When the Healer Becomes Wounded
There is a concept in many Native American healing traditions that I have thought about often since becoming an acupuncturist. The “Wounded Healer” is a healer that gains their power because they have suffered, not in spite of it. Their wounds give them insight into suffering, responsibility, and humility. They earn the right to help others after they prove they can face pain, learn from it, and integrate it into their lives and their healing practices with integrity. The illness or trauma they endure is seen as an initiation that tests character and reshapes identity rather than being a random hardship. The healer’s authority comes from direct lived experience. They know the path intimately rather than studying it from a distance. And guess who gets to walk that path now.
I’ll be out of the office from December 11th through January 5th for abdominal reconstruction surgery. The plan right now is to be back January 6th, ready to meet you with a new stronger core (figuratively and literally).
I have been dreading writing this blog. It feels like a confession and something I have been working hard to hide for the past four years. I wanted to appear normal and unencumbered, and to be there for patients fully and without my own ailments. Mostly, I wanted to put my head in the sand about what I was experiencing with my own health and wellness. And on top of it all, what I have had to and will have to do to regain that health and wellness is something I have been quietly struggling with for years (sometimes not so quietly). The path to get to this point has been tumultuous to say the least and I am not looking forward to what they have to do to “fix” me now. It is not a minor surgery and it is not a minor recovery.
Some of you already know this; for those who don’t: four years ago I had an appendectomy that changed everything. It wasn’t supposed to be a big deal, after all, my appendix hadn’t burst and appendectomies are routine. It wasn’t even a typical case of appendicitis. My labs were fine. My body whispered, not screamed. Knowing what I know now, I wish I had listened and responded differently.
The surgeon said recovery would be the same whether it was laparoscopic or open. And while laparoscopic was less invasive, he told me the only option was open abdominal surgery and that it was no different in terms of pain. Something I later learned was an issue of his skill level and not my presentation. He said I’d be back to work in four days.
Four days.
I wanted to believe him. I needed that to be true. I pushed myself to move, to treat, to be fine. Mind over matter has always been my way as I bulldoze through life and I am one of the most stubborn people I know. So I dug my heels in. I was about to close on my first house, Olive was just coming into my life and needed me mobile and interactive, I had a business to run, patients who needed care and attention, and a thousand reasons not to slow down. But, as it turns out, sometimes mind over matter can get you into trouble and four days for an open appendectomy when you spend most of your work day on your feet, is not enough.
The hernia came quietly at first. Then loudly. Then what feels like, permanently. One surgical hernia led to another. Each time I hoped, and each time I was told it would be fine. Each time I knew it wasn’t and each time it got worse. I spent the last four years feeling somewhat broken, or at least not whole and certainly not like myself. I had to change my work schedule drastically, no longer able to work full shifts or five days a week. It killed my confidence with my physical appearance and I had to change the way I move through the world, the way I dress, and the way I eat and exercise.
And here I am four years later preparing for another surgery while begging myself to believe the outcome won’t be the same even though, surgery is exactly what got me into this mess. But, third time’s a charm, or so I hear. And this one is different. It is more complicated and will rebuild my abdominal wall from the inside out. I’m told this is the surgery to end surgeries and my last and final option. So this has to work.
Come December 11th, I will be in surgery for eight hours with not one but two different surgeons. Mesh will be placed from hip to hip and rib cage to pelvis. My body will be forever changed. Due to the extent of the mesh, its lack of flexibility, and how they are weaving it into the layers of my abdominal muscles, I will have to modify any exercise I do, with abdominal exercises being out of the question for the rest of my life. I will need to be careful with the internal pressure I put on the mesh. Because of this, I will be closing the door on the possibility of pregnancy in the future, something nothing could have prepared me to hear, and something I am still reeling over. To say this news has thrown me for a loop is an understatement. It’s a hard truth to make peace with. To be honest, I am far from finding that peace.
It is strange being both the doctor and the patient. Healer and the one who needs healing. I’ve spent years telling my patients to trust their bodies. The body always strives to heal, no matter what. It is always trying to move toward balance. Now, I have to prove myself right and trust my own advice and my own body. The same body that I feel has failed me so spectacularly for the better part of four years.
I wish I could say I’ve handled all of this gracefully and that I am in a good place with all of it. I haven’t and I am not. I’ve been angry. I am still so angry. I’ve felt betrayed by my own body, by the healthcare system, by the people who said I’d be fine, by the experts. I’ve felt shame and imposter syndrome for not handling it the way I coach my patients to handle their own conditions. I’ve experienced waves of grief for my changed body and my loss of function that hit so heavy they swallowed entire weeks and months. I have allowed myself give up on my personal life along with satisfaction and fulfillment through my interpersonal connections while I try so desperately to keep the remaining pieces together. My efforts go into showing up for patients as best I can and limping through running my business and my household without energy for much else. If I am a friend, daughter, sister, or aunt to you, this is my sincere apology for not being as present as I should have been in recent years. I hope this serves as an explanation and not an excuse.
I can say, however, that I’ve learned something I couldn’t have learned any other way.
Healing rarely looks like victory. Instead it looks like deep surrender into limitations and pain.
It looks like resting when you’d rather run.
It looks like letting people show up for you even when you’d rather appear strong and capable.
It looks like trusting your gut when no one else does and sometimes against the expert’s better judgment.
It looks like faith that something in you still knows how to rebuild even when everything feels broken and unresponsive.
This is the part of medicine no one teaches you. The space between despair and resilience. The sacred pause before you start again.
I used to think the best healers were the ones who knew the most, had the best advice, had the best tools in their toolbox, and the best outcomes. Now I think they’re the ones who have suffered the most and still choose to show up with love, compassion, and empathy. They have a richer and more profound meaning to their work. They know what you’re enduring because they’ve lived it. Having someone who has been in your shoes witness your suffering is one of the most cathartic experiences you can have. It is a desperately needed understanding that you are not in this alone. It is the medicine that many times goes missing from modern healthcare. It is medicine for your soul.
This is what it means to me to be a wounded healer. It is an education you can’t earn any other way. And I hope to have a fraction of the lessens my predecessors have earned through their suffering. I hope to make this all worth it in the end even through the anger and frustration that I can’t quite seem to get past. And even through the lost opportunities I am so deeply grieving.
When I come back in January, I’ll be walking slower but seeing clearer and hopefully understanding you all on a deeper level. I’ll carry more humility, more faith, and a stronger reverence for what the body can endure. I am finally choosing to allow this experience to make me better in the ways that it can and am working my hardest toward letting the rest go.
At River Point, we’ve always believed that healing is something we do with you, not for you. This journey has made that more true than ever.
So while I’m gone, take some space for your own healing too. Rest. Laugh. Be with your loved ones. Feel your breath. Let your body remind you what it’s capable of.
And when I return, we’ll begin again…together, stronger, softer, wiser.
As always, and now more than ever
With wishes of wellness,
Dr. Barbie Wasson
River Point Family Acupuncture
