By Keri Blair
Over the last 15 years of marriage my husband and I try to carve out intentional time away together—just the two of us—at least once a year. Life doesn’t always make it easy, and there have been seasons where we’ve missed a trip or two, but overall, we’ve been committed to creating space for connection, rest, and shared experiences. Even through the challenges of our marriage we find it valuable to reserve space for uninterrupted time. Some of our most meaningful memories have come from that dedicated time together; stepping away from responsibility, worry and the pressures of life and simply enjoying being present with one another.
This trip was no different as we had planned a quick getaway and much needed time of reprieve from the current demands of life.
One afternoon near the end of our trip We decided to rent electric bikes and explore the city—taking in the scenery, stopping to eat, and enjoying the day as it unfolded with no schedule in mind. I like to believe I have an adventurous side—after all, I’ve cycled across three states—so I felt confident this would be easy, even fun and an opportunity to take in more sights in a limited amount of time. As I laughed trying to hop on the bike, my left foot missed the pedal, the bike immediately accelerated, and in an instant, it cut deeply into the back of my heel.
At first, it didn’t even feel real.
The injury wasn’t noticeable in that moment. I think I was laughing too hard to fully grasp how quickly one careless act could change the course of the rest of our trip!
When this happened, my husband was across the parking lot and we were both laughing as I fumbled, trying to avoid falling off the bike altogether not fully aware of what had just happened as I had to slam on the breaks and force my feet to the ground. Then I immediately realized something wasn’t right. I remember saying, “I can’t get on my bike…my foot is bleeding too bad.” Even then, I didn’t want to look at it. I was so hesitant to pull down my sock in fear of what I was going to see. I didn’t want to assess the damage. There was a part of me that hoped if I didn’t fully look at it, maybe it wasn’t as bad as it felt.
When I finally did look, frustration set in quickly. I thought to myself Keri, how careless. You know how to ride a bike! This was supposed to be a relaxing, memorable, adventurous day in a beautiful city—and now I was walking my bike back to the hotel, trying to minimize what had just happened. I kept reassuring my husband it wasn’t that bad, as I was in complete denial of an open cut that continued to reopen every time I moved my foot. I convinced myself I just needed to clean it, throw a band aid on it and maybe even wear some open back shoes to let it breathe a little. Then we could carry on with our day.
As we walked back, my sock became saturated with blood. I tried to rationalize it—telling myself if I limped, if I just avoided any pressure on that left foot, it would slow down. Even after we cleaned it and wrapped it, I was determined to continue the day as planned. I convinced both of us that I could manage it. That I could push through. That it wasn’t serious enough to interrupt our plans. Without any reservation I believed, we’re still going to ride these bikes! I just need to forget this even happened. For crying out loud—it’s an e-bike?!! I don’t even really have to pedal!
But wounds do not respond to denial.
In many ways, we treat our emotional pain the same way I treated my heel that afternoon—we minimize it, push through it, and convince ourselves it is manageable if we avoid looking too closely. Yet what we refuse to acknowledge often continues affecting us beneath the surface long before we are willing to admit how much it hurts.
In the field of attachment, we understand that the wounds we carry are not always tied to a single, obvious moment, but often, they are formed long before we have the language, awareness, or cognitive ability to make sense of what we’re experiencing. Subtle disruptions in connection with loved ones, the absence of a caregiver, inconsistent emotional availability, an unforeseen medical diagnosis in the family or a learning impairment along with many other circumstances in our environment can leave lasting imprints—even if we cannot clearly recall when or how they occurred.
When understanding human development these disruptions play a significant role in shaping how we understand safety, connection, and ourselves. As we grow from infancy through adulthood, our nervous system and emotional framework are continually being shaped by the quality and consistency of the relationships and environment around us. When those connections feel secure, predictable, and attuned, they support a foundation of trust and stability. But when they are inconsistent, unavailable, or disrupted, an insecure attachment can begin to form—often becoming the starting point of a wound we may not even realize exists.
Over time, wounds that are ignored rarely remain inactive.
Even when we cannot clearly see their impact, they often shape the way we experience relationships, trust, emotional regulation, and connection to ourselves. We may fumble our way through adolescence into adulthood or soar with a false sense of security while functioning, achieving, caregiving, or appearing confident externally while quietly carrying unmet needs, unresolved pain, or patterns we do not fully understand. What remains unaddressed internally will often continue influencing us until it is finally given the attention and care it needs.
And that’s where the parallel became undeniable for me.
Sitting at lunch with my foot elevated, the reality became harder to ignore. The bleeding continued. The wound reopened every time I moved. What I had minimized was now demanding my attention. Eventually, we made the decision to find an urgent care center, and I ended up needing eight stitches—right in the fold of my heel. It was a small cut, in a place I could barely see, yet had far more impact than I had allowed myself to believe. I spent the next day in a wheelchair—something I never would have imagined over what I initially dismissed as “not that bad.” My husband and I both look back and laugh at how something so minor completely threw off our entire day. Instead of enjoying local food and beautiful weather we sat in an urgent care for hours.
And yet—how often do we minimize our own pain?
We tell ourselves:
It wasn’t that bad.
Other people have gone through worse.
I should be able to move on.
But comparison does not heal wounds.
And dismissal does not repair them.
Just like a physical wound, every injury—regardless of size—requires attention and care. When left unaddressed, even minor wounds are at risk for infection, delayed healing, or forming scar tissue that limits movement over time.
The same is true within our emotional and cognitive lives. Experiences that may have seemed small in the moment—a comment, a loss, emotional absence from loved ones, relational tension—can shape the way we see ourselves, how we connect with others, and how we respond to pain.
Sometimes, tending to a wound begins with simply asking ourselves honest questions:
H — Have I been HIDING a feeling or unresolved pattern?
E — What EMOTIONS am I experiencing beneath the surface?
A — Am I willing to ACKNOWLEDGE the connection between my past wounds and my current patterns?
L — What would it look like if I LEANED into healing instead of pushing through?
If you found yourself pausing and considering any of these questions—it is the beginning of healing.
As I reflect on that trip, I can still picture what I initially dismissed as nothing more than a small cut on the back of my heel. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t something anyone else would have noticed. Yet what I couldn’t easily see ended up requiring far more care and attention than I ever expected. I spent an entire two days in a wheelchair. I had to stay completely off my foot for a day. I couldn’t exercise, walk freely, or even bend my heel certain ways without risking pulling against the stitches and causing more damage during the weeks ahead. I found myself sitting still more than I wanted to, elevating my leg, slowing down, and intentionally tending to something hidden beneath the surface but impossible to ignore once the pain set in.
What initially felt minor disrupted the next 48 hours of our trip in ways I never anticipated. Even navigating the airport required assistance because what had been wounded could no longer carry the weight it normally could. And maybe that is true emotionally, too. The wounds we cannot easily see are often the very things quietly impacting our lives the most.
Unprocessed hurt, grief, disappointment, betrayal, anxiety, shame, or years of carrying too much without acknowledgment can slowly create emotional dysregulation we may not even recognize at first.
What made this small wound so significant was not simply where it was located, or the severity of the laceration but that it remained mostly hidden from view. Unless I intentionally looked at it, no one else would have known it was there or understood how much it hurt. Yet whether visible or unseen, the wound was still vulnerable, still exposed, and still reopening every time pressure was placed on it before it had properly healed.
Healing requires more than the passing of time. It requires awareness, honesty, intentional care, and the willingness to slow down long enough to tend to what has been hurting beneath the surface all along—so we can finally experience the freedom that comes from no longer carrying those wounds alone and begin embracing who we were created to be beneath the pain we’ve hidden for far too long.