Healing as a practice: reflections on recovery

I recently read Recovery: The Lost Art of Convalescence by Gavin Francis, and it left me with a deepened sense of respect for something we often overlook — the process of healing. Not just the moment when symptoms subside, but the quiet, active work of convalescence. As a clinician, I’ve seen countless people rush through recovery or feel guilty for not “bouncing back.” This book challenged that mindset. It reminded me — and now I hope, reminds you — that healing is not something that just happens to us. It’s something we participate in.

Francis is a GP with decades of experience, and what struck me most about his reflections was the idea that recovery is an act, not a passive waiting period. It’s not just rest. It’s not just time. It’s attention, engagement, and care — often in slow, subtle, non-linear ways.

What Is Convalescence, Really?

The word convalescence comes from Latin, meaning "to grow strong again." That growth doesn't happen automatically the moment a prescription ends or a wound closes. Francis recounts his own experience recovering from a knee injury in childhood — the months of retraining his muscles, the frustration, the slow return of function. He also reflects on patients recovering from severe illness, brain injuries, depression, and long COVID. In each story, the message is clear: healing takes effort and intention, even when progress is invisible.

So why do we rarely talk about this stage of illness? In modern medicine, we often treat recovery like a footnote. If you’ve ever felt like you were supposed to be “back to normal” when your body told you otherwise, you’re not alone. Francis calls attention to how society — and even healthcare systems — neglect the middle space between illness and health. He argues that in our pursuit of cures, we’ve lost sight of the everyday labour of getting better.

Recovery Is Not Just Physical

One of the most powerful points Francis makes is that recovery is multidimensional. Healing might include regaining strength or mobility, but also learning how to live with new limitations, adjusting routines, or making sense of a disruptive experience. It might include grief, reflection, or rebuilding relationships. He reminds us that it’s common to feel disoriented, low in energy, or emotionally fragile even after the acute phase of illness passes.

Sometimes, patients just need permission to rest. I’ve seen this in clinic — people struggling not with their diagnosis, but with the pressure to "get over it" quickly. They ask for timelines, clear goals, or reassurance that they’re not being lazy. This book helped put language around that — not just the physical load of healing, but the psychological load of being allowed to heal.

The Myth of Passive Healing

Perhaps the most enduring idea in Recovery is this: convalescence is an active process. Even rest, when done well, requires decisions — how to pace yourself, when to move, what environments support healing. Francis compares good recovery to good gardening: it’s less about doing everything, and more about creating the right conditions for the body to do what it’s built to do.

This includes moving your body — not to push through pain or prove resilience, but because movement is medicine. As your strength returns, so does your confidence. Gradual, purposeful movement helps the body reorient itself. It supports circulation, digestion, joint function, and mental clarity. In this sense, exercise becomes part of recovery, not something that waits until you’re “fully healed.”

There Is No Universal Timetable

A key message in the book is that every recovery is unique. Some people regain physical capacity quickly but need more time for emotional processing. Others rebuild slowly but steadily over months or even years. Comparing recoveries — whether your own past experiences or someone else’s journey — is often unhelpful. Francis reminds us that setting realistic, personal goals is more effective than chasing abstract benchmarks.

He also speaks about the importance of environment — clean, calm spaces with natural light and access to green areas. This might sound obvious, but it’s remarkable how often patients recover in environments that are noisy, overstimulating, or emotionally charged. Recovery flourishes where the nervous system feels safe.

The Role of Clinicians and Carers

Francis speaks with humility about his role as a doctor. He acknowledges that much of the real work of recovery is done not by doctors, but by nurses, physiotherapists, carers — and most importantly, by the patient themselves. As clinicians, our job isn’t always to intervene; sometimes, it’s to listen, validate, and support people in creating space for their own healing process.

I found myself reflecting on how often I ask my patients about their healing environments — not just their pain levels or medications. How often do I encourage them to trust the slow, unglamorous work of convalescence?

Final Thoughts

Reading Recovery felt like being given permission to pause. To honour the effort it takes to come back from illness. To see healing not as a return to who we were, but as a movement toward something quieter, deeper, and possibly more resilient.

If you’re currently recovering — from surgery, burnout, long illness, or simply exhaustion — I hope this encourages you. Healing is a process. It isn’t about pushing harder or bouncing back. It’s about participating in your own care, with patience, attention, and compassion.