As I walk this winding pathway of healing, I spend time taking care of my emotional and mental health and well-being…something I was told was not legitimate, did not deserve, and involved people who could not be trusted. As I am doing so, I am discovering things about myself and my journey that I wish other people could better understand.   

Sticky questions, personal answers:

The Religious Trauma Network’s team mashup.

What’s one red flag you wish you’d recognized sooner?

I was 17 when I walked away from the church I was raised in. I didn’t leave because I stopped loving God. I left because I couldn’t stay in a system that was clearly harming people. I grew up in a world shaped by Fundamentalist theology: rigid, rule-heavy, and deeply controlling. On the surface, it looked like holiness: clean-cut families, bold preaching, strong convictions. But beneath that polished exterior, I saw something much darker. There was spiritual manipulation, emotional control, authoritarian leadership, and both emotional and sexual abuse.

When someone you love says, “Religion or faith hurt me,” it can feel like the ground shifts beneath you. Maybe you’re surprised, heartbroken, confused—or unsure what to say next. You might feel protective of your faith tradition, or grieve the loss of shared beliefs. You might worry about saying the wrong thing, or feel helpless watching someone you care about wrestle with spiritual pain.

When your experience felt unsettling or “off,” yet you couldn’t quite find the language to explain why, it became easy to downplay what had happened. Abuse probably wasn’t a word in your mind’s vocabulary, let alone your thoughts. You probably thought it was just a rough “season”, spiritually speaking, maybe you even chalked it up to a “bad church experience”. Worse than dismissing your own pain, you may have begun to believe that you were the problem.

For many survivors of religious trauma, the process of learning to think critically isn’t just intellectual—it’s deeply emotional. When unquestioned beliefs were once tied to safety, belonging, or identity, challenging those beliefs can feel destabilizing. That’s why we created this resource: You’re Allowed to Change Your Mind: A critical thinking guide for survivors of religious coercion or high-demand groups.

Sticky questions, personal answers:

The Religious Trauma Network’s team mashup.

How has your understanding of forgiveness changed over time?

The Religious Trauma Network is pleased to announce our next guest blog series for October, November, and December 2025. We invite submissions that thoughtfully explore the themes outlined below, while upholding our core values of respect and empowerment.

I grew up in the Pentecostal and Non-denominational Charismatic branches of Evangelicalism. Even though we were not overtly dogmatic in certain ways, our subculture and its unspoken assumptions quietly and covertly shaped my beliefs. I had friends from diverse religious backgrounds, so I understood a broad spectrum of Christian experience existed. Still, I didn’t realize my own perspective was limited—like an ant walking across an elephant, thinking the little patch under foot was all there was, unaware of the vast complexity, edges and contours of the beast beneath me.

In this episode of the Religious Trauma Network podcast, host Rebekah Drumsta sits down with multidisciplinary artist and designer Demian Shipley-Marshall, who shares his deeply personal journey from feeling like an outsider in a fundamentalist Christian community in the U.S. to finding healing and creative freedom in Australia.

How many stories have we heard of religious leaders admitting to “affairs,” “moral failings,” or “shortcomings”—only to later learn that what actually occurred was an egregious crime? How often have survivors come forward to tell their stories, only to be pushed aside while the spotlight remains on the perpetrator? We have seen offenders applauded for their “honesty” and prayed over in public, while their victims sit in the same room—unseen and unheard.

I hadn’t told anyone what was happening—not my mother, not my best friend, not even a neighbor. No one knew.

The abuse had started on the very first day of my honeymoon.

I hadn’t seen him flip that switch before we said our vows, but the insanity began immediately after. I didn’t know what it was. I had never seen anything like it before. I didn’t know how to fix it, how to stop it, or where to turn.

Sticky questions, personal answers:

The Religious Trauma Network’s team mashup.

What would make the biggest difference for you-or for those around you-when it comes to support, healing and justice?

“It’s a first birthday party. There should be cake.“

With that text from fellow mom and friend Margo* - and the hope of chocolate - giving me strength, I peeled my body off the couch, already exhausted from chasing a toddler all morning. Our friends were worth celebrating. At the party, I told Margo that I was thinking about going to church in the morning, but that I was nervous. My husband had to work, and I hadn’t gone to church without him in almost a decade—certainly not alone with our daughter. Later that night, Margo texted me to tell me that she was grabbing coffee in the morning, including one for me. It wasn’t until I was driving to church that I realized what she was doing.

Anybody who is part of the evangelical church or a conservative congregation of other stripes knows that it is relatively common to encounter someone who has decided that doing things a certain way is the "biblical" way to do it.

Sticky questions, personal answers:

The Religious Trauma Network’s team mashup.

What does freedom mean to you? 

I can still hear the still, small voice described in church sermons: The Holy Spirit.

Its wisdom varied each day of the week.

On Sundays, it was loud: Get out of bed and go to church.

Mondays, it whispered: Just stay upstairs and out of sight.

Wednesdays, while weeping: Console mom.

Saturdays: Play with your little brother so he doesn’t get lonely.

Have you ever come to the realization that everything you thought about your life or a relationship or a friend (or possibly many things) was a lie? I still remember sitting in the church pew in my coral and brown dress, once again being scolded…yelled at…chastised…from the (bully) pulpit. I had recently turned 40 years old and had dedicated essentially every waking moment to that tiny but powerful institution.

I opened the door to find my pastor on the doorstep. He handed me a letter, signed by all members of the congregation, stating that they were breaking fellowship with me due to my decision to come out as gay.