The Wounds that Lead to Healing

A Note Before Reading: This Is Holy Ground

Dear Reader,

If you have been following this space, you know that I believe real growth happens through facing discomfort. This week, I am putting that conviction into practice.

The post you are about to read is the most personal and difficult truth I have ever shared publicly. It speaks to a deep, lifelong wound—a betrayal of safety that happened in my childhood, which has deeply influenced my adult relationships and understanding of God’s love.

For those who know me personally: I am sharing this not for attention or judgment, but because I believe the truth I have found through Christ needs to be spoken out loud. I ask that you read this with respect for the healing process it represents. Please know that I have shared everything I intend to share here. I will not be answering questions about who, when, or where. My safety and healing require this boundary.

For everyone: If this article resonates with you, know that you are not alone. My hope is that by illuminating the roots of my confusion, I can help others find the courage to face their own broken cycles and seek wholeness in Christ.

Thank you for reading with grace.

Last week, I posted about the paradox of pain—how it is often the refining fire through which growth is born. Today, I want to share a raw, personal example of that truth. One of the deepest pains in my life has become the most necessary opening for profound healing.

This morning, an old, almost-forgotten face crossed my mind—one of the people who sexually abused me when I was a child. The memory was faint but powerful enough to stop me in my tracks. For years, I have asked myself why my moral judgment, especially in relationships, often feels blurred. Today, I think I finally saw the connection.

Growing up, my caretakers were supposed to keep me safe—feed me, look after me, nurture me. And yet, in the very environment where I should have felt most secure, I was harmed. This contradiction left a deep mark on me. Somewhere inside, I learned to associate love with the familiar presence of a caretaker—someone who felt close, protective, and constant—even if that closeness was crossed, violated, or unsafe.

Children in their formative years rely on the adults around them to model what love, safety, and respect look like. These early experiences shape their understanding of right and wrong, of boundaries, of what is safe and unsafe. When that trust is broken, it does not just wound a child in the moment — it can distort their moral compass and sense of self for years to come.

As an adult, I see how this has shaped me. I long for relationships where my partner feels like a brother or a best friend. I crave that steady, protective figure who is “always there.” But I also find myself linking that intimacy with romance.

It is painful to admit, but my sexual fantasies have sometimes reflected this conditioning — leaning toward the taboo, because that was the “love” my young heart came to recognize. It became my framework for comfort and safety. Perhaps this is why I have been drawn to illicit relationships, or why I allowed men into my life whose intentions were not entirely good. To me, those connections felt familiar, even safe — as though I was simply stepping into a pattern I had always known.

But today, I recognize that familiarity does not always equal truth. What felt safe in my childhood may have been the wound I kept returning to. And what I thought was normal might not have been right.

The Word of God speaks into this confusion:

“You will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.” (John 8:32)

Coming to terms with these memories is not easy, but perhaps this is what Jesus means by setting us free — not simply by removing pain, but by opening our eyes to see what is broken so that He can heal it. The Church reminds us that every person carries inherent dignity, no matter their past, because we are created in the image of God (CCC 1700). This includes me — and you, if you share this story in some way.

Healing does not happen overnight. I am still learning what it means to love rightly — to seek relationships that honor my dignity, rather than repeat my wounds. But I trust that God, who sees the depths of my heart, is patient. He walks with me through this process.

Maybe this is the beginning of finding a healthier way to love — one that does not confuse comfort with captivity, one that seeks freedom in Christ, and one that reflects God’s design for love: a love that is patient, pure, and life-giving.

If You’re Like Me

If you have also felt this confusion — if you have been wounded by the very people who were meant to protect you — please know this: you are not alone, and what happened to you was not your fault.

Here are a few steps you can take today toward healing:

Bring it to prayer. Speak honestly with God about what you feel, even if it is messy or uncomfortable. The Psalms are a great place to start (Psalm 34:18 reminds us, “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted”).
Write it down. Journaling can help you name your memories, emotions, and patterns so that you can begin to separate truth from lies.
Seek safe people. Consider talking to a trusted friend, a spiritual director, or a counselor who respects your faith. Professional help can give language and tools for healing.
Receive the sacraments. If you are Catholic, bring your pain to Jesus in the Eucharist and, when you’re ready, in Reconciliation. Grace strengthens us to break cycles of harm and learn to love rightly.

Healing is a journey, not a sprint. But every step you take to face the truth is a step toward freedom — and a step toward breaking cycles, so that the next generation of children can grow up knowing what real love, safety, and respect look like.

Because it is not just a personal need — it is a moral duty. Children’s hearts are holy ground. How we treat them shapes the world they will build. If we care for them well, we teach them that love is good, boundaries are real, and dignity is sacred. If we fail them, we leave them to wrestle with wounds that may take a lifetime to heal.