Philippians 4:7

Reflection: Where do I crave peace the most?

I crave peace the most in the versions of me that never got it. The little girl who learned fear before she learned safety. The teenage girl who learned survival before she learned softness. The girl who was betrayed by the very people who were supposed to be her shelter, her covering, her home.

I crave peace in my childhood. It’s not because I want to relive it. It’s because so much of it is still living inside me. It lives in my body. In my reflexes. In the way my shoulders tense when voices get loud. In the way my heart still braces for impact when love feels conditional. In the way I instinctively prepare to be punished for existing.

I crave peace for the child who was abandoned emotionally. This child was abused physically. They were taught—explicitly and implicitly—that love could turn violent without warning. The child who learned that obedience equaled safety and silence equaled survival. The child who learned that being “good” was the only way to stay alive.

Even now, I am a grown woman. I am a mother. I am someone who knows better. Yet, that fear still lingers in my bones. The fear of being a bad mom. The fear of repeating cycles I swore I would burn to the ground. The fear that one wrong move will prove every lie I was ever told about myself.

There is a particular kind of terror that comes from becoming the parent you never had. Because suddenly, you are responsible for protecting innocence — and you know exactly how fragile it is. You know exactly how easy it is to shatter. And that knowledge can make you hyper-vigilant, exhausted, constantly scanning for danger that may or may not come.

I crave peace from the fear of my father. I crave peace from the memories of what he was capable of. There is a lingering sense that I am never fully safe. I worry that harm could still reach me or my children. Even when logic says otherwise, my nervous system doesn’t forget. Trauma doesn’t forget. The body keeps score, even when the mind wants to move on.

What haunts me most is that I can see the trauma bonds clearly now. I can name them. Identify them. Lay them out in front of me like evidence. And still… I struggle to let go. Not because I don’t know the truth — but because walking away has a cost. Because setting boundaries means being misunderstood. Because choosing peace sometimes means being painted as the villain in someone else’s story. That terrifies the part of me trained to keep the peace at all costs. This happened even if it cost me myself.

I crave peace from the fear of being “the bad guy.” From the lifelong conditioning that says my needs are dangerous, my boundaries are cruel, my truth is too much. From the voice that whispers, If you protect yourself, you will be punished.

But here’s the holy truth I am slowly learning. Sometimes, I have to relearn it daily. God is not asking me to carry what He never intended me to survive alone. He is not asking me to stay bound to what wounded me. He is not calling me to sacrifice my children on the altar of someone else’s comfort.

The peace I crave is not found in pretending it didn’t hurt. It’s found in letting God re-parent the parts of me that were never protected. It’s found in breaking agreements I made with fear when I was too young to know better. It’s found in choosing safety, even when it makes people uncomfortable.

Peace, for me, looks like this: A mother who is present, not perfect. A woman who speaks truth, even when her voice shakes. A daughter who no longer confuses fear with love. A child of God who understands that distance can be holy.

I am learning that craving peace is not weakness — it is wisdom. It is my soul remembering what it was always meant to have. And even if I don’t fully have it yet, I trust that God is gentle. He is gentle with the parts of me that are still afraid. Because He has been protecting me longer than I’ve been protecting myself.

Closing Prayer:

God,

I bring You the versions of me that never felt safe. The child who learned fear too early. The mother who carries the weight of doing better. The woman who is tired of surviving and ready to rest. Heal what still flinches inside me. Untangle the trauma bonds I formed to survive. Give me courage to choose peace, even when it costs me approval. Remind me that I am not the villain for protecting what You entrusted to me. Re-parent my heart. Calm my nervous system. Guard my children. And teach me what peace feels like — not just spiritually, but bodily, deeply, finally.

Amen

XOXO, The Healing Wildflower