Isaiah 61:1: “he has sent me to bind up the broken hearted”

Reflection: Where do I still feel broken?

This question stopped me in my tracks before my fingers could even start typing. Where do I still feel broken? In places I don’t even have names for.

There are cracks in me that started forming long before I could spell “mental health,” and they’ve followed me into adulthood like ghosts I never invited. I don’t just feel broken — sometimes I feel shattered, scattered across the years of my life, trying to piece myself back together with hands that are shaking from exhaustion. Let’s be honest: this isn’t casual brokenness. This isn’t a sad day or a rough week. This is the kind of brokenness that builds its home inside your chest and becomes part of your bloodstream.

THE PART THE SCREAMS THE LOUDEST IS MY MENTAL HEALTH && THE TRUTH GETS UGLY

My mental health didn’t just “struggle.” It wrecked me. It tore pieces off me I can’t get back. And I’m still walking through the debris, trying to figure out what’s salvageable and what’s just gone.

My mind has been a battlefield for as long as I can remember. Not a poetic battlefield — a brutal one. A minefield of mood swings, dark spirals, panic attacks, numbness, rage, emotional exhaustion, and a thousand silent collapses nobody ever sees. & TBH I’m angry that my brain doesn’t work like everyone else’s. I’m angry that trauma rewired me before I even knew what trauma was. I’m angry that I wake up every day not knowing who I’ll be by noon or not knowing if how my sleep will be — it’s a gamble. Good sleep? Nightmare? No sleep? Sleep paralysis? Pick your poison. I’m angry that I have to explain things that other people will never get, like the mood swings I didn’t choose or the constant heaviness I didn’t ask for. Recently there has been a panic that comes out of nowhere and chokes me mid-sentence.

I wake up some mornings and don’t know if I’m going to be functional or falling apart. Will I be anxious? Detached? Hyperactive? Numb? Overwhelmed? Or trapped behind that invisible fog that makes everything feel muted and far away? As for my Sleep? It isn’t rest. It’s roulette. Nightmares. Dreams too real. Sleep paralysis. Random 3 a.m. wakeups, even when I do finally sleep peaceful.

People have no idea the kind of toll this takes — mentally, emotionally, spiritually. It’s not “just stress.” It’s not “being sensitive.” It’s not “overreacting.”

It’s waking up and fighting your own brain every damn day. It’s feeling like you’re living in a body that won’t listen to you. It’s never being able to trust your own mind.

SOMETHING I’VE NEVER TOLD A SOUL

There’s a grief that comes with mental illness – often too deep to put into words. A grief for the person I could’ve been. The version of me who didn’t get tangled in trauma. The version of me who didn’t lose her spark. The version of me who didn’t grow up thinking chaos was normal. The version of me who never had to wonder “Why am I like this?” “How do I fix something so invisible?” “Is this permanent?” “Am I just… too much?”

MENTAL HEALTH ISN’T JUST ALOT TO HANDLE, IT’S HUMILIATING & INFURIATING.

Humiliating to wonder why your brain isn’t built like everyone else’s. Humiliating to crash out of nowhere. Humiliating to watch people get tired of your symptoms while you’re still drowning in them.

There’s a grief to it. And it infuriates me. The kind of fury that tastes like metal in your mouth.

I’m angry that trauma rewired me before I even had a chance. I’m angry that people judged me before they ever tried to understand. I’m angry that my mental health became a weapon people used against me. I’m angry that when I needed protection, nobody stepped in. I’m angry that healing feels like climbing a mountain with no summit.

And then there’s this fear… That’s fear that never leaves. That’s the shadow I feel behind me every day, whispering in my head when things start going well: “Don’t get comfortable. You break easily.”

Because I’ve had seasons where I felt whole. Seasons where I felt steady. Seasons where I thought, This is it. I’ve finally made it out.

And then out of nowhere, the darkness comes back. Not always in a dramatic way — sometimes slowly, quietly, slipping through the cracks until I’m drowning before I even notice the water rising.

That’s the thing about brokenness — it doesn’t knock. It just walks in.

BUT HERE’S THE SHIFT — THE TURNING POINT

As angry as I am… As tired as I am… As broken as I feel… There is one thing that keeps me going, one thing that flips the script every single time:

My faith in Jesus.

Not the watered-down, church-only version of Him. But the real Jesus — the One who sits with you in the dark. The One who doesn’t turn away from your mess. The One who doesn’t shame you when you fall apart. The One who doesn’t get scared of mental illness. The One who is not intimidated by trauma.

I used to think healing was supposed to be instant. Clean. Fast. Tidy. But Jesus doesn’t heal like that — not with me.

He heals slowly. Heals deliberately. Heals intentionally. Heals in the exact order my spirit needs, even if I don’t understand it.

My most favorite part? Sometimes he lets me sit in the ache long enough to realize it isn’t killing me — it’s transforming me.

Healing with Jesus isn’t a miracle moment. It’s a lifelong rhythm. A quiet transformation.

And for the first time in my life… I’m okay with slow healing. I’m okay with the pacing. I’m okay with not being “done.” I’m okay with being in progress.

Because healing from Jesus is the kind of healing that lasts. It’s the kind that doesn’t collapse the moment the wind blows.

I may still feel broken… but I’m no longer scared of those broken places.

Because I know those are the exact places Jesus is touching, healing, reshaping, and renewing — one gentle day at a time.

And I’m finally okay with that.

XOXO, The Healing Wildflower