Two Years Later: Learning to Live Without the Razor

Two years ago, Lexy wrote an article on scars of solitude and this what she had to say today. Glad I had a chance to talk to her. This is what she had to say. “My life was controlled by pain I did not know how to carry. The razor had become my language, the only way I knew how to release emotions that felt too heavy to hold inside.

Today, my scars are still there, but my life looks very different.

For a long time, I believed self-harm was part of me forever. I couldn’t imagine coping with sadness, anger, or grief without turning to something that would physically reflect the pain I felt inside. When people told me things would get better, I didn’t believe them.

Grief had changed me.

Losing my mother left a silence in my life that nothing seemed able to fill. She had been the one person who checked on me every day, the one person who understood me without explanations. When she passed away, it felt like the ground beneath my feet had disappeared.

For months, I carried that emptiness everywhere.

But healing did not come all at once. It came slowly, in ways I didn’t even notice at first.

Therapy was one of the first steps. At the beginning, I resisted it. I felt like no one could understand the depth of my pain or the bond I had shared with my mother. But session by session, I began to see things differently. Therapy didn’t erase my grief, but it gave me tools to sit with it instead of running from it.

I also began to replace old habits with new ones.

Whenever the urge to self-harm came, I started doing small things to redirect my mind. Sometimes I would go outside for a walk, letting the air clear my thoughts. Other times I would listen to music and allow myself to cry without shame. Reading books and listening to podcasts slowly became part of my routine.

None of these things worked perfectly every time, but together they created a different path for me.

For the first time in years, I began to realize that pain could exist without destroying me.

The journey has not been easy. There are still days when grief returns unexpectedly. There are moments when I miss my mother so deeply that it feels like the loss just happened yesterday. Certain songs, places, or memories can suddenly take me back.

But the difference now is that I no longer respond with self-destruction.

Instead, I allow myself to feel.

I talk about her. I remember the lessons she taught me. I hold on to the love we shared rather than the pain of losing her.

Another thing I have learned over the past two years is that healing is not a straight line. Some days feel strong and hopeful, while others feel heavy and uncertain. But progress is not about never falling; it is about learning how to rise again.

I have also realized that the scars on my body are not something to hide from the world anymore. They are reminders of a younger version of myself who was trying to survive in the only way she knew how.

Those scars tell a story—not just of pain, but of resilience.

Two years later, I am still learning who I am without the weight of self-harm controlling my life. I am discovering healthier ways to process my emotions, and slowly building a life that my younger self could not imagine.

Most importantly, I have learned something I wish I had known earlier:

Pain deserves compassion, not punishment.

If someone reading this is struggling the way I once did, I want you to know that healing is possible even when it feels impossible. You may not see the change immediately and the journey may feel slow, but every step forward matters.

Two years ago, I thought my story would end in darkness.

Today, I am still here.

Still healing.
Still growing.
Still learning how to live.

And sometimes, that is the greatest victory of all.”