Cured
We use the word cured a lot.
Cured meat.
Cured cancer.
Cured hearts.
Cured relationships.
Same word. Very different processes.
When meat is cured, it isn’t rushed.
It’s salted. Pressured. Left alone.
Time does the work.
Salt draws things out.
Moisture. Impurities. What would eventually rot it.
It’s uncomfortable for the meat—but necessary.
No salt, no patience, no cure.
Now think about the human heart.
Healing doesn’t usually come from comfort.
It comes from pressure.
From truth.
From time spent sitting with what hurts instead of covering it up.
Cancer treatment is aggressive.
Targeted. Intentional.
It attacks what’s killing the body, even when the process itself is painful.
Broken relationships are similar.
Real repair requires exposure.
Hard conversations.
Waiting.
Letting pride dry out and fall away.
Nothing truly cured stays the same as it was before.
Curing changes things.
It preserves what matters by removing what doesn’t.
Maybe the common thread is this:
Curing is rarely gentle—but it’s always purposeful.
And maybe what feels like loss, pressure, or discomfort right now
isn’t destruction at all.
