The Power of the Wounded Healer
Embracing the wounds to become the healer: My learnings and lessons
To truly grasp the depths of my pain and agony, you’ll need to go beyond simply reading these words. You must visualize it, open your heart, and feel it as though the wounds were your own. Then and only then can you understand the weight of what I carried. And maybe, you’ll begin to empathize with the people around you, knowing that we all carry trauma and pain hidden beneath the surface.
You may have seen the phrase: “Hurt people, hurt people; healed people, heal people.” If you haven’t, then now you have. But here’s why it doesn’t fully resonate with me. I was someone who was hurt—betrayed, belittled, torn apart by someone I trusted. Yet, even in the darkest moments, I couldn’t fathom inflicting that kind of pain on anyone. As a hurt person, I didn’t seek to hurt others. Instead, I bore the weight of my suffering alone. I sat with it, reflected, and asked myself the hardest questions:
What was missing in me that allowed someone to overstep my boundaries? Why did I let them chip away at my essence, sabotage my values, shame me for being who I truly am? How did I allow them to try and destroy my relationships with those I loved?
The pain was real, raw, and relentless, but instead of projecting it outward, I turned it inward, questioning every part of myself. The agony wasn’t just in what they did to me—it was in trying to understand why I let them? This experience brought me to my childhood. I’m the youngest of three and the only daughter. Raised in an Indian family, being the youngest and the only girl, it’s hard to make your presence known. Everyone knows what’s best for you. Decisions are made for you not with you. You move on with life letting someone call the shots and you have little to no control on your preferences.
When I was younger, I’d cry out, desperate to be seen or heard, and my father would immediately respond, trying to fix whatever was troubling me. I often clashed with my parents over the inequality I felt between me and my brothers. Why could they go out at odd hours and stay out late while I sat in my room, playing alone? Over time, my father realized he had a firecracker of a daughter, one who wasn’t going to let anyone push her around. He came to trust my ability to navigate the world, which I know must’ve taken a lot of courage for him—especially since I was his only daughter.
I came to America on my own to pursue my Bachelor's Degree, and that’s when I truly experienced freedom and learned what it meant to be fully responsible for my actions. I felt the pressure to prove to my dad that he hadn’t made a mistake in trusting me. This was the moment I had to grow up—cooking my own meals, doing groceries, paying bills— adulting at it’s finest.
I got married in my late 20s, thinking I made the best decision of my life, but it turned out to be the worst. I believed I was marrying someone progressive who valued equality, but it was all just a mask. He believed Indian women should be doormats—unless they were earning an exceptionally high salary and held power. He measured success by money, and his toxicity quickly began to show. The verbal abuse was relentless; his words cut like a saber, always poised to tear me down the moment he saw me feeling happy.
Marriage felt like a cage. Who was this stranger who suddenly thought he had power over me? Why did I feel so trapped? The questions, the confusion, and the overwhelming disappointment pushed me into survival mode. I longed for the safety of my parents' home, where my tears mattered, where I was respected, valued, and loved.
After 18 years together, including 16 years of marriage spent supporting an emotionally immature man-child, my body reached its breaking point. My mind was screaming for the freedom I once had, and I finally listened. I made the boldest and best decision of my life—I filed for divorce. I gathered every ounce of strength I had, reclaimed my fierce, fiery spirit, and walked away. I reminded the world, and myself, that I am still my father’s daughter. If he could see me now, he would be rooting for me, proud of the resilience I’ve embodied.
What I’ve learned from this experience boils down to parenting and conditioning. How you’re raised profoundly shapes how you see the world and treat others. If you’re raised with humility, kindness, and respect, that’s how you move through life. My ex’s father, on the other hand, was a toxic force—believing that his way was the only way, silencing his wife at every turn. They had few friends because they saw themselves as superior to others. My ex grew up seeing that behavior as normal, and unsurprisingly, he turned out the same way.
The role of the mother is by far the most important one in a child’s life. If you suppress her voice, her needs, her desires, what is the child really learning? The exact same toxic patterns. From the moment a child is in the womb, a mother does everything she can to protect them. But if she’s constantly disrespected and mistreated, those vibrations carry to the child, even before birth. That child grows up anxious, scared, and always in survival mode because they never felt their mother was safe. And over time, that child feels the same—lonely, fearful, and disconnected.
Breaking these cycles isn’t just necessary, it’s revolutionary.
I hope my story resonates with you. My purpose is to pay it forward with my wisdom and lessons. If you feel lost, alone, drained and need guidance, I’m here to help and heal.
Disclaimer: This article is the original work of Deepti Prakash and is intended for educational and informational purposes only. All content is protected by copyright law. Unauthorized use, reproduction, or distribution of any part of this work without permission is strictly prohibited. To share or reference this material, please credit the author appropriately and obtain prior written consent.