Telling your story after experiencing religious harm can feel nearly impossible. Where do you start? How do you not overwhelm yourself or others as you’re sharing? Who deserves to have the privilege of hearing your story?

Psychologist John Welwood coined the term “spiritual bypassing” to describe the tendency to use spiritual language to avoid dealing with emotional pain, psychological wounds, vulnerability, or conflict.

Religious trauma is often carried quietly, even when it shapes a person’s entire inner world. In this episode, Rebekah Drumsta speaks with Dr. Gill Harvey.

For years, the at‑home DNA test has been marketed as a harmless curiosity; a holiday gift, a way to settle family lore, a portal to a more colorful story of family ancestry. But for a growing number of adults, that small tube of saliva is less a novelty than a detonation. It doesn’t just rearrange a family tree; it rearranges a life.

The Religious Trauma Network is pleased to announce our next guest blog series for July-September, 2026. We invite thoughtful, compassionate submissions that explore the themes outlined below. As always, we welcome a wide range of perspectives, religious backgrounds and lived experiences.

Please note: Submissions that self‑promote (books, blogs, businesses, podcasts, etc.) will not be considered.

Have you ever heard the exhortation declared in your faith community that goes something to the effect of “you can be angry, but you cannot sin in your anger”? This sentiment is roughly connected to the first part of Ephesians 4:26, where the author says, “be angry, and do not sin”. More times than I can count, I have heard this rebuke proudly proclaimed to shut down a negative expression of emotion from individuals who have become aware of behavior that would reasonably warrant such a reaction.

The kids were down for their naps when the phone rang.

I’d been emailing the pastor for a few weeks — careful emails, the kind you write when you’re not sure you deserve to take up space. I was trying to make sense of what had happened to us at our previous church. Trying to understand if what I remembered was real, if what I felt was justified, if maybe I was the problem after all. He had offered to talk it through with me. I was grateful in the way you’re grateful when someone throws you a rope.

For most of my life I thought I had a stomach problem. The tightness. The swallowed air pressing up into my throat. The sounds my body made that I couldn't explain and couldn't stop. I took Pepcid. I tried eating slower. I blamed what I'd eaten for dinner. It would be decades before I understood that my stomach wasn't the problem. My nervous system was doing exactly what it was designed to do — keep me safe. Scanning the environment constantly for threats, giving me very few opportunities for rest.

Sticky questions, personal answers:

The Religious Trauma Network’s team mashup.

What sensations, tensions, or patterns have you noticed in your body that might be connected to past religious experiences?

Accepting Blog Submissions: April–June, 2026

The Religious Trauma Network is pleased to announce our next guest blog series for April–June, 2026. We invite thoughtful, compassionate submissions that explore the themes outlined below. As always, we welcome a wide range of perspectives, religious backgrounds, and lived experiences.

Please note: Submissions that self‑promote (books, blogs, businesses, podcasts, etc.) will not be considered.

Why would children or adults say their hearts are dark or dirty? For those who experienced relational trauma as children, this feeling now can be understood as shame—but religious teachings most often give it a different name—sin.

High-control, fear-based religious environments leave deep marks on a child’s development. Survivors often carry those marks into adulthood as anxiety, shame, confusion, and a deep mistrust of themselves—not because they are broken, but because their systems were shaped in ways no child should have to endure. What felt “normal” back then may finally make sense when you see how fear, shame, and control interacted with your developing brain, body, and sense of self.

One of the defining characteristics of childhood is—or should be—innocence. Theologies and teachings that deny the innocence of the child do great harm by placing adult thinking and motivations on the developing minds of children. A child is innocent by definition—they lack the cognitive ability to willfully and purposefully express evil in the ways that are possible for adults.

For years after my accident, I lived in two separate realities.

In one reality, I carried the memory of a perfect, unconditional love. In the suspended stillness after my car was crushed, I had been held by a Presence so vast and loving that it felt like the source of all existence. It was an experience of pure Spirit, of being known and loved completely, beyond the limits of a body.

In the other reality, I was trapped in a body that had become a prison. My bones were shattered, my nerves screamed, and every physical therapy session was a battle against a flesh that felt like it had betrayed me. The peace I had glimpsed felt like a taunt, a beautiful dream I couldn't wake into.

Nothing says innocence any better than a newborn baby! How could our excitement over a precious new life be anything but healthy? Remarkably, what we believe about this baby is where the seeds of Religious Trauma (RT) can begin.

Neurodiverse kids with ADHD, autism, OCD, anxiety, or other neurodivergent wiring - raised in fundamentalist, high-demand Christian worlds often felt like square pegs hammered into round, heaven-or-hell holes. Your brain was doing what brains do, but the environment demanded a very specific shape: quiet, compliant, perfectly pious, always performing. When you didn’t fit, it wasn’t seen as a wiring difference. It was a spiritual defect or conversely, your masking was glorified. And that mismatch left marks that make total sense when you look back.

Not every childhood story of Religious Trauma (RT) is the same. Yet, several consistent themes occur in the lives of children who grow up in religious communities. To illustrate this, I will begin with the story of three children. Every story is different.

Many adults who grew up in church describe a confusing experience later in life. They may still value faith, Scripture, or Jesus, yet feel anxiety, shame, or fear surface in worship spaces, prayer, or conversations about sin, Satan, and hell. Others have stepped away from Christianity entirely, often naming childhood religious trauma as a central reason.

Accepting Blog Submissions: January-March, 2026

The Religious Trauma Network is pleased to announce our next guest blog series for January-March, 2026. We invite thoughtful, compassionate submissions that explore the themes outlined below. As always, we welcome a wide range of perspectives, religious backgrounds, and lived experiences.

Please note: Submissions that self‑promote (books, blogs, businesses, podcasts, etc.) will not be considered.

Sticky questions, personal answers:

The Religious Trauma Network’s team mashup.

What’s one thing you wish your loved ones understood about your healing?