For a long time, I held Jung’s archetype of the Wounded Healer, like a precious gift. The belief that my own wounds could give me the power to heal. The eyes to see what the unscathed miss, the tenderness of one who knows pain.
But maybe some wounds are too deep. And there isn’t space for bleeding vessels when there are enough whole ones to go around. Maybe there isn’t space for the one who feels more at home with the patient in bed 7, than the reg cracking jokes on the fifth floor.
Or maybe the healing you give, is beyond what these walls can offer.
Medice, libera te tutemet.