The word "binds" here is surgical. It's not a metaphor about feelings. It's the language of a physician wrapping a wound — carefully, deliberately, with the intention of healing. And wounds require specific things to heal: they need to be cleaned (which hurts), exposed (which is terrifying), and attended to over time (which requires patience nobody has).

You've probably tried to heal this on your own. Stayed busy. Stayed productive. Poured yourself into work or relationships or fitness or faith — anything to avoid sitting still long enough for the pain to find you. And the busyness worked for a while. But the wound underneath never closed. It just went underground. And underground wounds don't heal. They fester.

God doesn't heal from a distance. He binds. Close work. Hands-on. The kind of healing that requires proximity — and consent. Because you can't bind a wound that someone is still hiding. The first step isn't faith. It's honesty. Admitting: this still hurts. I'm not over it. I've been pretending and I'm tired. And when that honesty finally breaks the surface — when you stop performing recovery and start admitting the wound — that's when the binding begins. Not before. You don't have to be whole to be held. You just have to be honest.