Wounded is my word. Yes, it’s been a word I’ve carried around for a long time. I know it all too well. I’m not ashamed of it anymore. In fact, I have grown to embrace it, as it reminds me that this life is fragile, and in being wounded, I’m always in need of a Savior. The truth is “wounded” has taken on many forms for me: depression, anxiety, fear, comparison, hurt, loneliness, self-doubt, hormones, among many others. However, as much as my wounds would like to define me and lead me to believe I am a victim, there is another side that declares something vastly different. It declares I’m made up of so much more than I want to believe!
My story, your story. They are all worth sharing.
However, it seems as if we’ve gotten rather good at hiding them. We’ve somehow become afraid to open up our hearts for various reasons. Fear of judgement. Comparison. The lack of a powerful testimony. Not wanting to re-live the pain. Whatever it may be. And while our story won’t resonate with everyone, that’s okay, it doesn’t have to. But in sharing our heart, healing comes. That's because our story changes us and can bring hope to others. It can remind us of where we were, and how far God has carried us through. Not to mention, God has a beautiful way of bringing those that need to hear it, right to you!
Wounded. It’s a word we all carry and story we can all share. We may have different stories, but our wounds show our humanness, and exemplify God’s greatness. They showcase our weakness, but His strength. Reminding us of HIS sacrifice. His ultimate, selfless sacrifice.
So, yes, I’m a wounded mom, just laying out my heart. Hoping God can use it to speak to the mom that is hiding. The mom that is struggling in silence. The mom believing she doesn’t matter; afraid to share her story.
It’s okay to be wounded, not enough, not okay, and to even feel a little like chewed bubble gum- used, stale and flavorless (hence the cover of the book). It’s in those moments God intervenes. Softly speaking to our hearts. He knows that there is so much more than the season we find ourselves in. Yet, the beauty is, seasons change, hence changing us. Wounds heal. Scars mark a memory of how God’s grace held us and healed us. Being a wounded mom helps us see the desperate need for a mighty Savior. A fearless, flawless Savior!