Growing up, I engaged in rituals such as bowing my head at family dinners, dressing up for church on Sundays, and saying my prayers each night. However, it wasn’t until my teenage years that I started exploring a deeper sense of spirituality on my own.
During my freshman year of high school, my mother and I discovered what we would later call our “home church.” The atmosphere was relaxed, the community felt genuine, and the worship team sang engaging songs instead of the usual hymns. What truly captivated us, though, was the preacher’s ability to convey messages that felt personally tailored to each listener.
But it wasn’t just the pastor who created an inviting environment. Finding a group of people to connect with on a deeper, more spiritual level was empowering. I miss that sense of community most — the unspoken warmth that welcomes you in without needing to say a word. It was like receiving a comforting hug from a grandmother on a tough day, a feeling of belonging.
As time passed and our church grew, the services shifted toward a more charismatic style. Discussions about the gifts of the Holy Spirit became common: speaking in tongues, healing, prophecy, and miraculous works. It wasn’t unusual to witness someone “falling out” in the Spirit during altar calls. For those unfamiliar, this term describes a person fainting under the supposed overwhelming presence of the Holy Spirit.
Doubts about the authenticity of these experiences led to a perceived hierarchy within the church. If you hadn’t been baptized in the Holy Spirit and didn’t possess a divine gift, you found yourself on the lower rungs of this spiritual ladder.
I was heavily involved in the church, often attending nearly every day, serving or socializing. The leaders embraced me like family, which made me feel special amidst my struggles. So, when they encouraged me to seek baptism in the Holy Spirit, it felt like a significant honor.
It’s hard to explain, but it seemed the leaders believed I had a unique potential for speaking in tongues. However, they didn’t want my mother present during the experience. Despite my reservations, I began to utter gibberish, thinking that’s what I was meant to do. Everyone around me claimed to feel goosebumps, while I felt nothing.
As I grew older, I lost my “golden child” status. I began experimenting with drugs and alcohol, developed an eating disorder, and dealt with self-harm and suicidal thoughts. High school became a battleground of bullying, with kids harassing me daily. Any mental health professional would have recognized my need for help, but in the church’s eyes, my struggles were purely spiritual.
My mother, desperate to transfer me to a private school, faced financial hurdles as a single teacher. One day, the pastor called us into his office, claiming he had found two “black suit” gentlemen to sponsor my tuition. He made it seem like his intervention was the only way I could attend, and we were incredibly grateful.
However, a year later, I discovered that those “black suit” gentlemen were actually my uncles. This act of deception should have been a breaking point for us, but somehow, the leaders managed to spin the narrative in their favor.
Tensions escalated as my new school failed to provide the support I needed. My mom faced pressure from church leaders who imposed their toxic beliefs about parenting. They would come to our home, praying over me and proclaiming, “I rebuke Satan from this child of God, in the name of Jesus.” When that didn’t work, my mother sent me to rehab, and I’ll never forget the pastor’s ominous warning: “If you leave this rehab before you are ready, I will hunt you down.” Such remarks didn’t feel very Christ-like.
I eventually left the rehab, as it wasn’t a good fit. Upon returning to church with unkempt hair, my mentors claimed they could sense I was spiraling. They acted as if they understood me better than I did, and I believed them.
These leaders repeatedly questioned my salvation, insisting they didn’t see any “fruit” in my struggles. To them, my depression was a spiritual battle, and I was allowing evil to win. Growing up in church, I carried a deep-seated fear of hell, and their perceptions weighed heavily on me.
It wasn’t until adulthood that I recognized the damaging dynamics of these relationships. When I began to think for myself, some leaders blocked me on social media, as if they were shunning me. Despite the trauma, I still care for these individuals, but I’m appalled by how they treated me as a child.
I’m continually working to unlearn the beliefs instilled in me by church leaders. I’ve had to redefine my views on purity culture, recognize that being gay isn’t a sin, and confront the enduring fear of hell. It’s become evident that the values of the spiritual figures I once revered don’t align with my own.
I would never treat a child the way I was treated. I had a mental illness, yet my struggles only fueled their need to save me. I wish they had seen me as a child in need of support, not a project for their spiritual agenda.
In navigating these complex feelings, I’ve learned the importance of empathy and understanding in healing. For anyone seeking guidance on related topics, resources like IVF Babble can be invaluable. For additional insights into home insemination, check out this blog post or this authority on artificial insemination.
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