Psalm 139:14-16: I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; Your works are wonderful, I know that full well. My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place, when I was woven together in the depths of the earth.Your eyes saw my unformed body; All the day’s ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be

Meaning: God’s character goes into the creation of every person. When you feel worthless or even begin to hate yourself, remember that god’s spirit is ready and willing to work within you because of Jesus Christ. We are new persons, so we should have so much respect in regard for ourselves as our maker has for us.

Reflection: What hurts are still inside me?

I never really know where to start with this question, because the pain in me isn’t neat or labeled — it’s more like these underground roots that twist and choke each other, growing in the dark. Some days I feel like the deepest hurt is that nobody protected me. Other days it’s the ache of realizing nobody even saw me enough to care. And then there are days where the loneliness hits me like a cold wind — the kind you feel in your bones, not on your skin.

But then there are the buried things. The secrets. The ones that sit like stones at the bottom of a lake… heavy, silent, untouched. Some people know pieces. Little slivers. But the whole truth? The raw, ugly, fragile truth? That’s a story the world hasn’t heard, especially the people who judge from the safety of their perfect little glass houses.

And honestly, the hurt that burns the sharpest is the question I never stop circling: How could anyone have saved me when I never let a sound escape?

That’s where the sting really is — like a bee that got trapped under my skin years ago and still hasn’t died.

So now I carry the weight of blaming myself. I blame myself for not screaming loud enough. For not asking for help. For letting the adults I trusted wrap their hands around my voice and press “mute.” I blame myself for not protecting myself when, at the end of the day, I was the only one who even tried.

And yet… the more I admit all this, the more I realize these hurts aren’t just wounds. They’re ghosts. They linger, but they don’t get to define me forever. But for now? I see them. I name them. I stop pretending they’re not living under my ribs.

Because acknowledging them — that’s the first time in a long time I’m not keeping anything a secret.

XOXO, The Healing Wildflower