A Mirror for the Broken Open
Some books do not merely offer words; they offer echoes.
The Wound Makes the Medicine felt less like reading and more like remembering
a remembering of what it means to be tender and torn, yet still standing.
Pixie Lighthorse speaks in a language I know deep in my marrow,
the language of loss, of fracture, of ache turned to alchemy.
In her pages, I found my own unraveling, the silent spaces where grief curled itself around my ribs,
the weight of sorrow heavy as wet earth after the rain.
She does not rush the mending
does not insist on silver linings too soon.
Instead, she walks with us into the places we’ve been told to avoid,
the places where heartbreak lingers like a ghost waiting to be seen.
And there, with the patience of a healer,
she reminds us that wounds are not weaknesses but wisdom waiting to be recognized.
This book met me where I was, and each time I return, it meets me anew.
It is a companion for the long road, a light in the quiet dark.
Lighthorse reminds us that pain does not just hollow us out
it also makes space for the medicine we are meant to carry.
And so, I carry mine a little differently now,
with reverence instead of resistance,
with tenderness instead of fear.
Because grief, like love, reshapes us.
And healing is not forgetting but becoming