Content Note: This piece discusses religious trauma, spiritual abuse, complex grief, and the lasting impacts of betrayal by trusted spiritual leaders. If you’re in an acute phase of trauma, please consider whether this is the right time to read.
Spiritual trauma has been with us for as long as people have used power to dominate others in the name of God. Spiritual trauma has been with us for as long as anyone has been told they were broken from the start.
— Hillary McBride, PhD, Holy Hurt
WHEN THE GROUND SHIFTS
I think most of us can relate to the experience of searching for answers to the questions that keep us up at night: Why are we here? Where did we come from? Does our creator care? We need something to hold onto when everything falls apart.
Church gave me those answers. It offered certainty, faith in something I’d determined to be true—an anchor to keep me steady even when I couldn’t see what was ahead.
I believed that anchor would hold. I believed the gates of hell would not prevail against “the church.”
Until I realized the person who’d taught me where to find it was not at all who I thought him to be.
That’s when my anchor came loose.
This was a minister I’d gone to for healing and hope. As a childhood trauma survivor, I was searching for a reason to keep going—for evidence that love and goodness exist. Over time, he became woven into multiple relationships in my family’s life, so deeply intertwined that separation became impossible without tremendous damage.
The realization came slowly. Something deep within shifted. I felt the ground tremble. My body felt it first. My mind started to spin. My questions led to answers I wasn’t prepared for.
I discovered what I thought was an anchor wasn’t an anchor at all—but a tiny thread of manipulation holding everything together. When it started to unravel, everything fell apart.
If I walk through life believing each chair I sit on will hold me up, but then one day I sit on a chair that crumbles under me, my assumptions about chairs will change. I’ll likely approach other chairs with more caution, inspect them before sitting, and be reluctant to let the full weight of my body rest on the chair. The chair is like our spiritual worldview: we don’t think much about how it is supporting us until it stops doing so.
— Hillary McBride, PhD, Holy Hurt
THE COMPLEXITY OF SPIRITUAL TRAUMA
Spiritual trauma is what happens when the ground we thought would always hold our most precious hope becomes unstable—when we become overwhelmed and disillusioned by that instability.
This is Big T trauma—more than a one-time event. This isn’t about church members disagreeing over carpet colors or someone’s feelings getting hurt by a thoughtless comment. Those are normal human conflicts we encounter everywhere.
This kind of trauma is like a 5,000-piece jigsaw puzzle broken apart, turned over, with missing pieces that will never be found again. Our hope. Our desires. Shattered.
The violation of our safety strips us of our agency and robs us of our ability to stop something or protect ourselves or others. These experiences of stress change us; categorically, they sit outside our ability to tolerate, cope, or manage them.
— Hillary McBride, PhD, Holy Hurt
Spiritual trauma survivors have one thing in common: the loss of unshaken, steady ground. We’ve lost the safety we once knew—safety in our belief systems, in our church, and in leaders we trusted to guide us well.
This trauma doesn’t only happen in church. It can occur in any system built on trust, authority, and shared meaning-making—religious institutions, healthcare systems, therapeutic relationships, educational environments, political movements, family structures. While individuals cause harm, it’s often the systems that enable, protect, or perpetuate that harm. Systems that prioritize their own preservation over accountability. Systems that silence victims to protect reputations. Systems that conflate loyalty with blind trust.
When we lose our vital connection to the systems that helped us make meaning of our lives—when those systems betray the very values they claimed to uphold—this kind of trauma creates a spectrum of grief. There are no easy answers. Grief is a process. We will never be the same after losing something we held so dear. Life can go on and be different, but there will always be holes.
Bessel van der Kolk describes trauma as “a hole in the soul.”
— Hillary McBride, PhD, Holy Hurt
DIVERSE PATHS THROUGH THE WRECKAGE
Some of us learn to fill in the empty spaces, our minds allowing us to see the big picture despite what’s lost. Some of us stare at the scattered pieces and can’t see anything at all. Some give up searching. Some find new pieces and create something entirely different from what was lost.
We are a diverse group of survivors. Some want to find a church community again. Some swear they’ll never darken the door again. Some need time away. Some will spend the rest of their lives searching for that picture of home.
In my experience the pieces shift around and change. For a long time I tried to find community in religious environments but it was too much for my nervous system. So lately I’ve been looking for connections outside of the church.
At times it has felt impossible—especially considering I was taught for decades the kind of fellowship we had inside the church wasn’t possible on the outside. We were special. We were chosen. Those on the outside were not a part.
There is something particularly insidious about spiritual trauma; it is almost always relational, often occurs at a young age, may happen over long periods, and is normative, ignored, and sometimes framed as a great good.
— Hillary McBride, PhD, Holy Hurt
WHEN YOUR BODY KNOWS WHAT YOUR MIND DENIES
Spiritual trauma is as diverse and complex as our experiences with religion. Belief systems often cause damage hidden from our sight. I grew up in religion that taught my core being was bad from the beginning, which made it hard for me to distinguish what my real problems were. But looking back I can now see that my body always knew what was happening despite what I was told.
