While this post is written primarily to women, because my ministry and personal story are centered around helping women heal from abuse, chronic illness, and betrayal, these experiences are not exclusive to women. Men can and do experience deep trauma, abuse, church hurt, and injustice. If you’re a man reading this and see yourself in these words, please know you’re welcome here. Your pain is real. Your healing matters, too.

Speak. 

Even when your voice trembles. Even when your story sounds too wild to be believed. Speak anyway. 

That’s how healing started for me, not with justice, not with closure, but with the decision to stop silencing my own survival. 

The truth is, I’ve walked through some fires that most people prefer not to discuss in polite church circles. 

I stayed silent for years about the narcissistic abuser I lived with in my home because I was taught that a good pastor’s wife doesn’t say anything negative about her husband. Instead, I stayed silent about his deceit, ego, laziness, temper, and deep need for control. 

But when pedophilia was brought into the mix, I sought help and sang like a canary.  

I’ve had the legal system twist my words, label me “uncooperative,” and hand my child over to someone who had no business holding that kind of power. I’ve endured secondary abuse from the very system that was supposed to protect the innocent. The gavel hit the bench, but justice never landed. 

Then, I used my knowledge of narcissistic abuse and the secondary abuse of the family court system to help women who were walking the path I had walked. 

I’ve helped women spiritually gaslit by pastors who prioritized image over integrity. I’ve sat across from church leaders who called abused women’s trauma “bitterness” and told them forgiveness meant silence and submission. I’ve watched domestic violence get rebranded as “a difficult marriage” and then repackaged as a testimony of endurance, while the abuser faced no consequence and the women lost everything, including their sense of safety in the house of God. 

Then there were the neighbors. The ones who knew just how far they could go without legal accountability. Who harassed, stalked, followed, baited, and slandered until home didn’t feel like home anymore. And when I tried to report it? Let’s just say the system didn’t lose any sleep over criminals wreaking havoc in the neighborhood. The city codes and state laws were not upheld for the protection of the innocent.

And while all this chaos was unfolding, my body decided to turn on me too. Lyme disease doesn’t wait for trauma to pass; it joins the party. There were days I couldn’t get out of bed, not because I lacked faith but because my legs didn’t work. My brain felt hijacked. My immune system waved the white flag. 

Still, I showed up. (I thank God for Lyme Literate Medical Doctors/LLMDs and Tick-Borne Illness Scientists).

But Why Continue to Speak? 

Because I know I’m not the only one. 

Some of you reading this are neck-deep in church hurt. You’re wondering how a place built in Jesus’ name could feel so unsafe. You’re second-guessing your discernment. Wondering if you really heard God, or if you’re just too sensitive. 

Perhaps you have a knack for choosing manipulative friends. It isn’t too late for boundary setting or walking away. 

Others are walking through domestic abuse: physical, emotional, verbal, sexual, spiritual, financial, reproductive, or all of these. You’ve had scripture thrown at you like a leash. You’ve been told to submit and pray harder, cook more, clean better, and provide more sex as if Jesus ever endorsed one-sided marriage.

Some of you are fighting for your kids in a family court system that pretends it’s neutral but punishes protective parents. The courtroom feels more like a chessboard than a place for justice, and you’re left sacrificing yourself just to shield your child. 

And let’s not forget the chronic pain. The autoimmune crash. The constant inflammation. Trauma doesn’t stay in the soul; it rents space in the body. When we say we’re tired, we don’t mean we need a nap. We mean we’re carrying what feels like an invisible war every single day. 

I see you. And I’m speaking for you. 

Because God never told us to pretend. He never asked us to protect reputations over people. In fact, He calls out leaders who “heal the wound of My people lightly, saying ‘Peace, peace,’ when there is no peace” (Jeremiah 6:14). And Jesus? In righteous anger, when His followers were being taken advantage of, He flipped tables.

So Let Me Say This Clearly: 

I get you. 

I get us—people who’ve lived through too much trauma for one body, one heart, one lifetime. I’ve been there. On the outside, we look normal, functional, and possibly even cheerful. But inside? We’ve got nothing left to give. Not to our homes. Not to our churches. Not to ourselves. 

We forgive and forgive, swallowing our anger, ignoring our exhaustion, and dismissing our grief while we slowly fade. Bit by bit, we lose our edge, our creativity, our humor, and our personality. It doesn’t happen all at once. It sneaks in as we experience daily abuse, rejection, neglect, lack of attention and affirmation while trying to please a person whose mind isn’t wired correctly.

