It’s strange sometimes, the things that stop us in our tracks—both figuratively and literally. This morning, I read a story that gave me pause. A black bear was struck by a vehicle on I-485 near Charlotte. Witnesses say it was still alive at first, retreating into the woods after impact. Wildlife officials tracked it in hopes of relocating and helping it recover, but the bear didn’t make it. Its body was later found in the forest.
I couldn’t stop thinking about that bear—the suddenness of it, the instinct to flee, the hope of rescue already on its way. And yet, despite all that effort, it didn’t survive.
You may wonder why a story like this would resonate so deeply with someone trained in counseling. But I’ll tell you why: because that bear, in a way, is all of us. Hit by something we didn’t see coming. Still trying to run, to get up, to make it back to safety. Not always knowing we’re being looked for.
It speaks to the invisible battles so many people are fighting, doesn’t it?
Most of us have taken our hits. Sometimes it’s the loss of someone we love, sometimes it’s the quiet erosion of our own joy. Sometimes it’s trauma. Other times, just a relentless, aching fatigue—the kind that doesn’t show up in doctor reports but stains us just the same. And when that “impact” happens, our systems do what they’ve been trained to do: Fight. Flee. Freeze. Survive.
The bear’s story reminds me that survival doesn’t always look strong. Sometimes survival is limping into the woods alone, hoping everything will be okay. It’s messy and disoriented and never as cinematic as the movies want us to believe. Surviving looks like one step, and then another. It looks like pain and confusion and instinct.
And it’s so important that we don’t judge ourselves—or others—for how survival looks.
When my clients come to session carrying shame for how they coped, how they ran, how they shut down, I gently remind them: “Of course you did what you did. That was your body and mind trying to protect you.”
Too often, we mistake survival mode for weakness. When really, it’s quite the opposite. That bear didn’t just lay down on the highway. It fled. It tried. And there’s something sacred in that attempt.
Now, in this story, the bear died. And I wrestle with that part. As someone whose entire professional life has been about hope, healing, and recovery, I hold tightly to optimism. But I’m not immune to the hard truth that not every rescue arrives in time.
Still, we learn. We bear witness. And we carry forward with greater compassion.
This story is an invitation to check in with ourselves. Where have we been hit and kept going anyway? Is there a part of us wounded, wandering the woods, hoping someone—something—might help us come back to ourselves?
Maybe right now you’re doing everything in your power just to stay in motion. To show up at work. Make dinner. Keep the kids fed. Hold your life together even as you feel, on some days, like you’re dissolving inside.
You are not alone.
One of the most devastating lies we tell ourselves is that we are supposed to recover faster, better, more neatly. That we aren’t allowed to collapse once in a while, to flee to someplace quiet, to breathe and hurt and be unsure.
But healing is not a timeline. It’s a rhythm.
Sometimes it moves forward boldly. Other times, it loops. But please, hear me on this—survival is not the opposite of healing. It’s the beginning of it.
And for those of us who are keeping track—who are the “wildlife officials” in someone else’s life—can we remember to watch more compassionately? To approach without panic or judgment? If someone is hurting and moving away, it’s not always an act of rejection. It might be the only way they know to stay safe while they figure out if they can trust the rest of the world again.
So whether you’re the bear, or you’ve been the one quietly searching the woods for someone you love—there’s a place for you in this story.
Every single one of us has been impacted by something—a loss, a betrayal, a moment that sent us running in ways even we didn’t fully understand. But if we listen closely, if we walk softly, if we give each other the benefit of presence without pressure, sometimes we find our way back.
In grief work, and in all the therapeutic spaces I hold, I’ve learned this: the body keeps the score, yes, and so does the heart. But the heart, thank God, is teachable. It heals. It forgives. It finds ways to restart, especially when met with kindness.
So today, let’s be gentle—with ourselves, and with anyone who might be wandering right now. Let’s not always demand linear healing. Let’s not pathologize pain. Let’s not shame ourselves for not being “better yet.”
Sometimes courage looks like making it to the edge of the woods. Sometimes it looks like turning toward someone when we’d rather turn away. And sometimes, it just looks like resting.
If no one’s said this to you in a while, let me: You’ve survived things your past self could hardly imagine. And you kept going.
That matters.
And if you’re still in the woods? It’s okay. I see you. Others do too. Help might be closer than you think. Sometimes just knowing someone’s out there, still searching with love, is enough to make the next moment doable.
And if you’re someone who didn’t make it out, if you’re grieving a loss, a passing, a future that no longer exists—I honor that too. There’s space to sit with it all.
In our fast-moving world, stories like this one remind us to slow down, to feel, and to care harder. About wildlife. About each other. About ourselves.
Let’s keep walking, slowly, together—toward light, toward safety, toward healing.