What resulted was inner conflict—overwhelming pain every time something felt outside of my control. The religious system taught me it was my fault or that I was being tested by God. This belief kept me going back to the system for relief. But the more I’ve learned about how trauma separates us from our bodies to cope, the more I’ve realized how the religious environments I was in kept me separated from the very connection to my body that I needed to heal.
We need two primary things to recover from this kind of trauma: self-compassion and the belief that we have the capacity to change. But many religious experiences teach us we’re bad and can’t change without acknowledging that badness first. And this just keeps us stuck in a loop.
Many of us are learning to rely more on our bodies. Because over time we’re realizing that people can and do lie, but our bodies do not.
There’s a difference between religion and spirituality—an important distinction that has brought many of us relief. Spirituality is the experience of connection, the feeling in our bodies that we do belong, that we’re part of something way bigger than ourselves. Religion is often about culture, about beliefs that have been part of our lives to provide structure offering safety and belonging. There are aspects of religion that are life-giving and positive. But there are also aspects that result in damaging beliefs about ourselves.
The only way to know what’s helpful and what’s not is to learn how to listen to our bodies, because they do not lie. And yet some religious systems teach us not to trust our bodies.
For me, it was when it became impossible to live in my body peacefully that I started to question everything. The spiritual abuse became the trauma that shed light on other things that had been wrong all along.
Trauma is like light in another way: it helps us see what is there. It shows us where the places of injury are inside us—the places that we have learned to turn our gaze away from—while also highlighting the patterns, people, and systems that caused the wounding. It allows us to see the places where healing is needed outside us so others don’t get hurt like we did.
— Hillary McBride, PhD, Holy Hurt
WHAT SURVIVORS ACTUALLY NEED
Seeing, hearing, and being truly present to another person’s suffering provides the steady ground we need. Here’s where it gets complicated: it requires common ground. People who have been through the fire and been burned. People who recognize there are no easy answers to deep pain.
Spiritual bypassing won’t work. Spiritual bypassing uses spiritual practices or beliefs to avoid uncomfortable feelings—like putting on bandaid after bandaid without healing the wound beneath. “Just have more faith.” “Pray more.” “Keep coming back to church.” These responses stop discomfort but don’t address the actual injury.
What works? Presence. Presence with someone who can sit with uncertainty—someone who has done their own work and listens with an open mind and heart. Someone who listens without imposing their perspective or projecting their needs. Who simply lets you be, without fixing. Who offers time willingly out of genuine desire to bring relief. Someone who knows how much it hurts and doesn’t want you to feel alone.
I have a friend in church leadership who knows my story. She meets me in coffee shops, not churches. There’s never pressure for me to come back to church. We agree to disagree and find common ground. Her consistent presence has become an anchor—built not on shared beliefs, but on something stronger: shared grief.
She’s done her own work. She’s suffered losses that won’t be restored, disappointments, confusion, times when easy answers fail. She’s stayed even when my pain made her uncomfortable.
There is something to be said for a friend who stays.
In one of our conversations, the question came up: How can the church provide help and hope to survivors of religious trauma? I’ve been pondering that ever since. The answer was in the person sitting in front of me.
Here’s What Actual Help Looks Like:
“It’s okay. I’m still here for you.”
“Let’s meet for coffee outside of church. I’m here whether or not you attend church.”
“What do you need? Do you want church invitations or would you prefer I don’t invite you? Do you want me to pray or just listen? How can I meet you where you are?”
“I don’t have an agenda. My care won’t change even if you don’t believe the same way I do.”
“I’m here if you want someone to sit with you at church. If you need to leave the service, that’s okay. I won’t pressure you.”
One pastor told me, “Don’t come to church out of pressure. Only come because you want to.” He never pressured me, even when I disappeared for months. When I’ve visited, members treat me like I’d never been gone. It lets me know I always have somewhere to go. He too had been through religious trauma and done his own healing work. As Dr. Hillary McBride teaches, he offered help from his scars, not his wounds—he wasn’t trying to heal himself through helping me.
Our pain can feel threatening to well-meaning people. It shakes their certainty, their own ground. When they feel that instability, they grab hold of their beliefs to steady themselves—and sometimes harm the very people they want to help.
THE COST OF NOT UNDERSTANDING
For the past decade, I’ve visited many churches. The same issues kept coming up. I experienced trauma symptoms—triggers from songs, verses, sermons—and they didn’t stop.
I asked for help but was met with the same solutions: pray and keep coming back. “It’ll get better,” they said. But returning to where the damage happened, where I’m reminded of all I lost—every time I tried, I was retraumatized.
Then they said they were disappointed. I assumed it was in me. I told them my story. They couldn’t understand. I thought it was me for so long. I felt ashamed that my pain was so much.
But the longer I’ve been on my recovery journey, the more I’ve realized it wasn’t me. As I’ve faced how much I lost, I’ve come to understand how desperately others need what they believe to hold onto. I don’t want to take that from them. There is truth there for them, just like there was for me—real truth, comfort, and love, even alongside the harm. We aren’t meant to go through life alone without something to hold onto.
