When Healing Is Misunderstood

When Healing Looks Different Up Close

 Content Note: This is Part 2 of a 3-part series on family, faith, and healing.

As Christmas passed and Andrew and Jax’s symptoms finally resolved, we began talking about them coming for New Year’s. It wasn’t what we had hoped for - but it was better than nothing. A snowstorm nearly derailed the plan, and a last-minute decision led to a midnight scramble, a 6 a.m. departure, and a race to outrun the weather to Boston.

Logan had surrendered to the idea that they weren’t coming. So when Addie ran out from behind the car as he took out the trash, confusion turned into pure disbelief. Then joy.

After thirty long days apart, my people were here. I could hug them again.

But the novelty - the relief, the excitement - wouldn’t last long.

Instead, what arrived was something far more complicated.

For a month, Logan and I had lived in a small one-bedroom apartment in the middle of the city. Day after day I worked closely with his medical team - learning, adjusting, pacing, regulating. Slowly, we were finding a rhythm.

But when Andrew, Addie, and Jax arrived, they stepped into a space shaped by work they had not witnessed.

They carried their own wounds. Their own exhaustion. Their own unmet expectations.

And none of us yet understood how much had changed in just thirty days.

Our first family outing was meant to be simple - exploring Boston together, visiting the historic Boston Public Library. One Logan was excited about.

But the moment we walked in, the challenge became clear.

Stairs.

One of Logan’s greatest physical challenges is his legs, particularly his left. Stairs are his hardest obstacle.

His body shut down instantly.

Dysregulation set in. Fatigue followed. He collapsed into a window seat, refusing to move, begging to leave.

Jax and Addie were confused. Frustrated. Andrew watched tension rise.

I sat beside Logan and implemented pacing - the very tools we had been practicing for weeks. Giving up wasn’t an option, but neither was pushing past safety.

He was angry. Embarrassed. Overwhelmed.

Silently, he held feelings of holding everyone back.

I regulated while he escalated.

We worked in tandem.

Later, Andrew would call me his “handler”- equal parts impressed and unsettled by what he witnessed.

I set a five-minute timer. Jax approached and I explained what we were doing and why. He understood instantly. He became a champion for pacing - encouraging Logan, celebrating small victories, helping him climb one flight at a time.

The library wasn’t enjoyable. For anyone.

It was a reminder of the world we lived in before Boston.

Anxiety resurfaced.

Fear crept back in.

Tension filled the space.

But what looked like regression wasn’t.

It was regulation at work.

It was progress that didn’t look like progress to those who hadn’t been in the room where the work was done.