Survivor Speaks Truth

Author: SurvivorSpeaksTruth

  • When “Submission” Becomes a Weapon: How Twisting Scripture Keeps Women in Bondage

    Few things grieve the heart of God more than when His Word is twisted into a weapon. Yet for many women trapped in abusive marriages, that’s exactly what happens. One of the most misused verses in Scripture is “Wives, submit yourselves to your own husbands as you do to the Lord” (Ephesians 5:22). Torn from its context, it’s been used to silence women and keep them in bondage. But God’s intent was never control—it was love, protection, and unity.

    Ephesians 5:21 sets the foundation: “Submit to one another out of reverence for Christ.” Mutual submission is the heart of a godly marriage. It’s not about hierarchy; it’s about humility and respect. True biblical submission doesn’t mean losing your voice or enduring mistreatment—it means walking in love, guided by the Spirit. Yet many stop reading after verse 22, ignoring verse 25: “Husbands, love your wives, just as Christ loved the church and gave Himself up for her.”

    Christ’s love was selfless and sacrificial. He laid down His life for His bride. Any man who claims headship to dominate or harm is not following Christ—he’s opposing Him. God does not take lightly those who mistreat their wives. “Husbands, live with your wives in an understanding way… showing honour… so that your prayers may not be hindered”(1 Peter 3:7). That’s how serious God is about this.

    There is no verse in the Bible that permits abuse. God’s Word condemns cruelty, deceit, and oppression. When Scripture is used to justify abuse, it’s not righteousness—it’s rebellion. When pastors or Christians tell a woman to “pray harder” or “submit more” while she’s being mistreated, they are not protecting marriage; they’re protecting sin. Twisting Scripture to keep victims silent is spiritual abuse. Jesus never tolerated oppression—He defended women, confronted hypocrisy, and restored dignity.

    A marriage built on fear and control is not Christlike—it’s counterfeit. A godly husband leads through love, not dominance; protects, not provokes; cherishes, not crushes. Anything less falls short of God’s design.

    If you’ve been told that submission means enduring cruelty, hear this truth: God does not ask you to submit to sin. You are not defying Him by seeking safety—you are honouring Him by protecting the life He gave you. Leaving abuse is not rebellion; it’s courage and obedience to the truth.

    Scripture, when read in full, brings life and freedom. When distorted, it becomes bondage. God never intended His Word to enslave women—it was written to set them free. The same passage that calls wives to submit also commands husbands to love as Christ loved—to lay down their lives. Any teaching that stops halfway tells only half the truth.

    God is your defender. And He will hold accountable every man who harms one of His daughters while hiding behind His name. The verse that begins with submission ends with sacrifice. God’s Word, when rightly understood, doesn’t keep women captive—it sets them free.

  • Cognitive Dissonance: The War Between Heart and Mind

    Cognitive dissonance is one of the most tormenting psychological effects of abuse — the invisible tug-of-war inside your mind that makes you question your own reality. It’s the tension between what you feel and know, the mental chaos of trying to reconcile love with harm, and hope with truth. For survivors, it’s not simply confusion — it’s survival.

    Abuse often begins with affection, connection, and the illusion of safety. The person who will later hurt you first studies you — learning your dreams, fears, and vulnerabilities. They mirror your values, speak your language, and convince you that you’ve finally found someone who understands you. When the cruelty begins — the demeaning comments, gaslighting, and manipulation — your mind refuses to accept it at face value. It clings to the version of them who once made you feel safe, seen, and special. You tell yourself they didn’t mean it, they’re stressed, or they’ll change. You remember the good days like lifelines, hoping they’ll come back. That’s cognitive dissonance — your brain trying to bridge the impossible gap between who they pretend to be and who they truly are.

    It’s not weakness. It’s wiring. The brain naturally seeks harmony between beliefs and experiences. When something doesn’t make sense — like “they love me” and “they’re hurting me” coexisting — the mind will do anything to restore order, even if it means rewriting the truth. It’s safer to believe the abuse is your fault than to accept that the person you love is intentionally harming you. It’s less painful to hope they’ll change than to face that they won’t. This is why victims stay. This is how trauma bonds form — through cycles of punishment and reward, cruelty followed by crumbs of affection that feel like proof of love.

    Abusers exploit this confusion masterfully. They use intermittent reinforcement — one moment cold, the next kind — training your nervous system to crave their approval. You start apologizing for things you didn’t do, shrinking smaller, trying harder, and walking on eggshells. You believe that if you can love them right, the good version will return. The truth is that version never existed. It was a carefully constructed mask designed to keep you hooked. But when you realize it, you’re already entangled in a web of fear, self-doubt, and shame.

    Even after you leave, cognitive dissonance doesn’t fade overnight. In fact, it can intensify. You may find yourself defending them, missing them, or second-guessing your own memories. You’ll replay conversations, wondering if you exaggerated or misunderstood. You might even feel guilty for leaving. These conflicting emotions can make you feel crazy, but you’re not. You’re detoxing from manipulation — from a distorted reality that rewired your brain to question itself. Healing requires confronting those contradictions head-on.

