There was a season when my go-to answer for everything was “I’m fine.” Somebody at church would ask how I was doing, and out it came before I even thought about it. The truth was more complicated. There was anger that showed up faster than it should have, a low hum of fear about being rejected, and a need to keep control of everything I could get my hands on. For a long time I told myself none of it was a big deal. But the wounds we bury don’t disappear. They just go quiet and start shaping us from the inside.
Jesus never asked me to perform wholeness for Him. He invited me to come honestly. The same Savior who saw the woman at the well, wept at Lazarus’s tomb, and restored Peter after his denial is not intimidated by the places in us we’d rather avoid.
Scripture
“He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.” — Psalm 147:3 (NIV)
How I Understand This Scripture
When I read this verse, I don’t hear a promise that healing will be instant or that the memory will stop mattering. I hear that God moves toward broken people on purpose. He binds up wounds, which means He gets close enough to touch them. You can’t bandage something from across the room. To me this says that the hidden places aren’t disqualifying — they’re exactly where He does His work. The healing starts where the pretending ends.
Reflection
Denial is really a form of self-protection. At some point it felt safer to bury the memory, minimize the betrayal, or tell myself other people had it worse. But what’s buried still shapes how I relate to God, receive love, and handle conflict.
Bringing pain before God doesn’t mean drowning in the past. It means letting truth replace the stories I used to survive. Sometimes the most honest prayer is, “Lord, that hurt me,” or “I’m still angry,” or “I don’t understand why You allowed this.” That’s not a failure of faith. That’s faith turning toward God instead of away from Him. David prayed that way all through the Psalms — no polished religious language, just his heart poured out — and God stayed faithful.
Healing has rarely been one big emotional moment for me. It’s been returning to God again and again with what hurts. I’ve learned to ask Him a simple question: “Jesus, what pain am I carrying that I haven’t given to You?” Then I make room to listen. A memory surfaces. A pattern gets clearer. When it does, I try to name it plainly — what happened, how it affected me, and what I came to believe because of it. Hidden wounds usually grow a lie around them: that I was unwanted, unsafe, unlovable, alone. The event may have been real, but the lie attached to it doesn’t get the final word. Jesus does.
Some of these wounds come from what others did to me. Others are tangled up in regret over what I did or failed to do. Either way, the cross is central. Confession isn’t earning my way back into God’s favor; it’s how I stop hiding from the favor already offered. And when the wound involves someone who deeply harmed me, forgiveness doesn’t mean calling evil good or restoring access to an unsafe person. Boundaries can be wise. Biblical forgiveness is releasing personal vengeance to God and refusing to let another person’s sin permanently rule my heart. I’ve had to make that choice more than once, and a fresh wave of grief doesn’t mean I failed.
God also heals through His people. Isolation gives hidden wounds more room to grow. Not everyone has earned the right to hear your story, so choose someone grounded in Christ who can listen without gossip and speak truth with compassion. If trauma, abuse, addiction, or persistent anxiety is part of the story, professional counseling is a meaningful part of care, not a lack of spiritual strength. There’s no prize for healing alone.
Finally, healing isn’t only about revisiting what happened. It’s learning a different way to live because Jesus is Lord — speaking truth instead of people-pleasing, resting instead of proving my worth, worshiping even when my emotions feel numb. Don’t measure healing only by whether the memory still hurts. Sometimes healing looks like remembering without being ruled by it.
Prayer
Father, I bring You the place I’ve kept hidden. I’ve carried it alone long enough, and I’m tired of pretending it isn’t there. Thank You that You move toward broken people instead of away from them. Replace the lies I’ve believed with Your truth. Give me the courage to be honest with You, and the wisdom to let safe people walk with me. Bind up what I can’t heal myself, and teach me to live free. In Jesus’ name, amen.
If you’re ready to stop pretending the wound isn’t there, my book The Denial Within is a perfect place to start. And if this encouraged you today, I’d love for you to join me at www.christaff.net. Come walk with me — there’s more here, and you don’t have to do this alone.
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