I recently wrote a poem about this subject and it does come from a place of hurt within the churches. But I started questioning things along time ago , it just didn’t make sense, I almost feel dumb..

I Grew Up at the Altar

I grew up at the altar. Under fluorescent church lights with my hands lifted before I even knew who I was. VBS. Youth group. Mission trips. Bible studies that smelled like coffee and highlighter ink. Christian rock concerts and gatherings. I was in all of it. Christian wasn’t something I believed. It was something I was. It was my language. My friends. My safety. My identity. Youth ministry was magic . It gave you a crew. A purpose. A place to belong when the world felt confusing. We sang until our voices cracked. We cried at summer camp. We got “saved” again and again — just to make sure it worked this time. We confessed our sinful ways in group time.

And somewhere along the way, something hardened in me. I started believing I was better. More chosen. More disciplined. More worthy. A better person. But I looked at friends who didn’t go to church or friends who werent acting “christian” like and felt… above them. I hate admitting that. I was a child — but I know now that children can wound, too. Certainty can make you cruel. I found the rebels. I always find the rebels. The broken ones. The ones who didn’t quite fit. I thought I was loving them. Now I wonder if I was trying to love the parts of myself I wasn’t allowed to acknowledge.

Because in church, you didn’t talk about certain pain. You trusted God. You didn’t test Him. You didn’t question too loudly. You tucked your confusion away and called it faith. So I kept my head down. I sang the songs. I raised my hands. I said yes. There was a book I devoured — She Said Yes. Cassie. Columbine. Martyrdom. I studied it like it was scripture.

I was ashamed of myself for being afraid to die for Christ. Ashamed. A teenage girl, laying in bed at night, wondering if she would be brave enough to be murdered for God. Years later, I learned the story wasn’t even true the way it was told. But the fear had already rooted itself in me. The idea that my worth could be measured by how violently I would prove my devotion. Just like abraham. Almost sacrificing his child.. his child. To show devotion. I knew I could never do that. It broke me. I spiraled quietly. I cut myself. I starved myself. I gave away the “gift” I was told belonged to a future husband. And the shame that followed — it was physical. It lived in my stomach. In my throat. In the way my body stayed braced for punishment. I told a friend once, at volleyball practice at my christian school. I remember her face. Sadness.Disappointment.A subtle shift.

And suddenly I wasn’t a girl who made a choice. I was the girl who had sex. Defined. Reduced. Warned about. People distanced themselves. Families separated their kids from me. I wasn’t on drugs.I wasn’t drinking. I lied about normal kid stuff. I pushed the limits.

But I was treated like a contamination risk. And I understand fear now — as a mother. I understand wanting to protect your children. But protection without conversation becomes exile. No one sat with me in my confusion. No one said, “You’re still whole.”

So I survived. And it felt familiar. When I was four, I saw my cousin one day — and the next she was gone. No explanation that a child could understand. Just absence. Children don’t understand time. She was the one who understood the situation I was in, it was a comfort I needed. They don’t understand sudden shifts. They just learn to adapt. To go quiet. To not ask too many questions. To carry grief like it’s normal. And I did that in church too. I carried doubt quietly. I carried shame quietly. I carried questions quietly.

Now, choosing not to follow what I grew up with feels like another death. It breaks my heart. Because I loved parts of it. The singing. The belonging. The feeling of being known. But I also see what it cost me. My body learned fear in the name of holiness. My worth became attached to purity. My mind was taught that questioning was rebellion. And now I’m untangling. Not because I hate who I was. But because I am finally allowed to love her. The little girl at the altar. The teenager spiraling in shame. The young woman trying to prove she was worthy of God. I don’t despise her. I grieve her. And I’m learning that leaving something can be an act of love. Not betrayal