Spiritual healing sounds so clean and Instagram-filtered, doesn’t it? Like you float into some candlelit room, hum for ten minutes, and boom—fixed. Nah. For me it started in my crappy rental house in Columbus, Ohio, 3 a.m., crying so hard I couldn’t breathe, eating Flamin’ Hot Cheetos straight from the bag because the spice was the only thing that felt real. I hadn’t prayed in years—legit thought God ghosted me back in 2019 when everything imploded. But that night I was desperate enough to try anything, so I grabbed the dusty Bible my grandma gave me and just… yelled at it. Out loud. Like a lunatic. That was the first crack where spiritual healing snuck in.
The Night Faith Restores the Soul (Even If You’re Mad About It)
I opened to Psalm 34 because it was dog-eared from high-school me who apparently had her life together. Verse 18 wrecked me: “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted…” I laughed—ugly-cry laughed—because I was so broken I couldn’t even find the pieces. But I kept reading anyway, snot and Cheetle everywhere, and something shifted. Not fireworks. Not angels singing. Just this tiny, stubborn warmth in my chest that said “I still see you.” That’s when I realized faith restores the soul not by making the pain disappear, but by sitting in the ashes with you until you’re ready to stand up.
How Spiritual Healing Actually Looked in My Very Normal, Very Messy Life
- I started praying in my car in the Walmart parking lot because it was the only place nobody could hear me ugly-cry.
- I texted my old youth pastor at 1 a.m. like “hey remember me the trainwreck? help.” (He did. No judgment.)
- I burned every journal where I wrote “I hate myself” in a fire pit while blasting Needtobreathe—super dramatic, zero regrets.
- I started saying “I don’t know how to do this but I’m trying” out loud every morning. Turns out that counts as prayer.
There were setbacks, duh. Like the week I ghosted God again because I got mad He didn’t fix my bank account. Spiritual healing isn’t linear, y’all. It’s more like two steps forward, one step back, and occasionally face-planting into a bag of Takis.
Why Faith Restores the Soul Better Than Any Self-Help Book Ever Could
Therapy is great—I’m in it, don’t come for me—but there’s something therapy can’t touch. That part of you that’s screaming “does any of this even matter?” Faith looks at that screaming void and says, “Yeah, you do.” I read somewhere (probably Desiring God or The Gospel Coalition) that the Hebrew word for “restore” in Psalm 23 is literally “turn back” or “bring home.” That’s what happened. God didn’t fix me overnight—He just kept turning me back toward home every time I ran.
Final Random Thoughts From a Still-In-Process Girl
Spiritual healing is still happening, tbh. Some mornings I wake up and the darkness feels heavier than ever. But now there’s this annoying little light that won’t go out. Faith restores the soul one stupid, stubborn, Cheeto-dust-covered morning at a time.
If you’re reading this and you’re in the middle of your own 3 a.m. hot mess—grab whatever holy thing is closest (Bible, rosary, that one worship playlist you pretend you don’t still have) and just start talking. Out loud. Ugly cry optional but recommended.
You’re not too far gone. Seriously. I’m living proof.
Now go eat something that isn’t neon orange and tell God I said hi. ✌️
