Somewhere Between Hurt & Healing: My Story with the Church

 Over the past few years, we’ve seen more and more stories surface about churches and pastors caught up in scandals, abuse, or just deeply unhealthy leadership. And honestly? It’s heartbreaking—but not shocking. Just because someone calls themselves a pastor or ministry leader doesn’t mean they’re above making mistakes. No one is perfect. But I think a lot of us still carry the expectation that those who lead in God’s name will live with a deep sense of integrity and humility. And they should.

If you’re stepping into a role where people are trusting you with their hearts, their stories, and their spiritual formation—you better be surrounding yourself with wise, grounded people who will call you out when needed, who speak the truth even when it’s uncomfortable. That’s true for all of us. We all need people in our lives who will challenge us in love, especially when we’re about to drift into something unhealthy.

The truth is, a church can’t be healthy if its leaders aren’t first willing to be honest, humble, and fully surrendered to God. Sometimes that means owning up to hard things. Sometimes it means admitting we’ve hurt people. That’s not weakness—that’s what strength looks like in the kingdom.

But more than just damage control, what we need is healing. We need reconciliation. We need churches that are built not on personality, platform, or performance—but on the unshakable foundation of biblical truth. Truth that humbles us, heals us, and calls us into something greater than ourselves. This isn’t about being impressive—it’s about being faithful. We need pulpits where the Word is rightly divided, egos are laid down, and Christ alone is lifted high. That’s where real restoration begins.

As I’ve processed my own experiences in church over the past few years, I’ve kept coming back to what Scripture says about pastors. The Bible often refers to them as shepherds. And that image carries so much weight. A shepherd protects. A shepherd feeds and tends to the flock. A shepherd goes after the one who’s wandered off and brings them home gently. At the core of that calling is love—not control, not platform, not image. Love.

If you’re not super familiar with what the Bible says about what this role is meant to look like, here are a few key scriptures that have helped reframe it for me:

·       John 21:15–17 – Jesus tells Peter to feed and tend to His sheep.

·       Acts 20:28–30 – Paul reminds leaders to guard the church against harm.

·       1 Peter 5:2–3 – Leaders are called to serve willingly and lead by example.

·       Luke 15 – The heart of the shepherd goes after the one who’s lost.

·       Galatians 6 – We’re called to gently restore, not shame.

·       1 Timothy 3 & Titus 1 – Lists the kind of character God looks for in leaders.

Being a pastor is not about being in charge. It’s about being responsible. It’s a serious calling. And I believe with my whole heart that God holds leaders accountable for how they care for the people He’s entrusted to them.

But as much as I wish that vision of shepherding was the norm, the reality is, sometimes it’s not. Sometimes the people who were meant to care for others end up causing harm instead. That’s where things get messy. That’s where the pain comes in. And that’s where we have to talk about something that isn’t always easy to name: spiritual abuse. While that term might sound dramatic, it doesn’t always look like shouting or scandal. Sometimes it’s much quieter—subtle things that add up over time and leave people deeply confused and hurt.

Spiritual abuse can look like:

·       Making people feel like asking questions or disagreeing is wrong or disloyal.

·       Creating a culture where people are afraid to speak up when they’ve been hurt.

·       Using guilt, Scripture, or “honor” to keep people quiet.

·       Discouraging people from visiting other churches or learning from outside voices.

·       Expecting special treatment just because someone holds the title of “pastor.”

None of those things look extreme on their own—but they’re about control. And that’s the opposite of what shepherds are called to do.

It gets even more damaging when you mix that kind of environment with narcissistic tendencies. I know the word “narcissism” gets thrown around a lot these days, but what I’m talking about here is when a leader hasn’t done the inner work to heal their own wounds and instead builds a ministry around their own ego, pain, or insecurity.

In environments like that:

·       The church starts to reflect the personality of the leader more than the heart of Jesus.

·       The pulpit becomes a spotlight.

·       Other leaders or rising voices are seen as threats, not gifts to be cultivated and celebrated.

·       Sermons start to center on the leader’s opinions or personal vendettas more than Scripture.

·       Loyalty is demanded, and questioning leadership becomes a red flag instead of a healthy part of community.

·       Real accountability doesn’t exist—just people who say “yes” and protect the status quo.

I’m sharing this because I believe it’s important to acknowledge the reality of certain dynamics that can affect our church communities. Many people have experienced pain in church settings without fully understanding why. They might not have the words for it, but something felt off, and they left feeling confused or hurt, wondering if they were the problem.

You weren’t the problem.

One of the most damaging things that can happen in these environments is what I’d call a toxic honor culture—where loyalty to leadership matters more than truth, more than health, more than healing. Honor is a good thing, but when it’s twisted, it becomes a weapon. It gets used to shame people into silence. To protect a pastor’s reputation. To cover up things that should’ve been brought into the light. And the result? People who are hurting get pushed out, while the ones doing the hurting are shielded.

I’ve lived it. I’ll share more of my personal story soon—but for now, I just want to say this clearly: You’re not crazy. You’re not weak for feeling the way you do. You’re not alone.

And if you’re reading this and you’re a leader—please hear this as an invitation, not an accusation. This isn’t about canceling anyone. This is about calling all of us higher. We can’t heal what we refuse to name. And the Church can’t afford to keep wounding its own in the name of honor or image management.

I still love the Church. I still believe in community. I still believe in redemption, accountability, and grace. And I believe healing begins with telling the truth—even when it’s uncomfortable. Especially then.

My Personal Experience

This is where I want to pivot and share a bit of my personal story—my journey through attending different churches and even working on staff at one.