We’re exhausted… but we can’t sleep. (Thanks, cortisol. Thanks, adrenals.) 

And let’s talk about how we can read a room like a human lie detector. Body language? Tone? Eye movement? We’ve got it decoded in half a second. Why? Because that’s what happens when you’ve lived with an abusive personality. We become hypervigilant. We’re not imagining things; we’ve survived things. 

Our nervous systems are shot. But the good news? They can be retrained. 

I’ve been using DNRS (Dynamic Neural Retraining System). It’s a self-guided brain retraining program you can do at home, in pajamas, with zero pressure to talk to a therapist weekly. It helps rewire the brain’s trauma loops and rebuild healthy responses. It’s practical. It’s research-based. And it costs about what you’d spend on three counseling appointments. Totally worth it. If your nervous system feels like it’s stuck in survival mode… this could be your gentle on-ramp to healing. 

For the Ones Walking Behind Me 

I’m writing to you not as a hero but as a survivor who limped her way forward. 

To the person still stuck in that abusive marriage, praying and waiting and hoping—please know: Jesus doesn’t call you to be abused in His name. 

To the mama drowning in court dates, fighting for your babies while being labeled difficult or dramatic, you are not alone, and your fight is holy. 

To the chronic illness warrior who wonders if faith and fatigue can coexist, they absolutely can. Jesus never said, “By your hustle you’ll be healed.” He said, “My grace is sufficient for you” (2 Corinthians 12:9). 

To the one who’s been harassed in her own neighborhood, manipulated and stalked while the law looks away, you are not imagining things. Evil hides across the property line too. 

To those aching from church betrayal, who still believe in God but can’t stomach another Sunday service, you’re allowed to grieve what was meant to be sacred. 

So I’ll Keep Writing 

I write with kind humor and a survivor’s spirit. 

I write for the woman who doesn’t know if she’ll ever feel safe again, to say there is hope, even here. I write because Jesus is not the one who abused you, silenced you, or failed you. That was people misusing His name. 

I write to remind the Church that women are not expendable. That women are included in the participation of the Great Commission. That truth matters. That restitution is biblical. That protecting predators is not “grace,” it’s complicity. 

I write for the ones walking behind me, because someone once lit the path for me. 

• Proverbs 31:8–9 – Speak up for those who have no voice, for the justice of all who are dispossessed. 

Even if my voice shakes, I’ll speak. Because healing isn’t always fast, but it is possible. And sometimes all we need is to know we’re not walking alone. 

Friend, you are not too much. You are not imagining it. And you are not beyond healing. 

Let’s keep telling the truth, walking each other home, and speaking life into the shadows. 

If this resonates with your story, feel free to share it or just whisper “me too” in the comments. You don’t have to say much to be seen here.  

For the Women Behind Me 

To the twenty-something who wonders if it’s “honoring God” to set a boundary with someone who manipulates you in His name, the answer is yes. Yes, it is. 

To the mom in her forties trying to hold her family together while her church downplays abuse and calls it “marital strife,” you are not crazy, and you are not alone. 

To the woman in her sixties still haunted by what “should’ve been safe,” there’s still restoration for you. 

I’m writing to all of you. 

Because our stories matter. Because the church needs re-educating on the worth of women not just in ancient history, but in modern pews. Because Jesus doesn’t hide predators; He exposes them. Because repentance is not a press release, and restitution is not optional in the kingdom of God. 

But What About the Church? 

Yes, I still love the Church. I love Her enough to call for cleansing. I believe in Her enough to say we can do better. 

Isaiah 61:3 says God gives “a crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of joy instead of mourning, and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair.” That’s not poetic fluff. That’s the promise for the abused, the discarded, the ones the church didn’t believe. It’s for us. 

So, I’ll Keep Talking 

I’ll keep lending my voice with kind humor and truth bombs…to help the church learn how to value women again, not as objects, ornaments, or obligatory helpers, but as image-bearers with spiritual authority and God-given strength. 

I’ll speak into the lives of the generations behind me because silence helps no one, and obedience to God is sacred. 

And if my story, my spirit, or even my sarcasm helps one woman find her way out of chaos and back into the arms of Jesus then I’ll keep writing. 

Even if my voice trembles. 

• Psalm 34:18 – The Lord is near the brokenhearted; He saves those crushed in spirit. 

Your Voice Matters. Your Story Counts. And Your Healing Is Not a Detour—It’s the Way Through. 

If this resonates, drop a comment or share it with someone still walking the road you once traveled. Let’s light the path for those behind us.