We Forgot Healing Could Be Fun

As a culture, we speak about healing like it’s a job.

“Healing takes work.”
“You’ve gotta do the healing work.”
“I’m working through it.”

Girl, I get it. I say it too. And to be fair, healing often does feel like work. It’s hard to sift through a lifetime of trauma. It sucks to be on a constant health protocol, searching for answers. Grieving is heavy. Chronic illness and pain are chronically frustrating.

Heart, mind, body—whatever you’re mending, it’s a lot.

But I want to argue something here. Being with your discomfort is only one part of healing. The whole point of walking this path is to live again, have fun, and experience pleasure and connection. I actually think most of us are really good at enduring discomfort. What we struggle with is allowing ourselves to feel good when the opportunity presents itself.

I know, I can already feel you bracing as you read this.

“Thanks so much for that sentiment, but it’s not that simple.”

I hear you. Living with anything chronic means you are already carrying so much. Feeling good can feel inaccessible, unproductive, or even unsafe.

First, I’ll say that toxic positivity can yeet itself right into the dumpster. I am not arguing that we put on our happy faces and play pretend or that we add more to our already endless to-do lists. I’m simply offering permission to move through life a little differently.

Here is what I think it’s really all about.

Savoring a perfectly ripe tangerine in the middle of July.
Loudly singing along to your new favorite song as you drive to work.
Talking to your dog in your most unhinged gremlin cartoon voice.
Picking out a cute outfit even though you feel like shit.
Pausing to feel the sun on your skin.
Being unserious and giggling with someone you love.

My God, healing can be delicious if we let it. These moments count too. This is living too.

For folks with trauma histories and ongoing health issues, survival easily becomes our baseline. We become intimate with overwhelm, oscillating between numbness and profound discomfort. Enjoyment becomes unreachable. Joy is the rain, and we are wearing raincoats.

No, Natasha Bedingfield, I actually can’t feel the rain on my skin.

So how do you go from tolerating life to finding delight again?

Slowly.

You have to be open to indulging in tiny moments that you might otherwise bypass. In fact, most of us need to start small if pleasure is going to safely land in the nervous system. Too much, too soon can feel overwhelming and out of reach. My somatic teacher likens it to stumbling upon fresh water after you've been wandering the desert. If you drink too much, your body will reject it. You have to "sip, sip" your way back into enjoyment.

I’m not talking about spending an hour every day doing breathwork or meditation. That’s not a sustainable goal for most of us.

It could simply look like pausing to listen to the wind rustle through the trees for twenty seconds before continuing on to work. Distilled down, it’s about taking small moments throughout the day to be right here, right now—especially when you would normally tunnel-vision your way through life.

Sometimes you might only achieve presence for three seconds at a time. That is more than enough. The point isn’t how long you do it. The point is to interrupt the cycle of urgency with a little yumminess from time to time.

My late mother, Marie, was the person who taught me that silliness can get you through dark times. She had this stubborn tenacity to not take life so seriously. There was always time for a dance party in the kitchen or to find something ridiculous to laugh about. Despite the fact that her life was chalk-full of survival and tragedy, she still found joy.

My brand is what it is because of her. When she was young, she spoke fondly of something called a "hootenanny." Her family would gather together with their homemade instruments and play music. It was a time of fun and connectedness that she always remembered so fondly.

This is the beating heart of Hootenanny Abby: the belief that healing is so much more than "doing the work." It looks like feeling safe in your body, being curious, getting excited about life, feeling joy, being playful, and connecting with others. How beautiful is it that we have the opportunity to live a full life despite what life throws at us?

And of course, as I write this, I recognize that this is a lesson I will continue to forget and re-learn. It is easy for me to take healing very seriously. No fun allowed. Only pain and suffering for me, thank you. I am good at enduring.

So here's a reminder for me and anyone like me: we are allowed to feel giddy, mischievous, and buoyant too. It's okay to take breaks from being serious all the time. It doesn't make us avoidant. It makes us human.

I'll invite you to pick one moment this week to pause and enjoy something—however small. Notice what happens in your body. What happens to your shoulder tension or your TMJ when you laugh with a friend? My guess is you notice it less, identify with it less, and feel just a little lighter than you did the moment before.

The truth is, I think moments like these become even more meaningful when they're shared with people who understand. There is something deeply regulating about being in the company of folks who don't need an explanation for why you brought a camp chair instead of going on the hike, why you need to leave early, or why you're celebrating a day when your pain is only a 4 out of 10.

That's why I've decided to start hosting monthly Hootenannies.

No workshop. No agenda. No pressure to process your trauma. Just an opportunity for those of us living with chronic illness and pain to gather in nature and enjoy being human together. Maybe we'll paint, bring our knitting projects, lay in hammocks, put our feet in the river, sip tea, or simply laugh until our cheeks hurt. The activity matters less than the company.

Because healing isn't only about learning how to survive. It's about remembering how to live.

If that sounds like something your nervous system has been craving, I'd love for you to join us. Sign up for my email list, and I'll let you know when the next Hootenanny is happening.

Until then, I hope you find one tiny moment this week that reminds you life can still surprise you with something beautiful.

Be gentle with yourself,

Abby