I’ve resisted writing this for a long time—partly because I didn’t want to come across like I was trauma-dumping or airing things that should stay in trusted circles. I also didn’t want it to seem like I was throwing shade at a pastor or targeting a specific church or ministry. And, if I’m being honest, I was afraid. Afraid of being judged, misunderstood, or accused of gossip. But even with all those fears and hesitations, I’ve felt God nudging me—gently but consistently—to speak. To share. To tell the truth about my experience in hopes that it might resonate with someone else walking through something similar.

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After I moved from San Diego to Ohio, I had a really hard time finding my footing. I landed at a solid church—it was good, the people were kind—but every Sunday felt like a battle. Just getting myself out the door was hard. I was also part of a small group with some really wonderful people, but no matter how much I wanted to plug in, I just couldn’t open my heart. So I left.

It took me a few months to realize that I wasn’t just unmotivated or “backslidden”—I was burnt out. I was carrying trauma from my last church experience, and my heart was in desperate need of healing. I didn’t know how deep the damage went until I tried to re-engage with church life again.

A few months later, I was let go from my remote position with the church I’d previously worked for. It came suddenly, and while part of me was relieved to be released from a place that had started to feel so heavy, I was also incredibly hurt and blindsided. That moment triggered a whole new wave of grief, and honestly, I’m still processing it.

This past year has been a journey of unlearning. I’ve been unpacking some of the theology I grew up with, some of the messages I absorbed about God and Scripture and church, and trying to realign my heart with who God really is—not just what I was taught to believe. It’s been painful. I’ve watched friendships drift away. I’ve felt isolated and confused. I’ve questioned my calling, my faith, even my place in the Church.

But even in the mess of it, I know this: healing starts with honesty. And that means being honest with myself, with God, and sometimes with others, too.

Years ago, I wrote out my life testimony—everything: the good, the bad, and the messy. I shared openly because I believe there’s power in bringing hidden things into the light. Shame loses its grip when we speak up. I eventually stopped blogging as life got busy, but I’ve never stopped being an open book. If you’ve followed my story or want to ask questions about where I’ve been since my last post almost eight years ago, I’m always open to having those conversations.

So, let me take you back a bit…

In late 2016, after hitting rock bottom, I made the decision to start rebuilding. I started going back to church, not as a formality but as a lifeline. I got connected to a community that helped carry me through that season. The church, and that community, saved me!

One Monday night in 2017, I remember sitting in my car before a women’s group and whispering a small prayer: “I would love to work for the church someday.” I didn’t say it out loud to anyone—it just kind of bubbled up from somewhere deep inside me.

Fast forward to the Fall of 2018. A friend on staff was preparing to take a leave of absence to chase a dream, and she needed someone to temporarily fill her role. I talked to my employer at the time, and they graciously allowed me to reduce my hours so I could step in. I trained after hours, and by January 2019, I officially started in that role. 

Five months later, I was offered a full-time position. That little prayer from my car? It was unfolding in front of me. I was living it. I was working for a church I loved, using my skills to help facilitate a space where people can grow in their faith—the same way I had been helped. It felt like a gift.

And for a while, it was. 

Even through the chaos of 2020, I loved what I was doing. I believed in the mission, and I gave my whole heart to it. But somewhere along the way, things shifted.

I can’t point to one moment when it all changed. Maybe nothing changed—maybe I just started to see more clearly what had always been there. I remember brushing things off early on because every church, every workplace, has bumps, right? No place is perfect. But over time, those little bumps grew into patterns that were hard to ignore.

The environment became one where honest conversations felt risky. Disagreeing or offering a differing opinion often didn’t feel welcomed. Ultimately, the vision and decisions always came down to one leader’s perspective, and there wasn’t much room for other voices to be heard. And when that’s the case, people stop speaking up.

There were moments I wanted to walk away. But I didn’t. I stayed because I loved the people I worked with. I loved my direct manager, she was amazing–how many people can say that? I loved the community. I loved the work. And deep down, I was still holding on to hope that maybe things would get better.

But the truth is—I wasn’t the only one who struggled. I wasn’t the only one made to feel small. I wasn’t the only one who walked away wounded.

If I had known then what I know now—about the culture that was created, about the patterns of behavior this leader would display, about how things were being handled—I honestly don’t think I would’ve taken the job. And that’s hard to admit.

But I know I’m not alone in this. There are people all over the world with stories like mine—people who gave their hearts to a church, only to walk away hurt and confused. People who are still trying to make sense of what happened. People who wonder if they were the problem.

If that’s you, I just want to say: you’re not crazy. Your pain is valid. What happened to you matters. And it’s okay to talk about it.

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As I reflect on everything I’ve walked through—both the beauty and the brokenness—I can now see more clearly what I didn’t have language for back then. The patterns I experienced, though subtle at times, mirror much of what I’ve learned about spiritual abuse and unhealthy leadership. At the time, I couldn’t name it exactly. I just knew something felt heavy, confusing, and out of alignment with the heart of God. And once you begin to see those patterns for what they are, it becomes impossible to unsee them.

But what I’ve also seen is that calling out what’s unhealthy is not about tearing things down—it’s about creating space for something better to grow in its place. Truth is what clears the ground. Truth is what makes room for healing. And healing is what God desires for His Church and His people.

There’s no easy road to rebuilding trust in something that once felt so sacred. But it’s possible. Slowly, gently, I’ve been returning to the foundations—asking God to show me again what His Church was always meant to be. I’m learning to untangle truth from culture, health from hype, and hope from performance. And I’m beginning to dream again—not just for myself, but for the kind of communities we all deserve to be a part of.

If any part of this resonates with you, I hope you feel seen. I hope you know you’re not alone. There is life after spiritual abuse. There is healing after church hurt. And there is a version of community that looks and feels like Jesus—where truth and grace are both present, where people are safe to be honest, and where power isn’t protected at the expense of people.

That’s what I’m holding onto. That’s what I’m rebuilding toward. One step at a time.