Left-Side Pain: A Powerful Messenger for My Abandoned Parts

“The body always leads us home… if we’re willing to listen.”

For over a decade, I lived in a body that tried to tell me something I wasn’t ready to hear. But eventually, it got louder—loud enough that I could no longer ignore the message.

It started with migraines—always on the left side.

Then came a string of sinus infections and dental issues—again, always on the left.

Lumps formed in my left breast. Then pain in my left ribs. Then a left-sided numbness that made doctors run MRIs for multiple sclerosis. Every test came back normal. And yet my body felt anything but.

At one point, I even developed pain in my left ovary and numbness in my left arm that made everyday tasks difficult. My body was functioning, technically. But it felt like one side of me was shutting down. Whispering. Protesting. Holding something I wasn’t acknowledging.

I joked for years that the left side of my body was trying to stage a revolt. But beneath the joke, there was a persistent unease. A question I didn’t want to ask out loud: What if my body is grieving something I haven’t let myself feel?

The Side I Abandoned

At the time, I had just left an emotionally abusive relationship. I moved to a new town where I knew no one. I had three young kids and a car that barely worked. My sister had died of breast cancer not long before—at just twenty-eight years old. It was a lot. Too much. But there was no time to fall apart.

So I stayed in motion. I hardened. I became high-functioning, resilient, always “fine.” I made sure the bills were paid and the kids were fed and my ex didn’t find us. But the cost of staying “strong” was that I stopped being real.

I didn’t have time for softness. I didn’t have space for grief. I didn’t have energy to ask for help, or even admit I needed it.

Looking back, I realize I didn’t just leave a relationship. I left myself.

Especially the softer, slower, more intuitive parts. The parts that cried easily. The parts that curled up under warm blankets and asked for hugs. The parts that allowed joy, or creativity, or even rest.

Those parts felt dangerous in a life where survival was the only priority.

And so I shut them down.

The Feminine Side—Ignored and Inflamed

In many spiritual and energetic traditions, the left side of the body is associated with the feminine. With receptivity, emotion, intuition, nurturance, the moon, and the mother. The right side is often associated with the masculine—doing, pushing, controlling, achieving.

I lived almost entirely on my right side. Doing everything. Controlling what I could. Shoving every feeling down so deep I couldn’t even find it anymore.

My left side? The part of me that received, softened, surrendered, and felt? She was abandoned.

And slowly, painfully, she began to break down.

How My Body Spoke When I Couldn’t

Looking back now, I see that the symptoms weren’t random. They were brilliant. My body was communicating in the only way I was willing to listen—through physical discomfort. Through pain. Through pattern.

It mirrored the exact parts of me I’d been taught—by trauma, by culture, by survival—to suppress.

The part of me that needed softness. The part that longed to grieve. The part that wanted to be held, not just hold everything together.

My body wasn’t malfunctioning—it was mourning.

She was grieving the years I spent in silence. She was exhausted from pretending everything was fine. She was desperate for me to come back to her.

Coming Home, Slowly

There was no single “aha” moment. No diagnosis. No major spiritual breakthrough. Just slow remembering. Tiny rebellions against the numbness.

I started walking every morning in silence—no music, no podcast. Just me, the trees, and the sound of my breath.

I sat outside with my tea and watched the steam rise instead of scrolling. I held my gaze in the mirror and whispered, “I miss you. Let’s try again.”

I cried when I needed to. And sometimes when I didn’t.

I laid my hand on my chest—on the left side—and said, “I see you. I hear you. I’m here.” Some days that was all I could do. Some days, that was enough.

There were setbacks. There were moments I judged myself for not doing more. But I kept showing up with softness, even when shame tried to drag me back into survival mode.

I stopped forcing joy. I stopped apologizing for being tired. I stopped pretending that “holding it all together” was some kind of virtue. Instead, I made a quiet commitment to hold myself.

The Invisible Work of Healing

Healing wasn’t dramatic. It didn’t look impressive from the outside. It was the kind of work no one sees: turning down invitations when you need rest. Letting a load of laundry sit in the dryer while you sit with your feelings instead. Choosing softness when your old patterns scream for control.

I read about nervous system regulation and the vagus nerve. I learned how trauma isn’t just psychological—it’s physical. It lives in the tissues, the fascia, the breath. It hides in clenched jaws and tight hips and shallow breathing.

I began doing slow, gentle movements that made me feel safe in my body again—not “fit,” not “productive”—just safe. I allowed myself to stretch like I was worthy of space. I let go of the voice in my head that told me I needed to earn rest, joy, or ease.

I took salt baths and made art for no reason. I danced barefoot in the kitchen with no audience. I let myself want things again—connection, affection, softness, stillness, beauty.

And little by little, my body responded.

The pain in my ribs faded. The left-side migraines stopped. The numbness disappeared. Not all at once—but piece by piece. As if my body was slowly exhaling after holding her breath for years.

The Lesson I Needed to Learn

I used to think healing meant “fixing” myself. That the goal was to return to the woman I was before everything fell apart.

Now I know: the woman I was before never felt safe. She was praised for being strong because no one knew how scared she was. She needed to break down.

What I was really doing wasn’t fixing—I was reclaiming. Reclaiming my softness. Reclaiming my truth. Reclaiming the right to be a human being—not a machine of performance and perfection.

And now? I’m still learning. Still learning that healing isn’t linear. Still learning to trust the wisdom of my body. Still learning that when something aches, it’s not always a sign of brokenness—it may be a signal for attention. For love.

So if you’re reading this and you’ve been in pain—emotionally, physically, energetically—I want you to know this:

You are not broken. You are not failing. And you are not alone.

Sometimes our pain is simply asking us to slow down and feel what we’ve been too afraid to feel. Sometimes our symptoms are sacred messages: Come home to yourself. Not as you were. But as you are now. Whole. Worthy. And ready.

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