Healing in Inches, Not Leaps

One of my guiding principles is that the universe is always communicating with us, so when something unusual happens – like this week – I pay attention. The other day, something small and slender drooped from the top bar of my shower stall. Was it caulk? The glue unfurling? No. It was a millipede.

For context, I live on the second floor, and my bathroom is nowhere near anything natural like a tree. Also, I’ve lived here for nearly 11 years, and I’ve never seen a millipede in my home before. In other words, this isn’t a common occurrence. This millipede essentially appeared out of thin air, and I’m choosing to believe it was to tell me something.

I googled the shamanic meaning of millipede and nothing resonated until I read a post from the website Symbols and Synchronicity, where the author wrote that millipedes are messengers. “Not messengers in the way of grand declarations, but gentle ones—quiet teachers reminding us that transformation is not always loud,” she said. “Many traditions hold them close, seeing in their patient crawl the essence of protection, endurance, and hidden strength. . .The millipede, coiling slow and sure, brings lessons in groundedness and trust in the path beneath our feet.”

I won’t quote the entire piece – even though it’s gorgeous and I recommend reading it – but here are a few more parts that jumped out at me: “[The millipede] teaches in silence. No bark, no roar, no teeth. But you follow her for a while and she’ll show you how to go on when everything says stop. She’ll teach you to live like the forest floor lives: slow, patient, making something rich out of all that has fallen apart.”

And one more quote: “So if she comes, stop. Get low. Lay your palm to the ground and say thank you. For the lesson. For the witness. For the reminder that the slow way is not the wrong way. That you can lose things, many things, and still go on. That your healing, like hers, may come not in leaps—but in inches. And that is holy, too.”

When I read the piece from Symbols and Synchronicity, tears started streaming down my cheeks, and even now I’m getting choked up, because this year has been like that. Losing things, grieving dreams, releasing old ways of being. It’s been a deep and slow healing process. And oftentimes I feel like I’m backsliding, that I’m not making any progress at all. But then I get a message from the millipede, who says, “You’re healing in inches.”

No one else may notice the healing; I might not be able to broadcast it like a story on the 6 o’clock news, but it’s happening. This subtle growth is fitting for the season we’re in, too, in the Northern hemisphere. Winter is about hibernation, taking things slow. I know that’s counter to the messaging we get around the holidays but that doesn’t make it any less true.

The millipede reminds us to go slow, to remember slow is not bad or wrong. Sometimes it’s the only way and it’s still beautiful and worthwhile. Sometimes healing happens in inches, not leaps, and it’s still worth celebrating.

I dream of a world where we understand healing doesn’t always look the way we expect it to look. A world where we recognize it’s often slow and deep. A world where we celebrate the progress we’ve made, even if no one else can see it. A world where we remember that sometimes healing happens in inches, not leaps.

Another world is not only possible, it’s probable.