I snubbed my finger and started crying. There wasn’t any cut or bruise, but I felt the pain. Tears started falling. There wasn’t anything that I could show for my pain. My mom didn’t even see anything happen. There was nothing to show her how badly I was hurt. But I told her, “Mommy, I have a boo-boo.”
“Oh honey, where?” she asked, her voice soft and concerned.
She kissed it and wrapped a band-aid around my finger, even though there was no wound and it was already feeling better. No ointment. No medicine. Just validation, acknowledgment, and an attempt to help and protect. It was all I needed to heal from my provider.
Years later, I find myself sitting in a sterile doctor’s office, waiting for a diagnosis. The walls are a clinical white, the air smells faintly of antiseptic, and the ticking clock is my only company. My body aches in ways that have no visible scars. There’s a heaviness in my chest, a fatigue that sleeps through the nights and greets the mornings with the same relentless grip. Yet, like my childhood boo-boo, there’s nothing to show for it. No cuts, no bruises. Just an invisible hurt that’s as real as any physical wound.
The doctor enters, clipboard in hand, and sits across from me. He asks about my symptoms, nods as I explain, and takes notes. There’s a moment of silence as he reviews my chart. Then he looks up, his expression unreadable.
“I can’t find anything wrong,” he says finally. “All your tests are normal.”
I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. It’s the answer I feared and expected. The pain remains unacknowledged, just like that childhood finger stub.
But then, something changes. The doctor puts down his clipboard and leans forward slightly. “I believe you,” he says. “Just because we can’t see it or measure it doesn’t mean it isn’t real. Pain is pain.”
His words are like my mother’s kiss on my invisible wound. A validation that I am not making this up, that what I feel is legitimate and worthy of attention. It doesn’t take away the pain, but it soothes a part of my soul that’s been aching for recognition.
As I leave the office, I realize that what I need now isn’t much different from what I needed as a child. The band-aid on my finger was never about the physical healing—it was about someone seeing my pain, acknowledging it, and caring enough to try to ease it. The invisible wounds we carry into adulthood are no different. They need recognition, validation, and a caring touch.
Life’s pains often don’t come with visible marks. They linger in the quiet corners of our minds and hearts, unnoticed by the world. But they are there, just as real and just as deserving of attention. Sometimes, all it takes to start healing is for someone to see us, to believe in our pain, and to offer a simple, sincere acknowledgment: “I understand. I’m here.”
In that moment of validation, we find the strength to carry on. It reminds us that even when our pain isn’t visible, it’s still important. And that, sometimes, is all we need to begin to heal.