Reflect: What is God restoring in me right now?

1 Peter 5:6–10

Part I: God Is Restoring My Body — The Place Where Trauma Lived First

Before I ever had language for what happened to me, my body already knew. It learned fear before it learned safety. It learned tension before it learned rest. It learned how to stay alert. It learned how to read a room. It learned how to brace for the next sound, the next explosion, the next loss. My body carried the weight of my childhood long before my mind understood it.

God is restoring that part of me now.

He is restoring the little girl who slept through screaming walls. She learned that silence was protection. She knew exactly how loud footsteps meant danger. Also, she understood how quiet meant something was wrong. My body learned to live clenched—jaw tight, shoulders raised, breath shallow. It learned to survive homes where love and fear lived in the same rooms. Where alcohol changed faces. Where doors broke. Where safety was unpredictable. After my mother died, my body learned abandonment in a way words still struggle to touch. Grief didn’t come gently—it crashed. My body remembers the moment my knees gave out. The weight of being carried when I couldn’t hold myself up. The way time stopped, but my heart kept beating anyway. From that moment on, my body believed: nothing is permanent, and anyone can be taken.

I lived braced. Even in adulthood. Even in calm. Even in love.

God is restoring my nervous system—the part of me that reacts before I realize why. The flinch. The sudden tears. The exhaustion that comes from always being “on.” He is teaching my body that rest is not dangerous. That calm is not a setup. That I don’t have to earn peace by suffering first. He is teaching my body that it no longer lives in the house it grew up in.

That the yelling is over. That the chaos has passed. That I am not twelve anymore. I am figuring out how to eat and survive. I am learning how to exist alone inside grief that came too early. God is restoring my relationship with my physical self. This is the body I once punished, numbed, ignored, or pushed past its limits just to keep going. The body that held addiction, withdrawal, anxiety, grief, and motherhood all at once. The body that kept breathing when my soul was tired.

He is whispering to my body now: You are safe here. And slowly—sometimes painfully—my body is learning to believe Him.

Part II: God Is Restoring My Soul — The Places Where I Learned the Wrong Names for Myself

My soul learned lies early.

It learned that love disappears. That adults can’t be trusted. That silence keeps you safer than truth. That your needs make you a burden. That pain is something you endure, not something you heal.

My soul learned shame before it learned compassion. Shame for what was done to me before I even had words. Shame for not speaking sooner. Shame for surviving in ways that weren’t pretty. Shame for coping the only way I knew how. Shame for believing for a long time. I thought that if I had just been better, quieter, or stronger, things would have turned out differently.

God is restoring my identity now.

He is peeling back the labels trauma gave me. He is returning me to the truth of who I was before the wounds. He is reminding me that I was not created to carry the sins of the people who raised me. I was not created to carry their addictions or their violence. That their brokenness does not define my worth. That I was never responsible for their choices.

He is restoring my voice—the one that learned to swallow pain to keep peace. The one that learned speaking up had consequences. The one that learned honesty can cost safety. God is teaching me that my voice is not dangerous. That truth does not make me unlovable. That boundaries are not rejection—they are wisdom.

He is restoring my ability to trust love without waiting for it to end. For so long, love felt temporary. Conditional. Fragile. I learned to hold it lightly because loss felt inevitable. Even joy came with guilt—like enjoying life meant betraying the grief I carried. God is gently restoring my capacity to accept love without bracing for abandonment. To stay current instead of preparing for heartbreak.

God is restoring my motherhood—not by erasing my past, but by redeeming it. He is showing me that I am not repeating cycles—I am breaking them. That the very awareness my childhood forced on me has made me protective, attentive, emotionally available. That I am doing something radically different simply by choosing safety, honesty, and consistency for my children. He is restoring my confidence that I am enough—not perfect, but deeply intentional.

God is restoring my hope—but not the loud, naive kind.

This hope is quiet. Steady. Weathered. The kind that says: I have survived things that should have destroyed me, and I am still here. The kind that trusts God even when grief still visits. The kind that believes healing is happening even when some days still ache.

Most of all, God is restoring my belief that I am allowed to take up space. That I don’t have to shrink to be loved. That I don’t have to suffer to be spiritual. That joy is not disrespectful to my past—it is proof that God is still working.

I am not being rushed. I am not being overlooked. I am not behind. I am being restored—patiently, intentionally, lovingly—by a God who saw every moment I thought no one noticed. And like every wildflower that grows through places it was never meant to survive… my restoration is quiet, stubborn, holy, and unstoppable ✨

Closing Prayer: A Prayer for Restoration

God, Thank You for being patient with the parts of me that are still learning how to trust You. Thank You for staying when my healing feels slow. Thank You for staying when my body still flinches. Thank You for staying when my soul still remembers things I wish it didn’t. Thank You for continuously restoring what trauma tried to claim as permanent. Teach my body that it is no longer living in survival mode. Remind my nervous system that peace is not a trap, and rest is not a weakness. Teach me how to breathe again without bracing for impact. Teach my body that it is safe to soften in Your presence.

Lord, restore my soul where it learned the wrong names for itself. Where shame told me I was broken. Where silence convinced me, I was invisible. Where pain tried to rewrite my identity. Replace every lie with Your truth. Call me by the name You gave me before the wounds, before the losses, before the grief.

Help me trust Your restoration even when it doesn’t look dramatic. Even when it comes quietly. Even when it shows up as small moments of peace instead of instant healing. Remind me that You are not in a hurry. Nothing in me is too damaged for You to rebuild.

God, restore my joy without guilt. Restore my hope without fear. Restore my ability to accept love without waiting for it to leave. Teach me how to take up space without apology. Teach me how to live without shrinking. I place every version of myself—past, current, and still becoming—into Your hands. The child who survived. The woman who is healing. The future I am still learning to trust. Continue the work You have started in me. Root it deep. Make it last. Make it holy.

And when I forget how far I’ve come, remind me. I am not who I was. I am not where I started. I am not walking this road alone.

In Jesus’ name, Amen 🤍🌾

X.O.X.O. The Healing Wildflower