Redeemed Attachment: What It Feels Like to Be Held

Rebecca Black
2 hours ago
6 min read

“There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear…”— 1 John 4:18

We were created to be held in love.

Not just emotionally. Not just theologically. But experientially, at the level of the heart, the body, the spirit.

We were not made to perform for affection or brace against rejection. We were made to be received. To rest. To exhale into the safety of connection that does not flinch when we are in need.

But for many of us, that kind of love has felt foreign. Even frightening.

Because the love we have known has often been laced with fear.

When love feels unsafe, our bodies learn to protect us. They form attachment strategies, not because we are flawed, but because we are trying to survive. Some of us learned to become small and compliant, afraid that if we took up too much space, love would leave. Others became fiercely independent, pulling away before anyone could get close enough to hurt us. Some lived in the unpredictable chaos of needing and fearing love at the same time.

We adapted. We learned to read every subtle shift in tone. We apologised even when we weren’t wrong. We anticipated abandonment before it came. We withheld our needs to keep the peace. We smiled when we wanted to cry. We pushed people away because we didn’t know if they would stay.

And even now, with the Spirit living within us, many of us are still learning what it means to rest in love; to trust that we are safe, even when things feel unfamiliar. Even when someone else needs space. Even when a conversation pauses or a response takes longer than expected.

Because every part of us, from our thoughts to our nervous system, has been shaped by what we’ve known. And what we’ve known has not always looked like love that stays.

The enemy has always distorted love.

From the garden to the present moment, he whispers lies that twist the nature of God:

“He’s withholding.”

“He’s disappointed.”

“He’ll pull away.”

“He only stays when you’re strong.”

The goal is simple, to convince us that the Father cannot be trusted, and that love is not safe. To separate us from the very One we were created to live in union with. To keep us from rest.

But the gospel is not about earning your way back into love.

It is about being restored to the One who loved you before you ever knew how to strive.

The love of God is not like the love we’ve known in broken places. It is holy. Steady. Unchanging.

And that kind of love re-teaches us what is true.

Secure love does not shout. It does not rush. It does not demand that you prove yourself in order to stay connected.

Secure love is quiet and consistent. It does not flinch when you are unsure. It does not punish you for needing to be reminded that you are still wanted. It remains, even when things shift. Even when life is hard. Even when you forget.

Secure love gives you space to be human.

It makes room for weakness.

It welcomes your need.

It sees your longing and doesn’t shame it.

To be held in secure love is to know, deep in your bones, that love will not disappear the moment you let your guard down. It is not love that gaslights or manipulates. It is not love that uses silence to control or punishment to correct. It is love that draws near, again and again, and says, “You still belong here.”

We see a powerful picture of secure love in the life of John.

John was the only disciple who called himself “the one Jesus loved.” He wasn’t boasting. He wasn’t competing. He was simply confident. He knew who he was to Jesus. That identity shaped everything about his posture.

John was the one who reclined next to Jesus at the table (John 13:23). While the others questioned and strategized, John rested. He did not wonder if he was welcome. He leaned in. He stayed close.

And when the cross came, when fear scattered the rest, John remained. He did not run. He did not disappear. He stood at the foot of the cross, watching the One he loved suffer, and did not turn away.

Secure love does not always feel comfortable. But it gives you the courage to stay present.

John did not have more strength than the others. He had more certainty.

He knew he was loved.

And love gave him endurance.

This is not just John's story. It is an invitation.

Because the same love that held John is the love that holds us.

Secure love is not something we achieve. It is something we return to.

Jesus is not waiting for us to become unafraid before we draw near. He is inviting us to come close in our fear. He is not ashamed of our shakiness. He is not annoyed by our repeated questions. He is not offended by our need for reassurance.

He is restoring us to what we were created for: communion without fear.

This restoration is not abstract. It happens in real moments, when we expect distance and find nearness instead. When we brace for rejection and hear, “I’m not leaving.” When we offer our hearts trembling and are met with gentleness.

Sometimes that happens through others. Often, it happens directly in His presence.

The Father is not surprised by the places in us that still expect love to hurt.

He simply meets us there and remains long enough for fear to lose its grip.

There is another voice, though.

The one we’ve heard for years.

The one that sounds like our own thoughts, but carries the sting of accusation.

“You’re too much.”

“You’re too needy.”

“You made them pull away.”

“You’re unsafe to love.”

This is not the voice of the Shepherd.

It is the familiar voice of the one who sowed fear into the garden, the same one who sowed it into your childhood, your friendships, your marriage, your ministry. It is the voice that twists truth until even love feels like a threat.

And every time you hear it, you are invited to ask,What is love saying instead?

When we begin to receive secure love, it doesn’t mean we stop needing people.

It means we stop requiring them to be our source of stability.

It means we are no longer frantically trying to hold connection together.

We are learning to be held.

It means we begin to see shifts in relationship as part of life, not punishments or proof that we are unlovable.

It means that when someone steps back, we can pause before we spiral. We can ask, “What’s happening in them?” instead of assuming, “Something’s wrong with me.”

This isn’t detachment. It’s maturity. It’s rootedness.

It is what Jesus is walking us into.

Because the gospel is not just about salvation. It is about restoration.

And part of that restoration is learning what it means to be loved without fear.

If you’ve never known love that stayed, you are not alone.

Many of us are still learning to believe that love can be safe. That the Father is not like the people who left. That Jesus does not grow cold when we are needy. That the Spirit does not retreat when we are afraid.

This is not just theology. This is healing.

And healing takes time.

You are allowed to learn slowly.

You are allowed to question.

You are allowed to need to hear it again.

And again.

You are not behind. You are being rebuilt on a foundation that does not shift.

Jesus is not afraid of your need for reassurance.

He knows you were not built for survival.

You were made for love.

Scriptures