The Myth of Being Broken
Let’s challenge the idea that pain means you’re damaged
They say pain changes you—but I’ve learned it doesn’t have to define you.
In my early twenties, I walked out of a hospital with an ileostomy bag, recovering from months of severe ulcerative colitis, an inflammatory bowel disease I could no longer ignore. Everything about me felt unfamiliar—my body, my limits, my place in the world.
At a gas station on the way home, a fleeting glance at a good-looking stranger triggered something deeper than embarrassment or vulnerability. For a split second, I heard my mind tell me I was no longer the kind of woman who could be wanted.
But almost as quickly, another voice kicked in—stronger, clearer.
I will never let this stop me from being Amanda.
I don’t know exactly where that voice came from, but I’ve played that memory over and over since—a reminder that I was alive, not broken. The lesson wasn’t that I needed to feel proud of my pain, but that I needed to stop hiding from it.
Because when pain shows up—and it will—it will try to tell you stories about who you are, what you’ve lost, and what you no longer deserve. The myth of being broken is built on those stories.
But the truth?
Pain doesn’t mean you’re damaged.
When Pain Feels Like Proof
I’ve spent years trying to solve what could never be solved—therapy, medication, journaling, self-help books, affirmations, even going back to school to study the things that challenged me most. And a lot of it helped.
But even when I was doing everything right, there were seasons where my pain didn’t budge. The grief. The anxiety. The physical discomfort. The rage I never let anyone see.
Back then, I took that persistence as proof that I was beyond repair. I assumed I wasn’t healing fast enough because I was “too damaged.” I saw progress as a finish line I could never reach, no matter how hard I ran. Too much trauma. Too much baggage.
Looking back, I see how cruel that narrative was.
It wasn’t true.
It was just familiar.
So many of us are conditioned to associate pain with inadequacy. To believe that if we’re still struggling—emotionally, physically, mentally—it must be our fault. We internalize our suffering as a character flaw.
We forget that pain can also be a sign of resilience.
It means we’ve survived something.
It means our bodies or minds are responding, adapting, enduring.
We’re not broken. We’re just feeling.
How I Started Untangling That Lie
For years, I avoided talking about my health. About the times when ulcerative colitis was unmanageable. About the physical toll it took. About what it felt like to live in a body that constantly demanded things I didn’t know how to give.
There’s a particular kind of silence that forms around chronic pain—especially invisible kinds. You become skilled at minimizing it, not just to others, but to yourself.
I’d walk into rooms smiling. Laugh through events. Work long hours. Show up for people. Then come home and collapse, angry at myself because I had nothing left to give.
I told myself, “At least I got through it.”
As if surviving was the same as thriving.
As if being functional meant being fine.
I realize now: I wasn’t hiding pain—I was hiding shame.
The shame of not being able to “get over it.”
The shame of needing rest. Of canceling plans. Of being perceived as fragile.
Even after I lost the ileostomy bag, the disease hung on, and the shame continued.
That shame didn’t come from nowhere.
It came from every cultural message, subtle or loud, that told me I was supposed to bounce back, push through, and carry on without a blip.
But healing doesn’t look like that.
Sometimes healing is a full stop.
Sometimes it’s quiet.
Sometimes it means standing still long enough to let the pain rise to the surface so you can face it and feel it, instead of stuffing it back down.
When I Realized Pain Wasn’t My Enemy
One of the clearest shifts in my mindset came during a time when everything was unraveling. I was grieving my son, Danny, and my body was screaming in ways I couldn’t ignore.
I had reached a point where I couldn’t “perform healing” anymore. I couldn’t show up polished. I couldn’t pretend I was okay for anyone else’s comfort.
That moment wasn’t about collapse—it was about clarity.
I stopped seeing pain as something I had to eradicate. I started seeing it as something that needed care. Attention. Space.
I wasn’t broken. I was responding.
My body was communicating.
My spirit was worn, not shattered.
My identity hadn’t been erased—it had just been buried under expectations that were never mine to carry.
What Happens When You Stop Trying to Be “Fixed”
There is something incredibly freeing about saying, “I’m not okay”—and meaning it. Not as a request for pity. Not as a passive complaint. But as a declaration of honesty.
That’s where the myth of being broken begins to lose its grip. Because when we stop pretending to be okay, we make room for real okay-ness to take root.
Not the kind that’s performative, but the kind that comes from acceptance.
The kind that can hold joy and sadness at the same time.
That kind of okayness is honest.
It’s alive.
And it’s available.
Since shedding the belief that pain equals brokenness, I’ve noticed I’m softer with myself. I can have a bad week and not spiral into shame. I can say no without over-explaining. I can rest without guilt. I can be in grief and still laugh, still love, still lead.
My wholeness doesn’t require the absence of pain.
In fact, my wholeness has only ever been revealed through the way I tend to that pain.
What I Want You to Know
If you’re in pain, it doesn’t mean you’ve failed.
If your healing isn’t linear, it doesn’t mean you’re doing it wrong.
If you feel like a mess, it doesn’t mean you’re broken.
It means you’re human.
It means you’ve endured something.
It means your body and heart are still working, still responding, still holding on.
And that? That’s not even close to broken. That’s brave.
You don’t need to be fixed to be whole.
Maybe, like me, you just need to stop abandoning yourself when it hurts the most.
You are not the exception to healing.
You’re the evidence of it.
PS: Next week’s edition will explore what it means to trust your own timing—why urgency is often fear in disguise, and how slowing down may be the most radical way to move forward. Stay subscribed to get new articles (and a first look at the Unfixed podcast launching this July).