I have done a lot of work identifying my fears. What am I afraid of? Not the momentary fear when you see a spider drop down, but the real fear that lives deep within. The fear that comes when our hearts are wounded, and we protect ourselves from getting hurt again.

Unhealed wounds fuel fears – produce fierce emotions – trigger thoughts of self-preservation – and drive decisions. A vicious cycle of trauma that, if left unhealed, will ultimately destroy our ability to love the way God designed it. Fear will drive us to protect ourselves from pain, which eventually consumes all.

I subconsciously rode this merry-go-round for several decades as stakes increased each go-around until, finally, the agony became unrelenting. This carnival ride came to a screeching halt when the betrayal I experienced in my marriage brought me to my knees and exposed all of my fears. This anguish ignited my passion to peel back the layers of my wounded heart and pursue healing.

Healing can feel like you are fighting a war within. I committed to humbling myself and am allowing God to show me what needs to be transformed in my life. I have heard it said what is not transformed is transferred, and I do not want to transfer my unhealed wounds and fears to my children.

My battle began with the revelation that I was terrified of pain. I remember explaining to my counselor how I felt when any heartache knocked on my door. I imagined being dropped in a deep, dark pit, and with terror fueling every bit of strength, I desperately worked to get out as quickly as possible. I despised the feeling of heartbreak; It felt like I was suffocating. Like someone gasping for air, I frantically worked to address problems immediately. I single-handedly devised solutions and ensured others knew their responsibility to resolve the situation, which would allow me to take a breath and temporarily relieve my pain. The problem is, that’s controlling and manipulative behavior. I was trying to orchestrate the actions and behaviors of others to alleviate my pain. I feared being hurt and did my best to control situations and others so that I did not have to experience suffering. We are responsible for sharing our needs but not controlling how someone responds. When someone chooses not to honor us, our heart breaks. We sidestep healing and only compound our wounds if we do not allow the feelings of pain to flow through us.

My first step was to face my fear of pain and look at my motives. It isn’t what we do; it is the motive behind it. It takes brutal honesty to assess our motives and ask ourselves why we do what we do.

I was self-dependent and operating in self-preservation, which takes God out of the picture and is all about “me.” I had to stop controlling what I thought needed to happen in my marriage as a way of keeping me from suffering. It is frightening to face walls another person built and realize those walls aren’t yours to break down. Releasing the compulsion to share one more thing, make them see and try one more time. At some point, you must accept what isn’t yours to control, put your trust in God, and grieve what is shattered.

Suffering is where we meet God in a deep and personal way. I learned to release my grip of control and allow myself to feel what I desperately feared, the kind of pain that aches so deeply it clenches your soul. Sitting fully exposed before the Lord in all of my brokenness, I lament and grieve in His presence. As I face, feel, and surrender my pain to our Savior, something beautiful happens: God draws near, and my wounded heart heals little by little. Psalms 147:3 He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.

Our hearts are precious to God; He wants to be the one we trust when life hurts. He meets us with His grace, power, and love and leads us through whatever we face. Our responsibility is to seek Him, surrender our hearts to Him, and live our lives for Him. We must resist the urge to control people and things that aren’t ours to manage. As we follow Jesus, we can trust He is fighting for us and working all things for our good.