Most of my writing on the topic of Religious Trauma addresses the personal impact of being raised in or attending churches where intentional or unintentional harm was caused—physically, emotionally, or spiritually. Inevitably, as parents begin to understand the impact, they realize their children were impacted also.

This was one of the more unsettling parts of healing.

It’s been 2.5 years. Two and a half years since one of the biggest “explosions” of our life as a family.  It’s hard to even name the hurt: hard to narrow down a multitude of individual events. Hard because I take seriously the Biblical admonition to examine “the log in my own eye” and because I know there are things in the whole mess that I/we could have handled better or done differently. And hard because I don’t want my story to be a source of scandal for others.  

The Religious Trauma Network is pleased to announce our next guest blog series for October-December, 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.

How do you deal with the grief that accompanies religious trauma? Many people are not expecting grief to be part of their experience. The grief can hit all at once or come in waves over time. Sometimes you may find yourself confused as to why you’re grieving something that caused you harm. 

One of the hardest conversations I have ever had with my daughter was explaining why we weren’t going back to church.

I spent most of her life trying to protect her from the scary, inevitable parts of being human. Like most parents, I knew I couldn’t shield her from everything. Eventually, she would experience disappointment, grief, betrayal and the realization that the world is not always as safe as we wish it were.

I keep listening to their conversations, driving by their buildings and church signs, and they are reminders that I do not belong. For someone who came into the world as an adopted child who didn't belong, this has been the hardest thing. I remember the days when my whole life was inside those buildings, when I got up every Sunday morning dressed in my best clothes and sang songs from my heart.

Today I’m watching a documentary on a cult. One of many I have watched. They fascinate me. The psychological abuse feels familiar. Always looking to someone else to tell you what is true. My body reacts strongly to this. I’m not even sure exactly which piece it’s reacting to. I suspect it’s the control. My teeth chatter, my body is tense and I can’t get comfortable. 

My parents had taken my older sister and I to the Oklahoma State Capitol for a "field trip" of sorts where we were introduced to both our state Representative and state Senator. Hands were shaken, photos were taken, and at some point I realized that our Senator was a Democrat, prompting the incredulous statement I made to my father. 

Christian nationalism has understandably dominated analysis of religion in the United States for several years now. But even in traditions that have historically resisted Christian nationalism, trauma surrounding faith and national identity can still take root.

That was my experience growing up as a Seventh-day Adventist, anyway.

Often times, in our journeys of healing, we become more aware of the depths and dimensions of our religious and relational experiences, injurious or otherwise. Naturally, we might ponder the validity or veracity of the things we once believed to be infallible or indestructible. At times, it may feel fearsome or even impermissible to broach the idea of even questioning.

After all, wasn’t the first sin “Hath god said?” Or so we learned.

I am a person without family. That matters to everything that followed. I was new to the area,  had no support system, and carried the kind of loneliness that reshapes how you move through the world. I rarely trusted anyone. But she was a priest. That title carried an implied covenant of care, and because of it, I trusted her fully. 

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?