Beyond Broken Bones: Healing What Remains

Sometimes, I think about that old willow tree in my grandmother’s garden. It was magnificent – broad and weeping, a sanctuary for children and birds alike. Years ago, after a terrible storm had split one of its main branches, they tried to save it. The visible damage seemed manageable; the arborists carefully pruned and braced what remained. But there were unseen roots that had been stressed, connections compromised. It weakened over time until finally, with a heartbreaking sigh, it fell.

That willow always comes to mind when I consider how we treat injury—not just physical injury, but all forms of harm done to us. We so often focus on the visible, the quantifiable: the broken bones set, the torn ligaments repaired, the surgery performed. And those things are important, undeniably. Bernard’s shoulder replacement, for example; it allowed him a mobility he thought he'd lost forever. It was, in many ways, a triumph of modern medicine. But what about the other injuries? The ones you can’t bandage?

I remember Phyllis telling me once about her brother, injured in an accident years back. He’d endured multiple surgeries and grueling physical therapy. Everyone praised his resilience, marveled at how well he was “doing.” They saw the healed leg, the regained strength. What they *didn't* see were the nightmares that kept him awake at night, or the sudden waves of panic that would grip him in a grocery store aisle. He’d been told repeatedly to just "get over it."

It's a strange thing, isn't it? To be told to simply move on from something that has fundamentally altered your perception of safety and security. The world changes when you experience something like that; the very ground beneath your feet feels unsteady. There’s this expectation – a societal pressure almost – to return to normalcy, to erase the disruption. But normal isn't always possible. It may not even be desirable.

My own life has given me a small measure of understanding for such struggles. While I never suffered a physical trauma in quite the same way as Phyllis’s brother—the years spent teaching certainly had their stresses—I watched colleagues struggle with burnout, and the quiet resignation that followed seemingly minor incidents magnified by layers of accumulated pressure. The dismissals, those pronouncements of “just relax” or “pull yourself together,” were so very common. And they carried a weight, I suspect, far heavier than any physical ailment.

It’s not about diminishing the importance of healing broken bones. It's about recognizing that the fracture in spirit can be just as profound—or even more so. The legal system, for instance, often focuses on tangible losses – medical bills, lost wages. And rightly so; those are very real burdens. But what about the inability to sleep? The fear of crowds? The persistent sense of detachment from life itself? These aren't easily quantified, and all too often they’re dismissed as weakness, or a lack of fortitude.

I began sitting with astrological charts differently this past summer, after that gathering with Phyllis at the equinox. There was a clarity—a willingness to see beyond the superficial. The placements, I realized, weren't just about personality traits; they were maps of vulnerabilities, indicators of points where resilience might falter, places where support would be needed most profoundly. That shift in perspective mirrored something I felt keenly within myself – an understanding that healing requires attending to *everything*, not just the surface.

Perhaps it’s a matter of reframing our understanding of recovery. Not as a return to what was, but as a journey towards becoming—a new kind of strength forged in the crucible of pain and loss. Like tending that willow tree: acknowledging the unseen damage, bracing against future storms, and nurturing not just the visible limbs, but the roots beneath the earth. A holistic approach—recognizing the interconnectedness of our lives—is what truly allows us to stand tall again.