The Kind of Hugs That Heal You

I love hugs. Not the flimsy, barely-there kind, I mean the full-bodied, heart-pressed-to-heart, don’t-let-go-yet kind. The kind that feels like language wrapped in arms. The kind that makes something in your chest crack open, quietly, safely. The kind that says, “You don’t have to do this alone.”

Maybe it’s the U.S. Military Tap Out videos I have been watching lately, the way people break, and weep, and reach their limits. There is something raw about watching grown men and women collapse under the weight of memory, or a woman scream out decades of silent pain. And often, the response to all that emotion is not a lecture. It is a hug. One of those long ones. The ones that don't just soothe, they see.

Watching it made me realize: I crave that too. I crave softness in a world that asks me to be hard. I crave being held, not just noticed.

When I was younger, I used to flinch at touch. Not always visibly, but internally, something about it felt too tender, too risky. I had mastered the art of holding it all in. I could be in a room full of people and still feel like an island. And in those moments, when the silence got too loud, what I craved was not advice or pep talks. I craved a hug.

But not just any hug. I craved the kind of hug that says “Don’t talk, just breathe. I have got you.” The kind where someone wraps you up like a favorite blanket, and you do not have to shrink or perform or explain yourself. You just get to be.

I remember once crying on the floor of a bathroom, the kind of cry where your chest tightens and the sobs are silent at first, then loud and sharp like breaking glass. I’d just had a conversation that pierced through old wounds I did not even know were still bleeding. I was not ready for the honesty it unearthed.

As I walked out, still puffy-eyed, one of the men, a friend I barely knew then, did not say a word. He just opened her arms. And I stepped into his chest like a child coming in from the cold. That hug was not long. Maybe thirty seconds. But in those thirty seconds, I felt held. Not just physically, but emotionally. Spiritually. Held in a way I did not know I needed.

There is something sacred about the act of embracing. Think about it: when people are celebrating, what do they do? Hug. When people are grieving, what do they do? Hug. At airports and weddings, at funerals and baby showers, arms are constantly reaching for each other. Sometimes with laughter. Sometimes with tears. Sometimes with trembling silence.

I have watched grown men, stoic and proud, fall into the arms of someone they trust and completely come undone. And I have watched them walk away lighter. Not because the hug erased their pain, but because it shared the weight of it.

That Day in a Micra Cab

I remember a day two years ago. I was on my way to the bank. It was a regular, boring sort of day, and I flagged down a Micra, those tiny, slightly battered cabs that look like they are on the verge of retirement. I got in, ready to mind my business and count down the minutes till the ride was over.

But then, surpriseeee. Sitting inside was someone I had not seen in five years. Let me clarify: not a close friend, but someone I knew through her cousin, who is a friend. We were cordial in Pre-degree and University. Not tight, not deep. Just friendly. And yet, the moment she saw me, her joy exploded.

She screamed my name like she had just seen Jesus walking on water. She flung her arms around me, as much as a cramped Micra would allow and squealed with delight. And when she could not hug me properly, she grabbed my hand and held it. Tightly. Like if she lets go, I will disappear again for another five years.

Her excitement was contagious. I felt warm all over. Not because we were close, but because her joy was real. I know fake excitement. I have seen the kind of hugs people give out of obligation or performance. That was not it. This was sincere. She was glad to see me, and every fiber of her body said so. That moment reminded me: sometimes the deepest connections come from unexpected places. It was about presence. About being seen and being remembered. About how touch, even a handiclasp in a rickety Micra can bridge the gap that time creates.

The Best Hugger I Know

But if we are going to talk about unforgettable hugs, let us talk about my friend turned sister, Victoria B (Yeah, she is my namesake). Victoria is, without a doubt, the best hugger I know. If they handed out trophies for hugs, hers would be gold-plated, encrusted with glitter, and engraved with “Queen of Comfort.”

She does not just hug. She arrives. If she sees me from afar, I already know what is coming. She starts running. Not casually walking, running, like we are in a movie, like she has been waiting her whole life for this exact moment. Her arms are stretched wide open, her smile is too big for her face, and by the time she gets to me, it is over.

She does not just wrap her arms around me. She throws them around me. She pulls me close, grabs me like I am air and she has been holding her breath. And then, as if that is not enough, she spins me around a little, laughter bubbling from her lips, and says it every single time: “Vickyyy, I love you sooo much.”

My Sisters and the Gate

And then there are my younger sisters. God, I love their hugs. I treasure them. Because their hugs do not just feel good, they feel like home.

