“And if Time is anything akin to God, I suppose that Memory must be the Devil.” – Claire Fraser, Outlander
I’ve thought a lot about this line lately. It’s one of those quotes that stays with you, not because it’s dramatic, but because it’s true.
Time heals, they say. And maybe it does. It softens the edges, dulls the sting, lets you breathe again. But memory, memory doesn’t forget. Memory lingers. It plays its little tricks, sometimes like a ghost that refuses to rest.
Time may close the wound, but the scar stays.
And perhaps that’s what Claire meant, that time, like God, is merciful. It gives us distance, perspective, grace. But memory, the Devil, keeps pulling us back. It whispers, remember how that felt? Sometimes with warmth, other times with ache. The scar becomes a reminder, not just of what happened, but of what we still carry inside.
So what is time really healing? The pain, I suppose. The sharpness of it. But the memory, the scar, it stays, as it should. It reminds us of the work that’s still left to do.
There’s a song by David Guetta called Memories that puts it rather beautifully:
“All the crazy shit I did tonight
Those will be the best memories
I just wanna let it go for the night
That would be the best therapy for me.”
That lyric “I just wanna let it go” is the missing piece.
Time alone doesn’t heal. Letting go does.
And yet, I’ve struggled with that part — the letting go. Holding on feels easier sometimes, doesn’t it? We get used to the pain; it becomes familiar, almost comforting in its predictability. But pain was never meant to be a home. Eventually, it catches up with you, demanding to be felt, to be acknowledged, to be released.
That’s the divine magic of time, it confronts you with the memories exactly when you’re ready to face them. You feel the ache so deeply that there’s no choice left but to let it move through you. That’s when release becomes inevitable. After all, we were never meant to hold on to the weight of our wounds.
Healing isn’t about forgetting or staying far enough so you don’t feel its presence anymore. It’s about revisiting the pain long enough to understand it, to really feel it, and then to let it move through you instead of dodging it. That’s how time becomes divine. Because if time passes and the pain remains locked away, untouched, then memory will keep dragging you back to the same moment, again and again.
Time only heals what you allow yourself to feel.
Maybe that’s what it means to turn time into therapy. To sit with what hurts, to let the tears fall, to stop resisting the ache until, slowly, it begins to dissolve.
Feel the pain.
Let it go.
Heal.
And one day, when memory comes knocking again, it won’t hurt as much. You’ll trace the scar gently and smile, not because you’ve forgotten, but because you’ve finally made peace with remembering. Because that’s what true healing is: forgiving and remembering. Forgiving the past, yourself, and the people who became part of your pain. Not to erase what happened, but to set yourself free. Forgiveness is what transforms the scar from a mark of suffering into a symbol of survival.
And on the other side of all that feeling, after the tears, the release, the remembering comes peace. Not the fleeting kind that depends on circumstances or closure, but the quiet, grounded peace that settles in once you stop trying to control what was never meant to be. It’s a peace that doesn’t need answers. A peace that trusts that what left was never yours to hold, and what remains is exactly what’s meant to stay.
That’s when the memories soften, the body exhales, and the soul finally rests.
“Maybe peace isn’t the absence of pain, but the grace to remember without bleeding.“ – Namrata Adsul
fortuitouspurpose 