Lest the Church People Speak
by Brynn Yates
I’ve decided that when my mother dies, I won’t be attending her funeral. This decision came after nearly a decade of counseling, when I finally concluded (and accepted) that she’d never be the loving, caring mom I always wanted.
Hatred, although it might be justifiable for the pain she inflicted on so many innocent people, was not a motivation for my decision—and it’s definitely not what I feel. The closest I’ve ever come to hating her was when I, as a seventeen-year-old who didn’t know what to do with all the pain she inflicted, wished that her plane would crash and she’d die. But I soon felt guilty about thinking this and resorted back to suppressing my anger.
At twelve, I convinced my mother to let me go to an after-school club. It was there I learned about a personal God who loved me, and I thoroughly embraced that message. Someone—someone powerful—truly cared about me!
My faith grew as I read through the Bible. I wanted to know everything about my God. Then one day the club leader invited my mother to her church. It wasn’t like we hadn’t ever been to church, but it had been a while. This new church was different. There was no church building; we met in the basement of a bank. There was no choir; no robes; no stained glass; no pews; no long-held traditions. They taught about a God who was loving and good.
We kept going to that church while my mother divorced her fourth husband. Then when she found her fifth husband, we started going to his church. But God did not appear to be a very loving God there. I didn’t understand at the time why it was so different. Yet, somehow, I was able to continue my faith journey, always counting on my God to be loving and good.
After completing my sophomore year, my parents moved us eight-hundred miles to a Southern state, where they enrolled us in an ultra-strict Christian school. Both the school and our new church demonstrated a mostly harsh and distant God. But my God remained constant—loving and good—despite the religious preaching of a hate-filled, controlling God.
Apparently, manipulative and controlling people, like my mother, can be attracted to this type of religion because it offers a license of sorts for wielding a God-ordained power. My mother enjoyed using fear-filled religion to control everyone, especially at home. She would claim that her behavior towards the stepchildren was justified, all in the name of God. She also began gifting money to preachers so she’d always have their support. This tactic was later proven when two of those preachers came to testify in court after child services brought charges against my parents for abusing one of my stepsisters.
Step-siblings did not have the same opportunity I had to experience their own faith. They were required to read their Bible every morning in a common area of the house. Their father assigned the passages, which included a deliberate focus on certain agendas, such as children obeying their parents. The children had little freedom of time, activity, or thought. And no one dared speak their mind. Religion for them—specially designed by our parents—was forced upon them.
Somehow, through all the chaos, I was able to hold onto my God of love. But I was impressionable in my younger years and bad religion tainted who I was—for a while. I’ve had to reprogram the things they drilled in my head. It was like coming out of a cult.
For the longest time, both Mother and bad religion taught me not to think for myself. I found myself protecting both Mother and the church instead of speaking up about an opposing view or exposing wrong-doing. I’m still trying to learn how not to be so awkward when I need to speak an injustice or opposing view, especially at work.
As you can imagine, Mother’s Day has always been difficult for me. Until I stopped communicating with my mother, I spent a lot of time looking for the right card to send. I refused to give her flowery words that weren’t true. But I also didn’t want words that were too cold.
After all, I’ve always loved my mother. In fact, I grew up feeling responsible for her happiness. That’s why every time she told us she was getting married again, I always supported her, hoping she had finally found the one who could make her happy. While caring for her, I ignored my own needs, which included a great deal of anger that I didn’t allow myself to feel. My faith prevented me from hating my mother—even though her cruel acts were, perhaps, worthy of hate.
I started therapy at forty-one because I didn’t feel safe when I was young. It was scary at first, but I was struggling and needed help. Fortunately, my therapist was trained in trauma and patiently walked me through the pain. It was hard going through all the stages of grief.
Yes, I had to grieve the relationship that never existed with my mother. I had always thought about her needs, not mine. So, when she was removed from the equation, I had no identity. Once I understood that, my healing began. I no longer wanted to run away to avoid the pain. I had to rebuild. Part of finding my identity resulted in obtaining degrees so I could pursue a new career—a career my mother hadn’t influenced me to do.
Cutting off my mother fourteen years ago was necessary for my healing. Those boundaries have helped my well-being. Yet I still have compassion for her and know that time is short. I reached out to her recently in a small way to see how she’d respond. While I’m not sure how much I may allow her back into my life, I have no hope or expectation that she can change. And that’s okay. She can no longer drag me down.
My mother’s birthday is a week after Mother’s Day, and she’s always demanded recognition for both days. After all these years of no contact, I have no plans to begin sending cards again. And when she passes away someday, I will not attend her funeral—even if we reconnect in her final years or months. I’m choosing to prioritize my own well-being and to maintain boundaries that protect my healing. Attending her funeral would mean facing a community that (knowingly or not, enabled or overlooked the unspeakable harm I (and others) experienced, and I’m not willing to put myself in that position.
Those who will speak kindly about my mother may not have the full picture, as she was skilled at presenting herself in a different light to others. I know in my heart that I cannot in good conscience honor someone who caused such great harm to so many children. I have already grieved this loss and come to terms with the reality of our relationship. I reserve the right to decide whose words about my mother I welcome, because just like anyone else, she does have some good qualities. I wish I could’ve known and spent some time with that better side of her, but she has always been incapable of making that a healthy experience. When the time comes and she passes, I plan to visit her city and spend time with my brothers. I don’t feel the need to mourn her again, especially in the company of those who cannot know the whole truth.
My healing journey for the last twenty years has taught me so much. I no longer tell myself or others that things were better than they were. There’s no more excusing or trying to cover up my mother’s bad behavior. I’ve learned it’s okay to feel sad and angry. Setting boundaries, defining my own faith, and choosing who gets to speak into my life have all been hard-won victories.
Once I accepted truth and learned healthy coping skills, I was able to heal. After almost every therapy session, my counselor would say, “Be sure to take care of you.” It really is okay to put your own well-being first. And it’s okay to grieve, to question, to walk away, or to stay distant if that’s what you need. Forgiving doesn’t require you to embrace the abuser. And while reconciliation does require the abuser to actively participate, I know that is rare for those with my mother’s personality disorder.
Sometimes, healing just looks like surviving, finding your own voice, and building your own life—a life that feels like yours. That’s where you’ll find joy.
About the Guest Author:
Brynn Yates earned her Master’s in Education in 2021 and works as an instructional coach for a K-12 school. She and her husband, Scott, have two daughters, two adopted sons, and eight grandchildren. Brynn and Scott enjoy traveling and spending time with family.
Disclaimer:
The views, thoughts, and opinions expressed in guest blog posts are those of the individual authors and do not necessarily reflect the positions of the Religious Trauma Network. We recognize that each person’s healing journey is unique, personal, and courageous. The stories shared here belong solely to the contributors, and their experiences, perspectives, and advice may not apply to everyone. We encourage readers to honor their own paths and seek professional support as needed.