I cannot think of anything that matches the joy of coming back after being away for a while, maybe weeks, maybe months and pulling up to our house. That moment when the gate creaks open, and before I even step down from the vehicle, I hear their voices. High-pitched. Bursting with excitement. Full of love. They come running. Actually running, not a light jog, not a casual stroll, but the full-on sprint of girls who have missed their big sister like crazy. Their faces light up like it is Christmas morning. Their eyes sparkle with the kind of joy that cannot be faked, the kind that cannot be contained. They don’t wait for me to walk in. Oh no. They leap, both of them, at the same time and wrap themselves around me like they are trying to glue me to the earth with their love.

And at that moment? I almost fall. Every time. I stagger a little, try to plant my feet firmly on the ground, because carrying the weight of two giggling, jumping girls while holding back my own tears of joy? That is a kind of strength they do not teach in the gym. They don’t let go quickly. They squeeze me tight like they are trying to make up for all the time I have been away. Like they are trying to tell me: “We missed you. So much.” “You belong here.” “Don’t stay away too long next time.” And I don’t want them to let go either. Because in that squeeze, in that tumble of laughter and tangled limbs and “You are back!!!”, I remember just how loved I am. I remember what it means to be known, to be seen, to be missed. It is not just a welcome, it is a celebration. They celebrate me like I am the best part of their day. And maybe that is what makes it so powerful. In their arms, I am not “the one who has to be strong.” I am not “the adult.” I am just their sister. Their safe place. Their hero. Their home.

Those hugs speak loudly, without saying a word. They say: “We love you. To bits.” And they mean every single bit of it.

Why I Still Believe in Softness

I think that is what makes hugs sacred. They interrupt our independence with intimacy. They say, “You are not alone.” They say, “You are loved, not for what you do, but for who you are.”

In a world that often keeps us guarded, polished, and pretending, hugs strip us down to the basics: Arms. Warmth. Presence. Honesty. You cannot fake a good hug. You cannot rush it. You cannot lie while giving one, not the real kind. It requires heart. It requires stillness. It requires being there. And maybe that is why I have always believed in softness. Because I have carried too much alone. Because I have had to be strong for too long. Because I have lived in my head, fought silent battles, smiled through pain. But a hug? A real one? It holds the version of me I don’t often let the world see.

So yes, I love hugs. I love the surprise ones from long-lost “not-quite-friends” in Micras. I love the dramatic, spinning, joy-filled ones from Victoria B. I love the way the U.S. Military Tap Out videos reminds me that even the strongest people crumble, and that hugs, simple, pure, present hugs, often hold what words cannot fix.

And maybe, more than anything, I love that hugs teach us something simple: That love is meant to be felt. That presence is more powerful than perfection. That arms can speak volumes. That being held does not mean you are weak, it means you are human.

So, Here is What I Hope for You: If you have ever been held in a way that made the world disappear, I hope you never forget that feeling. And if you haven’t? I pray that softness finds you. In a hug. In a voice. In a person who runs toward you, arms wide open, heart wide open, just to say: “I am glad you are here.”

A good hug has timing. It is not rushed. It does not pat your back like it is hurrying you along. It lingers. It tells your nervous system, “You are safe now.” It slows your breathing. It grounds you. I think of mothers hugging their children after a nightmare. I think of friends collapsing into each other’s arms after years apart. I think of lovers in airports, the tight squeezes, the silent promises. I think of siblings after fights, coworkers after breakdowns, strangers offering each other human kindness in hospital waiting rooms.

And then I think of the hugs I did not get. The ones I needed and never asked for. The ones I tried to substitute with busyness. The ones I dismissed because I did not want to look needy. There is a kind of pride that keeps you from leaning in. But I have learned, slowly and sometimes painfully, that needing to be held does not make you weak. It makes you human.

We all need to fall apart sometimes. We all need to rest our heads on someone’s shoulder and say, “I don’t have it in me today.” We all need the warmth of another body saying, “I know. I know. You don’t have to.”

I have given hugs to people mid-panic attack, and I have felt their breathing sync with mine. I have hugged people who were grieving the loss of someone they loved, and I have felt them release a sadness too heavy for words. I have held friends who did not even know they needed to cry until my arms gave them permission to. And I have received hugs that healed something I could not name. That whispered “stay” when my thoughts wanted to run.

So yes, I love hugs. I love how they close the space between us. How they say, “You are not too much. You are not alone. You are not beyond being loved.” Sometimes, I imagine the arms of God like that. Not distant or punishing, but wide open. Ready. Willing. Waiting. For me. For you.

I think if we hugged more, really hugged, we would argue less. We would see the humanity in each other more quickly. We would remember that beneath every mask, every achievement, every defense mechanism is someone aching to be seen and soothed. And we will both be okay. Because I love hugs and I believe, wholeheartedly, that they love us back.

If this moved you, share it with someone you love. Or leave a comment below, tell me: Who gives you the kind of hug that heals you?