Imago Dei: The Image I Had Forgotten

Self-Love Re-defined

We’ve heard it said in countless ways—from the lips of philosophers, therapists, poets, and preachers alike:

“You cannot truly love another until you love yourself.”

Aristotle gestured toward it in Nicomachean Ethics. Carl Jung made it shadow-work.

Jesus—though never using the modern tongue—implied it when He told us to “love your neighbor as yourself.”

Not more. Not less. As.

This truth transcends worldviews and disciplines.

Psychology calls it integration.

Philosophy names it authenticity.

But the sacred texts dare to whisper something even deeper: Buried in the layers of self is not merely trauma, ego, or memory— but a divine imprint.

A breath of God.

And until we make peace with that, our love for self remains incomplete.

I thought I had arrived

There was a time when I believed I had done the work. I forgave the younger me for her impulsive choices. I embraced the parts I once silenced—the anger, the tenderness, the wild longing. I dug deep into my unconscious and unearthed what was repressed.

I journaled. I fasted. I recited affirmations in the mirror. And yet… something was still missing.

Even after the therapy.

Even after the forgiveness.

Even after the rituals of healing.

There was a quiet ache I couldn’t name. A soul-hunger that lingered beneath the surface. Not from hating myself— but from not knowing who I was in the truest sense.

The missing piece was not a concept. It was God.

We talk about God as out there. On a throne. Beyond the clouds. But what if the real transformation begins not just by reaching up, but by awakening in?

My turning point came after a season of spiritual drift— when faith felt like dust in my mouth, and I tried to navigate healing on my own. I was doing all the “inner work,” but still felt strangely empty.

It wasn’t until I recognized the Light that had been there all along that things began to shift.

The Imago Dei. The spark. The divine residue.

The part of me not built by trauma or DNA— but by the breath of the living God.

“Do you not know that you are God’s temple and that God’s Spirit dwells in you?”

— 1 Corinthians 3:16 (ESV)

To love myself fully, I had to surrender.

To stop striving and abide.

To trust not in my own ability to heal, but in the quiet, unwavering presence of the One who had never left.

This is not ego.

This is reverence.

Let me be clear: The self-love I’m speaking of is not prideful. It is not narcissism dressed up in affirmations.

It is sacred.

It says:

God dwells in me.

My body is a temple.

I am the beloved—not because of my perfection, but because of His.

True self-love flows not from inflation, but from intimacy.

Not from self-worship, but from surrender.

Not from illusion, but from the awareness that we are held.

But what about the verses?

People often throw out:

“For people will be lovers of self…” (2 Timothy 3:2)

or

“Deny yourself, take up your cross…” (Luke 9:23)

But the context matters.

Paul wasn’t condemning sacred self-worth—he was warning against unchecked ego, self-absorption, the disintegration of character.

And Jesus wasn’t telling us to despise ourselves—He was inviting us to die to the false self, the mask, the illusion that we must earn our worth.

Denying the ego is not the same as denying the image of God within.

This isn’t self-help dressed in scripture.

This is holy reclamation.

This is the Gospel of wholeness.

Because when we say we love ourselves without loving God, we only love what we think we are.

We love the curated version.

The performance.

The mask.

But when we allow ourselves to be known— to be loved by Love Himself— then self-love is no longer performance.

It becomes rest.

We don’t have to inflate ourselves.

We don’t have to shrink ourselves.

We simply return to who we were always meant to be:

A vessel of grace.

A temple of the Spirit.

A child of God, made in His image.

If there is a piece of God in all of us…

how could I ever fully love myself without loving Him?

To deny Him is to live in fragments.

To love Him is to become whole.

Now I don’t just feel “better.”

I am no longer starving for scraps.

No longer chasing love through mirrors and metrics.

I am full.

Awake.

Rooted.

I love my body— not because it’s perfect, but because it was breathed into being.

I love my mind— not because I always understand, but because it reflects the mind of Christ.

I love my soul— not because I earned it, but because it was gifted.

“We love because He first loved us.”

— 1 John 4:19 (ESV)

True love—of God, of others, of self—flows not from effort, but from divine overflow.

So if you are struggling to love yourself, start not with the mirror— but with the Maker.

Ask not only,

“Who am I?”

but also,

“Whose am I?”

Because maybe the healing begins the moment you say:

“I am ready to love not just my reflection— but the God who made it.”

I’d love to hear from you

If this piece stirred something in you— if you’ve ever wrestled with the idea of self-love, sacred identity, or returning to God— I would be honored to hear your thoughts.

Leave a comment below and let’s open up space for gentle reflection and honest conversation.

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All photos featured in this article were taken by me and are my original work.