Psalm 147:3: “He heals the brokenhearted, and binds up their wounds”

Meaning: This verse is basically God saying, “Yeah, I see the mess. I see the parts you don’t show anyone. And I’m not backing away.” It’s a promise that your brokenness doesn’t disqualify you- it’s actually where He leans in the closest. As for “Binds up their wounds” is so intentional. You only bind someone’s wounds when you’re tending to them carefully. It’s slow. It’s intimate. It’s hands-on. It’s like God saying, “Baby, sit still, I’m wrapping this up one layer at a time.”

Reflection: If My Heart Could Talk, What Would It Say Right Now?

If my heart could talk, the very first thing it would whisper is, “I’m sorry.” Not the shallow, passing kind of sorry — but the kind that comes from deep in the chest, the kind that aches before the words even come out.

It would look at my kids and at my husband and say, “I’m sorry I’m not always the best version of myself for you.” My heart would confess how some days my mental illness storms through the door and mutes the love I swear is in there. How some days I snap too fast, or shut down too hard, or disappear into my own head. And then other days, it’s all giggles, and dancing in the kitchen, and the kind of laughter that fills the whole house like sunlight.

If my heart could talk, it would tell you how it swings — from crying too much to feeling too much joy, from hiding under blankets to making everyone around me feel warm. It would say that I want, more than anything in this world, to hand my family the very best parts of me every hour, every minute, every breath.

But if my heart could talk… it would also admit that it’s hurting. It’s hurting from the memories. Hurting from the trauma I didn’t choose. Hurting from the damage I’ve caused — to myself, and yes, to my babies. From the addictions. The spirals. The anger. The overwhelm. The moments I didn’t control. The moments I wasn’t who I wanted to be.

This momma heart is exhausted from wanting to be better, do better, be enough for the little family that means everything to her. And most days, I feel like I fall short in every direction.

My therapist tells me I’m too hard on myself — and maybe she’s right. Actually, she’s probably more right than I want to admit. But still… there’s this fear that lives inside me like a heartbeat. The fear of not being their safe place. The fear of not being the person they run to when they’re scared or sad or lonely. The fear that my brokenness might spill over onto the people I love most.

If my heart could talk, it would tell you its biggest worry: “What if my broken heart is breaking theirs too?”

And yet… beneath all that fear, there is still love — stubborn, fighting, relentless love — trying every single day to grow bigger than the pain.

XOXO, The Healing Wildflower