The Woman Who Bled, and the War for Our Identity
(Mark 5:24-34)

There has always been something about this story in the Bible that has intrigued me. Maybe it’s how raw and human it feels — how long she waited, how deep her shame, how desperate her hope. It’s a story that refuses to stay neat and tidy. And in it, we learn something really powerful about Jesus.

Twelve years.

That is how long she bled. Twelve years of losing more than just blood — she lost her place, her relationships, her name. Under the law, her condition made her “unclean,” an outcast in her own hometown.

What did “unclean” mean?

It meant she was separated from community. She could not cook meals for others, share a bed, sit where others sat, or even enter the Temple to worship. Anyone who touched her — or even touched something she had touched — would also become unclean.

It meant relational isolation. She was un-huggable, untouchable, unapproachable — for twelve years.

It meant spiritual disqualification. She was cut off from worship and from God’s house, from the very place that represented God’s presence with His people.

It meant permanent stigma. Her condition was public, impossible to hide. Everyone knew she was “that woman,” the one to avoid.

And it meant emotional devastation. Every day she woke up labeled by her brokenness, living a story that told her she was rejected, unworthy, forgotten.

Can you relate to any of that?
Maybe not physically, but emotionally? Spiritually? The feeling that something in you is off limits to other people — that you are too messy, too unclean, too untouchable to belong?

Because the truth is, the bleeding woman’s story is not just ancient history. It is a mirror for all of us who feel left outside the circle, wondering if God could possibly still want us.

She tried everything. Doctors. Treatments. Remedies. Nothing worked. In fact, things got worse. Her money was gone, her body was frail, and her hope was wearing thin.

And yet — there was still a spark. One fragile, stubborn hope. If I can just touch the hem of his garment, I will be healed.

Have you ever been there?
When you have tried everything — prayed every prayer, tried every solution — and you still feel broken? When the only thing you have left is a desperate, threadbare faith?

Maybe that hope was naive. Maybe it was her last thin thread. But it was enough to move her forward, to reach through the crowd.

She reached out — through her shame, through her fear, through the noise of the world that had labeled her worthless — and she touched Jesus.

Instantly, the bleeding stopped.

Can you imagine that moment?
The flood of relief, the terror of being noticed, the collision of faith and fear crashing through her heart?

But Jesus didn’t stop there.

He turned around. “Who touched me?”

She froze. Panic gripped her heart. She was ready for rebuke, ready to be scolded, ready to be shamed for daring to cross a boundary she was supposed to keep.

But something deeper told her she couldn’t stay hidden any longer.

Trembling, she fell at his feet and confessed everything. Her bleeding. Her fear. Her shame. Her desperate hope.

What would you say if Jesus asked you to tell your whole story?
Would you be afraid? Embarrassed? Would you try to hide?

And Jesus looked straight at her — really looked. Not at her problem, not at her stigma, but at her.

And he spoke a word that cut through twelve years of silence:

“Daughter.”

Daughter.

Not “unclean.”
Not “broken.”
Not “outcast.”
Not “problem.”

Daughter.

It may not sound like a name to us, but in that moment, it was more powerful than any personal name could be. “Daughter” was a word of belonging — a family word, a restoring word, a word that placed her back into relationship and worth. Jesus didn’t just heal her; he claimed her.

How does it feel to hear that word?
Maybe you have forgotten your name, your worth, your place in the family of God. Maybe today, you need to hear it again:
Daughter.
Son.

With that one word, Jesus did more than heal her body. He reversed twelve years of social, spiritual, relational, and emotional death. He restored her name, her place, her belonging. He brought her out of hiding and into the light. He took away the secrecy of her shame so she could walk freely in her new wholeness.

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Maybe you’ve never bled for twelve years. But maybe you’ve bled in other ways.

Maybe anxiety has drained you day after day.
Maybe your identity has felt lost, buried under fear.
Maybe you have tried everything to fix yourself, to stop the pain, to quiet the war inside your head.
Maybe you’ve found yourself exhausted by the dissonance of trying to believe God is good while still battling the fear that you are somehow beyond healing.

What is the wound you’ve tried to hide?
Name it. Bring it into the light. That is where healing starts.

The mental, spiritual, and emotional battles leave us wondering:
Who am I, really?
Am I what I fear?
Am I what I’ve lost?
Am I too far gone?

It’s as if our identity is the first casualty of our pain.

But in the hands of Jesus, identity is the first thing restored.

He does not just stop the bleeding.
He does not just silence the symptoms.
He calls us by name.

Where the world sees your shame, Jesus sees a daughter.
Where the world sees your failure, Jesus sees a son.
Where the world sees your mess, Jesus sees someone worth redeeming.

He invites you to come out of hiding.
He names you, so that shame no longer can.
He restores you, so that fear no longer defines you.

Friend, maybe you’re still fighting for faith in the middle of anxiety. Maybe you feel the tension between believing and doubting, between hope and despair. That tension is human. It is holy, even, when it leads you to reach out for Jesus.

What might happen if you reached out today?
If your heart feels too fragile to shout, then whisper.
If your courage feels too small to stand tall, then crawl forward.
If you can do nothing else, then reach.

He will see you.
He will stop for you.
He will name you.

And in His hands, you will become something more than your pain.

Held. Named. Restored.

Prayer

Lord,

You see every place I have bled,
every place I have hidden,
every place I have tried to fix myself.

Thank You for calling me out of the shadows.
Thank You for giving me a name that shame cannot steal.

Help me trust You enough to reach,
even when my faith feels threadbare.

Remind me that in Your hands,
I am more than what I fear,
I am more than what I’ve lost,
I am Yours.

Amen.