Healing as a practice: reflections on recovery
I recently read Recovery: The Lost Art of Convalescence by Gavin Francis, and it reinforced something that often gets overlooked: healing is a process. Not just the point when symptoms fade, but the ongoing, active work of recovery.
Francis, a GP with decades of experience, frames recovery as something we do, not something that simply happens. It’s more than rest or the passing of time. It’s attention, engagement, and small, deliberate actions, often taken slowly and without a clear linear path.
What convalescence means
The word comes from Latin, meaning “to grow strong again.” That strength doesn’t return the moment a prescription ends or a wound closes. Francis shares his own recovery from a childhood knee injury — months of retraining muscles, dealing with frustration, and seeing gradual improvement. He also describes patients recovering from severe illness, brain injury, depression, and long COVID. Across these stories, one point repeats: recovery takes effort and intention, even when progress isn’t visible.
Modern healthcare rarely focuses on this stage. If you’ve ever felt pressure to be “back to normal” before you were ready, you’re not alone. Francis highlights how systems, and even clinicians, can neglect the middle space between illness and health.
Recovery is more than the physical
Healing might involve regaining strength or mobility, but also adjusting routines, making sense of what happened, or coming to terms with lasting changes. It can involve grief, reflection, or rebuilding relationships. Energy levels may remain low and emotions fragile long after the acute phase ends.
Sometimes patients need permission to rest. I see this often in clinic — people frustrated not with their diagnosis, but with feeling they “should” recover faster. They want clear timelines or reassurance that they aren’t being lazy. Francis puts language to this, describing both the physical and psychological load of recovery.
The myth of passive healing
Francis describes convalescence as active. Even rest requires decisions — how to pace activity, when to move, and what environment will best support recovery. Good recovery, he writes, is like good gardening: you create the conditions for the body to do its work.
This includes movement. Not to push through pain, but to rebuild capacity. Purposeful, gradual movement supports circulation, digestion, joint function, and mental clarity. In this way, exercise becomes part of recovery, not something to start only when “fully healed.”
No fixed timetable
Recovery varies widely. Some regain physical capacity quickly but need more time for emotional adjustment. Others progress slowly over months or years. Comparisons are often unhelpful. Francis emphasises setting realistic, personal goals instead of chasing generic milestones.
Environment matters too. Recovery is often easier in calm, well-lit spaces with access to nature. Yet many people try to heal in noisy or stressful settings, which can delay progress.
The role of clinicians
Francis recognises that the bulk of recovery work is done by the patient, often supported by nurses, physiotherapists, and carers. The clinician’s role is sometimes to step back — to listen, validate, and help create the conditions for recovery.
It made me think about how often I ask patients about their environment, not just their pain or medication, and whether I help them trust the slow, often unremarkable work of convalescence.
Closing reflection
Recovery is a reminder that healing isn’t about bouncing back to where you were. It’s about participating in your own care, with patience and attention. For anyone recovering from illness, injury, burnout, or prolonged stress, this perspective can take away the pressure to rush and replace it with a clearer understanding of what healing actually involves.
