Knowing What You’re Fighting For

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how nobody really tells you what happens when the thing you prayed for starts getting bigger.

Everybody talks about chasing the dream. They tell you to find your purpose, take the risk, build the business, help people, and believe in yourself when nobody else does. What they don’t tell you is that sometimes the hardest part isn’t building it. Sometimes the hardest part is learning how to protect it.

Haven’s Holistic Healing was never supposed to be just another healthcare practice. I didn’t build this because I wanted my name on a door or another title behind my name. I built it because I know what it feels like to be the person people have already made their minds up about. I know what it feels like to have a story that enters the room before you do. And I know how powerful it is when somebody looks past all of that and sees the human being standing in front of them.

That is something I will never stop believing in.

But lately, I’ve learned that believing in people and giving people unlimited access to you are two very different things.

That’s been a hard lesson for me.

I’m a second-chance person. Of course I am. My entire life is proof of what can happen when someone’s worst chapter isn’t allowed to become the ending. I believe people can change. I believe people can rebuild. I believe grace can reach people in places that judgment never will.

But I’m learning that grace doesn’t mean having no boundaries.

You can love somebody and still say no. You can forgive somebody and still decide the relationship needs to end. You can appreciate what somebody brought into one chapter of your life without forcing them into the next one. You can wish somebody well and still know they can’t continue walking beside you.

And sometimes there doesn’t even have to be a villain.

That’s another thing I’ve learned.

Not every ending requires me to prove that I was right and somebody else was wrong. Sometimes something just doesn’t work anymore. Sometimes communication breaks down. Sometimes trust changes. Sometimes people grow in different directions. And sometimes the mission becomes more important than preserving a relationship simply because you’re afraid of what ending it might look like.

Owning a practice has taught me that leadership is a lot less glamorous than people think. There are days when I’m taking care of patients, answering messages, dealing with insurance companies, fighting credentialing battles, figuring out regulations, worrying about payroll, supporting my staff, making business decisions, solving problems behind the scenes, and carrying things that most people will never even know existed.

Then I walk into the next room.

And somebody needs me.

They don’t need to know what happened five minutes before I walked through that door. They don’t need the weight I’m carrying. They need me to look at them and listen. They need to know that for those few minutes, their life matters to somebody.

That’s the responsibility I chose.

And because I chose it, I have also had to accept that protecting my peace isn’t selfish. Protecting my business isn’t selfish. Protecting my staff isn’t selfish. Protecting the environment my patients walk into isn’t selfish.

It’s part of the job.

There was probably a version of me who would have kept explaining myself until I was exhausted. She would have given another chance, made another exception, tried one more time, and carried responsibility that wasn’t actually hers because she desperately wanted everything to work out.

I love her.

But she can’t run where I’m going.

The woman I’m becoming understands something she didn’t: compassion and accountability can exist at the same time.

I don’t have to become cold to become strong. I don’t have to stop believing in people to establish boundaries. And I don’t have to destroy somebody else in order to choose myself, my peace, or the mission I’ve been given.

Maybe that’s what growth really looks like.

Not becoming harder.

Becoming clearer.

I know what Haven’s stands for. I know who I want us to serve. I know what I want people to feel when they walk through our doors. I want the person who’s been judged, dismissed, labeled, addicted, brokenhearted, ashamed, scared, or convinced they’ve screwed their life up beyond repair to walk into this place and realize that somebody still sees them.

Because I know something about rebuilding a life that wasn’t supposed to look like this.

And I’m still a second-chance person.

I’m still going to love people loudly.

I’m still going to believe that recovery is possible and that your worst decision doesn’t get to decide the rest of your life.

But I’m also finally understanding that protecting the mission sometimes means changing who gets to walk with you.

I used to think deciding and conquering meant fighting until I won.

Now I think sometimes it means finally knowing what I’m fighting for.

And refusing to lose it.