The person who is herido pero aún caminando knows that a scar is not a finish line. It is a seam. It is where the torn fabric of your life was stitched back together by a thread of stubborn will. It is ugly, it pulls when it rains, but it holds.
But life happens in the messy, glorious, exhausting middle.
In Spanish, the word herido comes from the same root as herida (wound) and herir (to strike). It implies a blow that was meant to stop you. And yet, caminando is a gerund—an ongoing action. It is not “I walked” (past) or “I will walk” (future). It is I am walking right now, through the pain, in real time. herido pero aun caminando
But to walk—to put one foot in front of the other toward the coffee maker, toward the mailbox, toward the office—that is a declaration: I am more than this rupture.
When you are betrayed by a lover, and your chest feels like a collapsed building, the natural instinct is to lie down. To cancel plans. To pull the covers over your head and let the world spin without you. The person who is herido pero aún caminando
There is a specific kind of silence that follows a great fall. It is not the silence of peace, but the silence of disbelief—the moment after the crash when the dust hasn’t settled yet, and you are lying on the ground waiting to feel the pain.
Adjust your shoulder. Breathe through the stitch in your side. Look up at the horizon, even if it’s blurry. It is ugly, it pulls when it rains, but it holds
Herido, sí. Pero aún caminando.