(Sanctuaries shouldn’t feel like trapdoors.)
They told you to bring your pain to the altar—
but only if it was the right kind.
The kind they could pray away.
Package.
Pretend was fixed by forgiveness alone.
Let’s say it out loud:
Some of us were broken inside buildings that claimed to heal.
Hurt by people who spoke in scripture
but moved in silence
when the trauma didn’t match their theology.
Maybe you were shamed for asking questions.
Maybe you were told your rage was rebellion.
Maybe your trauma was labeled “lack of faith.”
Maybe you tried to pray it away
but the prayers never worked on the nightmares.
Church trauma is slippery.
Because it’s not always abuse you can name.
It’s not always a crime scene with witnesses.
Sometimes it’s gaslighting wrapped in gospel.
Sometimes it’s your identity denied with a smile.
Sometimes it’s your silence praised more than your truth ever was.
You were told you were the sinner
for saying the pastor made you uncomfortable.
You were told to honor your father
when your father was the reason you couldn’t sleep at night.
You were told modesty is safety
while they excused his eyes, his hands, his control.
And you believed it.
Because when you’re young and hurting,
you take love wherever it’s offered—
even if it comes with rules that gut you.
You didn’t leave God.
You left the people who spoke for Him like they owned the mic.
You didn’t lose faith.
You lost permission to exist in a place that only welcomed your performance.
You didn’t backslide.
You got tired of bowing to a system
that forgave predators before it even believed survivors.
And yet—here you are.
Still here.
Still searching.
Still sacred.
Because sanctuaries shouldn’t feel like trapdoors.
And religion should never require your silence to be valid.
So if you still flinch at the word “forgive”…
If you still carry shame you were told was holy…
If you left so you could finally breathe—
You’re not alone.
And you’re not damned.
You’re just finally free enough to name it.
Write. Laugh. Hope.
Because what the hell else is there?
