This Is Healing

Josef Strecker

https://sarahlheringer.substack.com/ Wife. Witness. Writer. Survivor. Reluctant activist. Relentless truth-teller .I did not ask for this. But I will not look away. On June 4, 2025, my husband Patrick was murdered in our home while protecting me from a man who should never have been free. A man with a violent record, with open warrants, with a past the city ignored—and a blade in his hand. Patrick died in my arms.There are no metaphors for that. Only blood, memory, and silence.What followed was the unraveling of everything I thought was safe.What I write here is not for spectacle. It is not curated grief. It is not a campaign. It is a reckoning. With systems. With silence. With myself. I write because I need somewhere to put it.The grief. The fury. The facts. The failures.I write about public safety because no one else will say the quiet part out loud: that our leaders are protecting power, not people. That our systems are engineered to delay, distract, and discard the victims. That negligence is not a policy—it’s a pattern.I write about trauma in real time. I record podcasts from the dead center of it. Not once I’ve healed, but while I’m trying to.You’ll hear my voice shake. You’ll hear me try to laugh. You’ll hear a woman unlearning how to be agreeable and learning instead how to be impossible.Because being impossible might be the only way anything changes. This publication is a record.A record of a woman fighting for her own life after the one she loved was taken. A record of a broken city pretending it’s functioning. A record of truth-telling in a landscape built on press releases and public amnesia.There is poetry here. Not the pretty kind. The kind found at the bottom of grief, where language turns feral and light only filters in when you stop pretending you’re okay.There is politics here. But not in the way you’ve seen it. This is not partisan. It’s personal. This is about justice that was promised and never delivered.This is about what needs to be said, what needs to be burned down, and what must be rebuilt in its place. If you're here, I hope it’s because you’re willing to look.Not just at the facts, but at the fractures. Not just at the grief, but at what it demands of us.Because I am not a victim. I am what comes after. And I’m not writing this to be understood. I’m writing it so no one can say they didn’t know.Welcome to the fight. Welcome to the fire.

  1. Apr 1

    This is Healing — Liminal Timeline

    I went to turn on music before hitting record and it logged into Patrick's account. Not mine. His. And I just sat there — because that is exactly how grief works. Not in the dramatic moments. In the quiet ones that slip in without warning and take everything for a second. This episode is called Liminal Timeline because that is where I am. The in-between. Not who I was and not yet whoever comes next. This week I flew to Cincinnati for the second hearing of the Reagan Tokes Patrick Heringer Act — the legislation that carries Patrick's name — and then drove twelve and a half hours to Omaha with no space in between. By Friday I had nothing left. My nervous system was done. I couldn't show up for Rae the way I wanted to. I couldn't fake being okay. And I stopped trying. In this episode I talk about what it actually costs to be functional in rooms that require it. I talk about walking back into Cincinnati — a city that holds the version of my life that no longer exists — and not being able to cry there. I talk about the jaguar mask I got tattooed on my body in Omaha, what the shaman heals first, and why that mask has been living in my mind since Patrick and I went to Costa Rica together. I talk about how grief has changed my sacral authority in Human Design, why hotels will never feel the same, what MDMA opened on a Wednesday when I was looking for relief, and what came through when it did: love yourself the way that Patrick loved you. And I talk about spring arriving early in the Colorado mountains — the most beautiful spring I can remember — and how beauty doesn't soften grief. It sharpens it. Every beautiful thing is a reminder of what exists. And who isn't here to see it. "Still being here isn't the same as being okay. It's just still being here. And sometimes that's enough." This Is Healing is my real-time account of navigating grief and loss. I am not the gold standard. I am not doing this right. I am learning the shape of it by impact. If you have been putting words to something you've been carrying for a long time — I think that thing might be grief. This episode is for you. Subscribe. Leave a comment. Send questions — I'm answering them in the descriptions. #grief #healing #thisishealing #liminalspace #grieving #widowsfire #humandesign #mentalhealthpodcast #loss #podcast

About

https://sarahlheringer.substack.com/ Wife. Witness. Writer. Survivor. Reluctant activist. Relentless truth-teller .I did not ask for this. But I will not look away. On June 4, 2025, my husband Patrick was murdered in our home while protecting me from a man who should never have been free. A man with a violent record, with open warrants, with a past the city ignored—and a blade in his hand. Patrick died in my arms.There are no metaphors for that. Only blood, memory, and silence.What followed was the unraveling of everything I thought was safe.What I write here is not for spectacle. It is not curated grief. It is not a campaign. It is a reckoning. With systems. With silence. With myself. I write because I need somewhere to put it.The grief. The fury. The facts. The failures.I write about public safety because no one else will say the quiet part out loud: that our leaders are protecting power, not people. That our systems are engineered to delay, distract, and discard the victims. That negligence is not a policy—it’s a pattern.I write about trauma in real time. I record podcasts from the dead center of it. Not once I’ve healed, but while I’m trying to.You’ll hear my voice shake. You’ll hear me try to laugh. You’ll hear a woman unlearning how to be agreeable and learning instead how to be impossible.Because being impossible might be the only way anything changes. This publication is a record.A record of a woman fighting for her own life after the one she loved was taken. A record of a broken city pretending it’s functioning. A record of truth-telling in a landscape built on press releases and public amnesia.There is poetry here. Not the pretty kind. The kind found at the bottom of grief, where language turns feral and light only filters in when you stop pretending you’re okay.There is politics here. But not in the way you’ve seen it. This is not partisan. It’s personal. This is about justice that was promised and never delivered.This is about what needs to be said, what needs to be burned down, and what must be rebuilt in its place. If you're here, I hope it’s because you’re willing to look.Not just at the facts, but at the fractures. Not just at the grief, but at what it demands of us.Because I am not a victim. I am what comes after. And I’m not writing this to be understood. I’m writing it so no one can say they didn’t know.Welcome to the fight. Welcome to the fire.