Healing, beloved, is not a rumor.
It is not a borrowed coat,
not a theory passed around by people
who have never survived winter
without applause.
Healing is the constant thing.
The consistent thing.
The cogent anchoring of the soul
When the room gets loud
and everyone suddenly becomes
an expert on your becoming.
In the beginning,
I thought every voice with confidence
carried wisdom.
I thought every elder had earned clarity.
I thought every warning was protection,
Every opinion was carefully considered,
every open door
was an invitation from God.
I know better now.
Advice will arrive wearing perfume.
Advice will arrive with a title,
a testimony, a scripture,
a screenshot, a smirk.
Some of it will be sage.
Some of it will be sabotage
with better lighting.
Choose wisely.
Sugar and salt look alike
When you are tired,
When you are hungry,
When you have mistaken urgency
for divine instruction.
Both can glitter in the palm.
Both can sit innocently in a bowl.
Both can wait for your tongue
to tell the truth.
And haven’t we all learned,
with our gorgeous, stubborn selves,
that not everything white is holy,
not everything sweet is nourishing,
and not every open door
Does it deserve the dignity of your entrance?
Discernment is not paranoia.
It is etiquette for the spirit.
It is the refined, meticulous art
of saying, “Thank you for your opinion,”
while your entire spirit
quietly walks out of the room.
In the middle of my becoming,
I learned to listen
without becoming available.
To receive
without being recruited.
To love people
without letting them season my life
with whatever they found
in the back cabinet
of their own confusion.
There is a sacredness in me now
that does not negotiate
with every loud suggestion.
A consecrated interior.
A vestibule of peace.
An altar with standards.
A velvet rope, if we must be honest.
And yes, I laugh.
Because sometimes the audacity
comes dressed so nicely,
I almost admire the tailoring.
Still, I know what I know.
I know that healing is not passive.
It is rigorous.
It is deliberate.
It is the daily architecture
of returning to oneself
with clean hands, clear eyes,
and a spirit no longer famished
for approval.
I know that wisdom
does not always shout.
Sometimes it clears its throat.
Sometimes it cancels the plan.
Sometimes it makes your stomach turn
before your mind has gathered
the evidence.
Listen.
The body is an archive.
The spirit is a scholar.
The heart, when healed,
becomes less gullible
and more gracious.
That is the miracle.
And now, at the end
of one lesson
and the beginning of another,
I bless the teachers,
the warnings,
the detours,
the almosts,
the no-thank-yous,
the friends who meant well,
and the strangers who did not.
I bless the salt
for teaching me preservation.
I bless the sugar
for teaching me pleasure.
I bless my tongue
for learning the difference.
And I bless the woman in me
who no longer confuses
a full room
with a faithful one.
She is anchored now.
Constant.
Consistent.
Cogent.
Sacred.
And difficult to mislead.
Copyright © 2026 Sherley Delia | All rights reserved.
Healing Majestically 