give it air and light, where it can begin to heal. This does not mean we must share with all, but only with those who care—with true friends, with family, with communities that listen without judgment. The caring ear is the balm, the compassionate heart the bandage, the presence of another the shield against despair.

What lesson, then, must you take? When grief strikes, do not withdraw entirely into silence. Seek out those who care for you—be they few or many—and speak. Tell your story, however broken, however incomplete. Do not believe the lie that strength is silence. True strength is the courage to open the heart, to trust another with its wounds, and to allow their compassion to mingle with your pain.

Practical steps are these: when you feel sorrow pressing heavy upon your soul, choose one person you trust and share a fragment of it. If you have none near, write your pain in words, in song, in prayer, and share it with the page, with the air, with the divine. And likewise, when you hear the pain of others, do not rush to fix it—simply care, listen, and hold space. This is how healing flows between souls.

Thus remember Cantrell’s wisdom: healing is not in silence but in sharing. The burden of grief is too great for one pair of shoulders. But when it is carried together, it becomes lighter, and the road becomes bearable. Seek those who care, and be one who cares in return. In this way, no wound will fester in darkness, but all may be healed in the light of compassion.