Why I Walked Out of My Church—and Into My Calling
by Leona Grey
The moment I heard the words, “Marriage is a covenant, not a contract, Leona,” come out of my pastor’s mouth... my body froze.
My mouth went dry.
My palms went wet.
A ringing filled my ears.
My thoughts stopped.
In that moment, my body knew what my mind couldn’t yet comprehend.
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. I was living in a fog, watching myself slip further and further away from the woman I used to know—the confident, articulate, full-throttle adventurer who once embraced life with both hands.
I didn’t know who to tell.
I didn’t know where to go.
And by this point... I was pregnant.
I look back now and realize why I was so terrified to speak: I had been preconditioned not to.
In the church, when you marry, you’re told:
Submit.
Respect your husband.
And he will love you back.
So, I did everything I could to submit better. To respect more. To become a better communicator. To figure out what I was doing wrong.
Every time he exploded, I examined myself, assuming I must have caused it. If something I said or did “set him off,” I stopped doing that thing. Over time, my list of allowed behaviors grew shorter and shorter... until eventually, I was living a life where I simply cooked, cleaned, and discussed the weather. And I did each of those things excellently, with full dedication, believing—hoping—that somehow, if I could just do everything right, I could fix whatever this was.
But it wasn’t just fear holding me silent.
I was terrified that opening up to anyone would make me disloyal to my husband—or worse, disloyal to God.
I had been taught that to expose my husband’s sin would be gossip, that to ask for help would be betrayal. Whatever was happening behind closed doors was, ultimately, my failure as a wife. Somewhere, somehow, I was sinning. And that sin, I believed, was why my marriage was falling apart.
I carried that shame alone.
And I promised myself I would never break the covenant I had made. I would never say the word "divorce." I wouldn’t even allow the thought to cross my mind.
But as my due date crept closer...
and as my home life grew more violent...
I didn’t know where else to go.
So, I went to my church.
And I asked for help.
The response?
Terrifying.
I already knew the covenant I had made. I didn’t need that lecture. What it took for me to even hint that my marriage wasn’t the perfect, prayed-for union I had dreamed of since I was twelve years old... nearly broke me.
I was an over-functioning, high-achieving, people-pleasing woman who believed that if I worked hard enough, prayed long enough, submitted fully enough... I could make my marriage holy.
Admitting that I couldn’t?
Admitting that I had failed?
I couldn’t even say it out loud.
But when I tried...
when I dared to whisper the truth...
my pastor’s words crushed me.
I dissociated in that moment.
I minimized.
I covered up my near-confession.
I dropped my head.
And I walked out of that office... without looking back.
I never stepped foot inside that church again.
That moment—that single conversation—became the catalyst for everything I do today.
I didn’t lose my faith that day. But I did find my purpose.
It’s the reason I’m now pursuing my doctorate in Christian leadership.
It’s the reason my entire dissertation is focused on developing curriculum to train pastors who won’t fail the next woman who comes to them in silence and shame.
It’s the reason I wake up every morning with fire in my chest.
Because as a church, we have to do better.
We have to expose the lies we’ve believed—not just in the pews, but in the pulpits. We have to start educating our church leaders and preparing our seminaries to have a different conversation.
Because what happened to me that day wasn’t just one pastor’s failure.
It was the Church’s failure.
And when a woman walks into a place that calls itself a hospital for the broken...
but finds no help... no healing... no understanding...
We have a problem.
This is my why.
For every sister still trapped in Egypt...
for every woman who calls silence submission...
and disrespect headship...
It’s time to do it differently.
And the time to begin... is now.
About the Guest Author:
Leona Grey is a Christian writer, educator, and advocate for women healing from emotional, spiritual, and relational abuse. Writing under a pen name to protect her son’s story and their privacy, she draws from over a decade of personal healing to empower others through faith-based, trauma-informed resources. Leona is currently pursuing her doctorate in Christian Leadership, with a focus on equipping churches to recognize and respond to abuse with compassion and biblical clarity. She is the author of Unshaken. Through her work, she helps women reclaim their voice, worth, and faith.
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.