When I realized it wasn’t me, when I allowed myself to remember what used to bring me comfort, I understood that their disappointment was more about something they were wrestling with than about me. So I came back to my torn-apart jigsaw puzzle and began piecing it back together with a few others who understood. I’m starting to see a hopeful picture again—pieces of love, hope, and truth that weren’t lost for good.
DIFFERENT PATHS, SHARED GRIEF
My husband, also a spiritual abuse survivor, likes to say, “Follow the truth and see where it leads.” Even though we live in the same household, our journey has led us down different paths. We each hold onto beliefs that give us comfort, though some I’ve let go that he’s kept. We’ve learned to live together being okay with this, recognizing that pain is worse when we go through it alone. What holds us together: shared grief, shared hope that truth will lead somewhere that brings relief.
As I write this, a picture of Jesus comes to mind. Despite all that people have done in his name, he still feels like a friend—a friend there despite time and distance. My relationship with him isn’t the same. Sometimes I haven’t wanted to think about anything concerning him. Sometimes it hurt too much to hear his name.
After a decade of wrestling, I’m starting to separate the people who used his name to harm from him. His words come up like breadcrumbs along my healing journey—glimmers that sparkle when the sun breaks through. Small moments of unexpected connection. A fragile faith strengthened over time, especially when people offer me the same nonjudgmental presence.
When I think about the man who promised abundant life and freedom, relief from burdens, who met people without judgment—he’s someone I can aspire to model. We survivors might be just like the people Jesus spent time with. Those people you didn’t see in church—he went to them, was present with them so much that religious leaders thought he was one of them. The most vulnerable people. The ones he was gentle with. He allowed “that woman” to wash his feet. He advocated for the one “caught in sin.”
The thought of someone like this brings relief. And every time I meet another person who follows in his footsteps, he becomes more real to me.
My friend in ministry. The pastor who survived a cult. A spiritual director who held space for my questions. Many others who, despite our differences, have held space for my pain. Survivors and friends who let me know goodness still exists outside church walls.
WHAT LIFE LOOKS LIKE NOW
I’m still putting together my puzzle. It’s starting to look like my life coming back online. A sense of meaning and purpose again. Like I’m part of something much bigger than I am.
What pieces have I found? Relationships with people who accept me as I am, who make me feel like I matter. With every person who understands, connection becomes possible. The realization that I’m no longer alone gives me comfort—no matter what happens, we can face it together.
I’m thankful for the people who have provided me pieces, letting me know I’m not putting this puzzle together alone.
And that’s what all of us survivors need from the church and anyone else: shared humanity that doesn’t abandon us—even when we don’t understand each other, even when our beliefs no longer align.
FOR CHURCH LEADERS: AWARENESS AND ACTION
If you’re a church leader, here’s what you can offer:
Awareness. Be willing to listen and learn when you don’t understand. When a survivor’s story challenges your beliefs or makes you uncomfortable, that’s information about you, not them. Stay present anyway.
Trauma-informed care. Seek training in religious trauma. Provide resources that don’t retraumatize. You can become part of someone’s healing journey, but only if you understand what healing requires—and what causes further harm.
Pure motives. Check your heart honestly. If any part of you hopes to bring survivors back to church, if there’s an agenda beyond genuine care, pause. Survivors need to be seen as whole people, not lost sheep to retrieve. Come with open hearts, not conversion goals.
Presence over fixing. Listen without trying to solve, defend, or explain. Without imposing your perspective or projecting your needs. Simply be with them. Let them be exactly where they are without pressure to be anywhere else.
FOR SURVIVORS: YOU ARE NOT ALONE
If you’re a survivor reading this, know this: you’re not alone. Your pain matters. Your loss is real. While recovery is possible, it rarely looks like what we expected—and that’s okay.
What has helped me: Digging deep into what feels true. Writing honestly without judgment. Doing what I can when I can and offering myself compassion. Finding people who understand there are no easy answers and who sit with me in uncertainty without needing to make it better.
I invite you to share your own practices, the anchors you’ve found, the ways you’ve put your puzzle back together—even if it’s messy, even if it’s still in pieces. We need each other’s stories.
RESOURCES FOR YOUR JOURNEY
If you’re navigating religious trauma, these resources have been meaningful to me:
- Dr. Hillary McBride’s work:
- Book: “The Wisdom of Your Body“
- Book: “Holy Hurt” and podcast.
- Her interview with Josh Harris on YouTube about religious trauma
- Website: drhillarymcbride.com
For Survivors Seeking Support:
aliminalspacecoach.com | loriwilliamsliminalspace@gmail.com
For Church Leaders:
I’m open to conversations about supporting survivors in your community. Reach out through my website.
Lori Williams is a certified trauma recovery practitioner offering peer support in the Nashville area. She creates educational content to help trauma survivors understand the complex nature of spiritual trauma. Learn more at aliminalspacecoach.com