Backsliding

On faith, control, and the cost of belonging

This piece discusses high-control religion and its emotional aftermath.

I didn’t know it was a cult while I was in it. I don’t think most people do.

What I knew was that my life had fallen apart in a short period of time. A long relationship ended—the kind where you think you’re building something real and adult. Within months of that, another relationship came fast and loud—flowers, dinners, fixing things, talk of moving in—and then that ended too. I wasn’t even in love. I was just trying to stay upright.

At the same time, my dad wasn’t really there anymore. Not in the way I needed him to be. I was broke, in debt, and when I asked if I could stay with him and my stepmother for a bit to get back on my feet, they said no.

So I was suddenly single, unsteady, and very alone.

That’s when the church entered my life.

They prayed for me. They told me I mattered. They told me God had chosen me, specifically, and that felt incredible. It felt like being seen again after a long stretch of feeling invisible.

They went to church constantly. I started going too. Not because I believed everything right away, but because showing up gave my days shape. It felt like purpose.

Then the rules started appearing.

Women weren’t supposed to wear makeup or pants because it meant we were trying to seduce men. Dating was watched. There was pressure to give testimony—to stand up and talk about your faith, your sins, your progress. There was spontaneous hymn singing, which sounds sweet until you realize you’re expected to join in, whether you feel it or not (or know the words).

There was constant pressure to give ten percent of your income if you wanted God to take care of you. Ten percent, no matter what you made, no matter what you owed. If God didn’t provide after that, it meant you didn’t have enough faith. You needed to pray more. You needed to go to church more.

And there were so many church things. Services, prayer meetings, Bible study, night services—it felt endless. I honestly lost track. The point was to always be there. It never fucking ended.

They talked a lot about backsliding. That word stuck to me.

I was completely addicted to cigarettes after college. I’d buy a pack, smoke a few, feel horrible, throw the rest out, promise God I was done—and then do it again. Over and over.

Smoking meant I was backsliding.
Skipping church meant I was backsliding.
Thinking too much meant I was backsliding.

They even had a picnic once and announced that no backsliders were allowed. I remember standing there thinking, of course I’m backsliding. I always am.

I cut off almost everyone who didn’t believe the way I did. Believe didn’t mean faith—it meant agreement. The only person I didn’t cut off was my sister. She never bought into it, and I think I needed one person who wasn’t inside my head.

The most dangerous thing I started believing wasn’t about sin or heaven. It was that I was untouchable.

I remember thinking I was invincible because God had chosen me. That I could do anything and wouldn’t die unless God wanted me to. And the truth is, I didn’t really care what happened to me.

Once, I stopped to help someone on the side of a highway without thinking. I didn’t even notice how dangerous it was. I could have been killed. It didn’t register.

What finally broke it open wasn’t a sermon. It was my grandmother.

My grandmother—my mom’s mother—died, and I was told she wasn’t “saved” because she was Catholic. That her faith didn’t count. I could not imagine my grandmother not going to heaven. I just couldn’t. Something in me stopped cooperating after that.

Around the same time, someone close to me got pregnant. She wasn’t married. The guy wasn’t helping. She was alone. She asked me to go with her to get an abortion.

I said no.

Not because it felt right—it didn’t—but because I believed helping her would mean I was doing something wrong. I still feel awful about that. It doesn’t feel like something Jesus would do. It feels like something fear does to you.

I didn’t leave all at once. I just went less. Then less than that. Then not at all.

Toward the end, I brought someone with me once—someone outside it. I warned him they’d try to convert him. He went anyway, won a candy bar at some church contest, and never went back. He didn’t argue. He just didn’t stay.

Years later, I found out what happened after I left.

The pastor I thought was the closest thing to Jesus on earth died of a massive stroke. His son-in-law, the youth minister, was arrested for molesting children. Mostly boys. He went to jail. His marriage to the pastor’s daughter was annulled. Apparently after over five years, it was never ‘consummated’. Another leader moved on and convinced a different church to pay for his gym membership because it was “for the body and the soul.”

It all came out.

I’m not writing this to say all faith is dangerous. I still believe in Jesus. I just don’t believe He wants you ashamed, isolated, or convinced you don’t matter unless you’re obedient.

Leaving didn’t look like freedom at first. It looked like small, ordinary things. Going to the beach. Moving my body again. Eating cheap food with my sister. Getting a cat. Letting normal life come back slowly.

If your faith requires you to disappear, it isn’t faith

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