A Warrior Knows Pain

A sentence everyone knows. One we heard as children when we fell, when we cried, when we were afraid. Get up. Stop making a fuss. A warrior feels no pain.

I cross out the “NO.” Not because I want to destroy the sentence — but because it is the wrong way round.

A warrior knows pain. That is exactly what makes them strong.

The Wounds

Imagine you come back from the hunt. It did not go well. You carry wounds. Real ones, not just metaphorical — though the metaphorical ones hurt just as much. Childhood, loss, loneliness. People who left. People who should have stayed. Things that happened and things that should have happened but did not. Trust that was broken. Dignity that was denied. Grief that never had a place.

Now you have two options.

The first: you leave the wounds open but pretend they are not there. You function. You go back out the next day. At some point you no longer notice them — not because they have healed, but because you have got used to them. That is not healing. That is suppression with practice.

The second: you go back to the village. The others are sitting there. They were also out there, they also carry wounds. And someone takes care. Not because you deserved it, not because you did something to earn it — but because that is how it works. You come back, you are looked after. That is the deal.

Sometimes you do not make it back. You lie outside, and the village is too far, or you do not believe you belong there. That moment is part of it too. It is not failure. It is the beginning.

Your Normal Shifts

When you know pain long enough, you stop seeing it. Both in yourself and in others.

You sit across from someone and they tell you something. And you think: so what? That is normal. Because it was normal for you. You no longer have a benchmark for what is okay and what is not. Your normal is the broken thing.

It works the other way too. Someone tells you: what you are describing is not okay. And you understand the sentence, but it does not land. Because you have been carrying the wound so long that it feels like a part of you. You even defend it.

Knowing pain can mean: I see precisely. But it can also mean: I see nothing anymore, because everything hurts and I have unlearned the difference.

That is perhaps the most dangerous thing about it. Not the pain itself. But the moment when you stop noticing it is there.

Known Pain

Whoever knows their pain — really knows it — is hit less hard by new pain. Not because they are tougher. But because they know what pain is. Stigma, systems, bureaucracy, the stares — those come on top. But they do not define you. You were already there, inwardly.

But — and this is the other side — that is exactly where it becomes a trap. Whoever knows pain too well endures too long. Stays put where others would long since have left. The tolerance rises, the boundary shifts. And at some point you can no longer tell the difference between “I can endure this” and “I should have left long ago.”

Healing

The village is the place you come to, and where people stay. Not because of what you bring, but because you belong. In the village you may speak, but you do not have to explain yourself. Someone who is silently present when words are missing, and who listens when they burst out. Both are fine. It is a place where your wounds and your losses can simply exist, without someone immediately having a plaster or advice ready.

And the village does something else: it straightens your benchmark. You see the others sitting there, with their own wounds, and you notice — they are bleeding too. Your bleeding is not failure. It is a sign that you were out there. Here you learn again the difference between what is normal and what you have called normal.

The Aftermath

When a wound heals — truly heals, not just scabs over and closes — a scar remains. It no longer hurts. But it is there, and you know what it means.

And when the next pain comes, you know: I know this. I have survived this. It will hurt, but it will not knock me over.

Healed pain makes you harder. That is not bad at first — you endure more, you are less shaken. But it also makes you lighter. New pain becomes bearable because the old pain no longer drags along. You have room. You have experience. You know it passes — not because someone told you so, but because you lived it.

The problem is: heavier and lighter feel similar from within. And when healed and unhealed wounds sit side by side, the boundary blurs. You no longer know whether you are enduring because you have grown, or because you are used to it. Both look the same from outside. From inside too.

That is the difference between the one who leaves wounds open and the one who lets them heal. The first gets heavier, year by year. The other gets freer.

Healing

Healing does not proceed in a straight line. Whoever knows a wound — really knows it — can help treat it, even when others are still open.

And then you sit in the village, and someone comes in. With wounds you know — not because you learned it, but because you know the spot. You know how deep they sit. You know what happens when you go too fast. And you know what happens when you do not go at all.

Your scar becomes a tool. Not because you now know everything better, but because you do not have to explain what pain is. You were there. The other person feels that. And with every wound you treat, you learn more. About the spot, about the pain, about yourself. Healing makes stronger.

But here lurks the trap: whoever loses themselves in helping is avoiding their own pain by caring for the pain of others.