Where Trust is Rebuilt: In the Presence of the Eucharist

Attachment Theory, the Eucharist, and the Healing of Trust

Fear is woven into the human experience.

We fear that things won’t work out. That we’ll be hurt, abandoned, forgotten. That we’ll fail.

So what do we do with that fear? How do we keep it from ruling our lives? And how do we live up to Jesus’ invitation: “Be not afraid”?

In trying to answer these questions, I’ve often turned to a surprising source: Attachment Theory—a concept in psychology that explores how we relate to love, especially when it feels unsafe.

Before we explore why fear has such a grip on us, it helps to understand what secure attachment looks like. According to the theory, it looks something like this:

• I trust you’ll be there when I need you.
  
• I trust I don’t have to earn your love.
  
• I trust that my needs don’t make me unlovable.
  
• I trust that you’ll return when there’s distance.
  
• I trust that I can rest in your presence.
  

When I hear that list, something in me exhales. Yes. That’s what love is meant to feel like.

But that’s the ideal. That’s the level of secure attachment I long for. But it doesn’t exactly depict reality. Because in reality, there are parts within me suffering from an insecure attachment. 

Those parts say things like:

• “I can’t trust you to meet my needs, so I won’t have any.”
  
• “I can’t trust you to stay, so I’ll cling and perform to keep you close.”
  
• “I want to trust you—but you’re also dangerous.”
  

These voices didn’t appear out of nowhere. They were shaped within me—through relationships where trust was broken, needs went unmet, or love came with strings attached.

And they don’t disappear with age. They’ve followed me into adulthood. Even into my relationship with God. And unless I’m given a corrective emotional experience, unless God intervenes on my behalf, those parts will stay insecure for the rest of my life. 

The same is true for you. There may be parts within you that live out of a secure attachment. And there are probably parts that live out of an insecure attachment. And those insecure parts need healing. 

The Eucharist is a Gift of Healing

I have a part of me that fears being controlled. Fears emotional dependence. A part that doesn’t want to need anything—or anyone.

That part remembers what it was like to have needs that weren’t met. It still plays out in my relationships—especially in my marriage (God bless my husband). When I feel help coming my way, this part can perceive it as controlling. It doesn’t trust the help. It pushes people away, pretends to be fine, and retreats into self-sufficiency. If I don’t let myself trust that people can help me, then I won’t ever be disappointed when that turns out to be true.

But here’s what I’ve noticed:
This part never gets activated in front of the Eucharist.

Jesus doesn’t control.
He doesn’t take over, even if I’m drowning when in over my head.
He doesn’t demand closeness—But He offers it, patiently and silently.
He doesn’t force Himself.
He waits.

“Behold, I stand at the door and knock.” (Revelation 3:20)

In Communion or Adoration, I encounter a God who says,

“I am here. I love you. I have what you need. Come when you’re ready.”

He is capable of helping me. He is dependable, faithful, and powerful.
My needs aren’t too great for Him to meet.

The Eucharist is non-intrusive love. He’s simply there—silent, faithful, patient.

And in that presence, the avoidant parts of me aren’t threatened. They begin to feel safe. I don’t have to be strong or closed off. I can soften. I can receive.

Eucharist is a Gift of Peace

Sometimes, another part of me shows up—one that fears being “too much.” That to love me is costly. That I’ll be left if I’m not perfect.

This is the anxious part of me. The one that pleases to avoid abandonment. That clings to people in fear.

And Christ meets me here too.

In every tabernacle in the world, Jesus is present. Always. Unwavering. His love doesn’t depend on my performance. I don’t have to win Him over.

That part of me, when I sit with Him in the Eucharist, can finally rest instead of cling.
Receive instead of strive.
Breathe instead of beg.

“You are already wanted. You are already loved. You don’t have to prove anything to Me.”

And that’s when love begins to feel secure again.

Eucharist is a Gift of Safety

There’s also a part of me that wants closeness—but fears it.

That part doesn’t know what to expect. It’s seen love come with strings, or pain, or chaos. It says: “Letting someone in means getting hurt. Eventually.”

This is the disorganized part—torn between longing and fear.

And Christ meets this part too.

The Eucharist is not just consistent. It’s not just available.
It’s safe.

Jesus doesn’t flinch at our chaos.
He doesn’t pull away when we’re messy.
He doesn’t turn controlling when we get close.

“This is My Body, given up for you.”

There’s nothing coercive about it. He gives. He invites. And He stays.

And that kind of love begins to undo the fear that closeness will always hurt.

The Body of Christ: Where Love Heals Our Attachment Wounds

The Eucharist is not just a mystery to believe. It’s a relationship to receive.

Each time I come to Him, He reattunes me to real love.

He rewrites the internal story that says love is something I have to earn.
He heals the places where I feel too broken and fear closeness.
He stays with me and never leaves, holding me close in His reassuring embrace.

In the Body of Christ, Jesus becomes the secure base we never had, and the faithful presence we always needed.

So if your heart feels tired or guarded or hungry or scared, bring it to Him.

Bring all your parts—the ones that push away, the ones that cling, the ones that fear.
Let them meet the Love that never pressures, never leaves, and never fails.

He is here.
He is waiting.
And you are safe.

Because He will be with you until the end of the age.