How “Tamid Ohev Oti” Became an Unexpected Companion in a Season of Heartbreak.

I first heard Tamid Ohev Oti a year ago. When Facebook Memories brought it back to me recently, the response was immediate and physical. I was returned to that exact point in my life, not just emotionally but spiritually. I remembered how much I leaned on this song, how often I played it, and how deeply it reassured me when people had failed me.

At that time, I was dealing with betrayal. Not the obvious kind that demands explanations, but the kind that seeps in slowly. Friendships I trusted shifted without warning. People I believed were safe became distant. Conversations stopped. Invitations faded. I realised, piece by piece, that I was no longer welcome in places where I once belonged.

That kind of rejection does more than hurt feelings. It unsettles your sense of worth. It makes you question your discernment. It tempts you to believe that love is fragile and easily withdrawn.

And yet, in the middle of that, God made His presence known to me in a very familiar way. Through music.

Tamid Ohev Oti is a Hebrew song whose title translates directly as Always Loves Me. I don't speak Hebrew beyond fragments. Some letters. Some sounds. Enough to recognise when meaning is being pressed into repetition. Enough to understand that this was not a vague sentiment, but a declaration.

Tamid means always. Without interruption. Without conditions. Without expiry.

Ohev means loves. Present tense. Active. Not something remembered from the past or promised for the future.

Oti means me. Personally. Intentionally. Not humanity at large. Not the deserving. Me.

❤️Always loves me.❤️



As I listened, there was no confusion about who that love belonged to. This song is not about human affection. It is about God. It is about His unchanging nature. It is about the constancy of His love when everything else feels unstable.

The song is upbeat, full of movement and confidence. At first glance, it might seem at odds with heartbreak. I was wounded. I was disoriented. I was grieving the loss of relationships I had believed in. But the joy in the song did not feel disconnected from reality. It felt rooted in something deeper than circumstances.

What mattered most to me was that the song did not minimise pain. It did not pretend betrayal was harmless. Instead, it placed God’s love alongside the pain and refused to let that love be eclipsed by it.

There is something profoundly grounding about being reminded that God’s love does not fluctuate based on how others treat you. That His presence is not dependent on social belonging. That when people step away, He does not.

When I played this song, I did not feel alone. I felt accompanied. I felt seen. I felt loved by God in a way that was both emotional and deeply reassuring. The music amplified that awareness. It made His nearness tangible. It gave language to what my heart already knew but needed to hear affirmed.

Music has always been my way back to steadiness. When words fail, when prayer feels strained, when conversations exhaust me, music meets me where I am. It bypasses analysis and goes straight to the heart. It has always helped me feel better, not by distraction, but by connection.

This song became part of my daily rhythm. I played it while walking, while cleaning, while sitting with thoughts that would not settle. Each time, it reminded me of a truth I needed to anchor myself to. God loves me. Always. Not because of how well I navigate relationships. Not because of my usefulness or likability. Simply because He does.

The healing power of music lies in its ability to carry truth when our strength falters. It does not argue. It does not rush. It holds space for faith to be felt rather than explained.

Listening to Tamid Ohev Oti now, a year later, I notice how it has shifted for me. It no longer feels like something I cling to in order to stay afloat. It feels like a reminder of how I was held. The hurt has eased. The confusion has settled. But the truth the song declares remains unchanged.

That is why I am sharing it here, at the beginning of a new year, in a space devoted to music and meaning. Some songs mark pain. Others mark healing. A few manage to do both.

This song reminds me that God’s love did not waver when people did. It reminds me that His presence was not diminished by my loneliness. It reminds me that music can be a vessel for grace.

Tamid Ohev Oti is not just a song I recommend. It is a testimony. Of heartbreak survived. Of faith sustained. Of a God who loves me always.

And of music, which has always been, and will always be, my way back to Him.