Recovering from religious trauma in the name of recovery.
I traded dealers for deacons.
Pills for praise hands.
Numbing out with God
instead of anything that actually helped me feel.
At first, it felt like hope.
Clean bathrooms. Coffee. Hugs.
Another kind of “meeting,”
but this one came with a dress code
and extra guilt.
They told me to surrender.
To sit still.
To die daily.
To call my pain a testimony
before I’d even survived it.
They didn’t want healing.
They wanted a performance.
They clapped harder when I cried.
They loved my brokenness—
so long as it stayed beautiful,
contained,
and dripping in “God’s will.”
I wasn’t free.
I was obedient.
Another addict in a different uniform.
I was detoxing from codependency
and drowning in submission.
Because what nobody tells you is:
religion can be the prettiest relapse of all.
You can chase holiness
like a high.
Use forgiveness
to avoid accountability.
Quote scripture
to hide from yourself.
And when I started to question it—
ask hard questions, set real boundaries,
redefine my worth—
they said I was “backsliding.”
No.
I was recovering.
From you.
I didn’t leave faith.
I left fear.
My healing didn’t come at an altar.
It came the day I stood up,
walked out,
and let myself believe
that God was bigger
than this tiny, shame-soaked box
they tried to stuff me in.
🧠 Emotional Takeaway:
Healing doesn’t always look holy.
And God is not control.
If your recovery is just another cage,
it’s not recovery.
🪞 Reflection Box:
I didn’t stop believing.
I just stopped needing someone else
to bless my survival.
🎤 They said submit. I said reclaim.
They spoke of sin. I named my shame.
They feared my fire, called it pride—
But faith that cages must subside.
I walked away. Not lost, but clear—
My worth was never rooted here.
And healing didn’t need applause—
Just space for me, outside their laws.
