High-control, fear-based religious environments leave real marks on a child’s development. Survivors often carry those marks into adulthood as anxiety, shame, confusion, and a deep mistrust of themselves—not because they are broken, but because their systems were shaped in ways no child should have to endure. What felt “normal” back then may finally make sense when you see how fear, shame, and control interacted with your developing brain, body, and sense of self.

Neurodivergent kids with ADHD, autism, OCD, anxiety, or other neurodivergent wiring—raised in fundamentalist, high-demand Christian worlds often felt like square pegs hammered into round, heaven-or-hell holes. Your brain was doing what brains do, but the environment demanded a very specific shape: quiet, compliant, perfectly pious, always performing. When you didn’t fit, it wasn’t seen as a wiring difference. It was a spiritual defect or conversely, your masking was glorified. And that mismatch left marks that make total sense when you look back.

There comes a point in many of our stories when the faith we were handed stops feeling like home. Maybe it happened slowly—small comments, subtle control, the quiet erosion of your sense of self. Or maybe it was one moment that split your world open.

There’s a phrase I heard all my life in the faith spaces I grew up in: press on. Songs lyricized the concept. “Press on! “ was spoken as an admonition. It was offered as encouragement, but it functioned as expectation. A command. A cultural script. A spiritualized demand that women keep going no matter what their bodies, minds, or spirits were trying to tell them.

There’s a particular ache that comes when the place meant to keep you safe becomes the place that wounds you. Religious trauma is not only about doctrine gone wrong; it’s about the slow erosion of trust, the shrinking of autonomy, and the way authority can be wielded to silence and shame. The new Benoit Blanc mystery Wake Up Dead Man over on Netflix stages a gothic whodunnit inside a church community, and the film’s plot—centered on a controversial priest, a morally compromised monsignor, and a parish fractured by secrets—gives us a cinematic mirror for those dynamics.

The other day I scrolled through a comedian’s reel and what he said made me stop and rewatch just to make sure. He was riffing on his sisters’ parenting—gentle parenting, emotional coaching, the kind of responsive care that looks different from family tradition. He opened with, “All my siblings’ kids are bad. No one hits them anymore. No one spanks the kids.” The sketch ended with, “Dude, I will hit a child, bro. I will hit a child.” The audience laughed and applauded.

We’ve all seen the posts. A gaggle of beautiful children, a perfectly curated home with fresh sourdough rising on the counter, goats or chickens grazing in the yard, and a fresh-faced mom in prairie-core fashion. Her teenager runs a business from the kitchen table. The husband makes a cameo—lifting something heavy or kissing her forehead. On the surface, it’s idyllic. It looks wholesome, classic, even aspirational. But beneath the aesthetic lies a movement rooted in patriarchy, subjugation, and control. I know because I was raised in it.

This post might make things sticky for me. You know, tread lightly or else I’m gonna make some folks upset. But that’s not my style. It used to be, back when I blogged under another name because I was too afraid to use my full name - Rebekah Drumsta. I was afraid back then of what people would think of me, what they would do to me, what would happen if I asked the questions in my mind or express a different opinion.

This week I was researching a topic for another article I was developing and of all things, Bill Gothard’s own website pulled up. I have never chosen to view his site. I wasn’t in a place that hearing his voice again was safe for me. But this week, was different. Imagine my shock when I discovered a section entitled, “Why So Many Teens Join a Cult.” Of course…I read it.

I used to be really good at it. The smile…that plastered on “Ministry Smile.” The testimony. The “God is good” on cue. I knew how to play the part. Not because I was fake—but because I was formed by a system that taught me performance was protection and proper form.

This is the life of a ShowChristian. It’s not always narcissism. Sometimes it’s survival. Sometimes it’s what we were groomed to believe was holy.

There’s a quiet reckoning happening in the hearts of many women.

They’re beginning to name what was never safe to say aloud:
That the faith they were raised in didn’t always feel like love.
That the men who taught them about God also taught them to shrink, submit, and stay silent.
That spiritual language was used to excuse control, cover abuse, and sanctify suffering.

Let’s use our imagination for a moment. For some, you might not have to imagine, because, like me, you’ve witnessed this behavior firsthand.

Picture a middle-aged woman, her brown hair threaded with silver, tucked deep into a well-worn, overstuffed recliner that molds around her frame. She sits beneath a soft throw blanket. Gentle light spills from a side table lamp, casting golden pools onto her annotated and dog-eared Bible.

As my family and I were winding down one night—nearly done with another episode of a favorite show—I heard my phone chime. I checked it when the credits rolled, and my stomach dropped. Another friend. Another message. Someone else in the deconstruction and religious trauma space, crossing a line. My heart sank. Again.