    Freedom begins when you allow both truths to coexist: I loved them, and they hurt me. You can grieve the person you thought they were without denying the abuse that happened. You can honour your love without excusing their cruelty. Healing is not about forgetting the good moments but remembering the whole picture — the context, the cost, and the pattern. The brain slowly relearns that truth, even when painful, brings peace, while illusion always brings chaos.

    Recovery from cognitive dissonance is like reassembling a shattered mirror. You pick up each piece of truth and place it back where it belongs. You replace fantasy with facts, guilt with grace, and confusion with clarity. It’s painful at first because your mind must unlearn the lies that once made you feel safe. But as clarity comes, the fog lifts. You start to see the abuser’s tactics for what they were — manipulation, not love. Control, not care. Performance, not partnership.

    Healing involves more than understanding what happened intellectually; it requires retraining your body and mind to trust truth again. Writing things down helps anchor reality when your mind romanticizes the past. Therapy, trauma-informed support, and community with other survivors can help you name what you experienced and remind you that you’re not alone. Most importantly, self-compassion is crucial. You stayed because your heart was hopeful. After all, your empathy was used against you, because your love was real — even if theirs wasn’t.

    Cognitive dissonance dissolves not through force but through truth spoken gently, again and again, until your mind and heart finally agree. You begin to see that peace doesn’t come from pretending it wasn’t that bad, but from admitting it was. And yet, here you are. Still standing, healing and learning to trust yourself again.

    The truth may hurt, but it also heals. The lies kept you bound; the truth will set you free. And in time, you will realize that clarity — even when it breaks your heart — is the most merciful gift you could ever give yourself.

  • When Betrayal Makes it Hard to Trust Again

    When you’ve walked through betrayal, something deep within you changes. It’s not that you stop wanting connection — you learn that not everyone who smiles at you deserves a front-row seat to your heart. You begin to measure people not by their words, but by their consistency. You start listening more closely to their actions, timing, and tone.

    For a long time, I struggled to open up to anyone. Betrayal doesn’t just break your trust in others — it shakes your confidence in your ability to discern who is safe and who is not. There was a time when I thought I had found a safe space to share. I opened up about the deep wounds of betrayal I experienced in my first marriage — the kind of pain that leaves scars you can’t see but feel in every corner of your soul. I shared details that most people would never know, believing that vulnerability would lead to connection and understanding.

    But I was wrong.

    As time passed, I began noticing subtle inconsistencies and incongruencies in this person— small cracks in the story, little things that didn’t align. When I lovingly brought them up, hoping for honesty and clarity, the response wasn’t humility. Instead, I was asked whether my concerns had more to do with my past experiences than with what was happening. That question hit me like a punch in the gut. It made me doubt myself — again. And momentarily, I wondered if I was projecting, or being overly cautious, or still too broken to trust.

    But something beautiful happened as I sat with the discomfort, prayed through the confusion, and asked the Lord for clarity. The Holy Spirit reminded me that the unease I felt wasn’t paranoia but discernment. Discernment often whispers before it shouts. That still, small voice nudges you when something isn’t right. And when you’ve experienced betrayal, it can be hard to tell the difference between fear and wisdom. But over time, I’ve learned that the Holy Spirit doesn’t lead through fear but peace. When peace is absent, it’s worth paying attention.

    God was showing me the truth long before I was ready to see it. The inconsistencies weren’t coincidences; they were clues. My intuition wasn’t broken — it had been refined through pain. Healing after betrayal isn’t about closing yourself off forever; it’s about learning who’s earned the right to hold your story. Vulnerability is sacred, and not everyone deserves access to the most tender parts of your heart. There’s a difference between being guarded and being wise. There’s a difference between building walls and setting boundaries. Wisdom doesn’t harden your heart — it protects it.

    If you’ve ever been told that your discernment is just a trauma response, I want you to know this: the Holy Spirit can use your past experiences to sharpen your awareness. God can use what the enemy meant for harm for good — even the sensitivity that makes you second-guess people. You are not paranoid for paying attention. You are not “too much” for wanting truth and consistency. You are simply learning how to protect the peace that took you years to rebuild.

    The truth is, not everyone will handle your heart with care. But that doesn’t mean you stop trusting altogether. It means you learn to trust differently — wisely, prayerfully, and with God’s discernment leading the way. Every time you listen to that gentle nudge of the Holy Spirit, you honour how far you’ve come. You no longer silence yourself to make others comfortable. You no longer explain away your instincts to maintain peace. You understand now that real peace never asks you to ignore truth.

    Betrayal may have changed you, but it also equipped you. It made you more discerning, aware, and dependent on God’s guidance. So if you find yourself in that tender space of wanting to trust again but fearing what might happen if you do, remember this: you’re not the person you were before the betrayal. You’re wiser now. You’re more grounded. You’ve learned to recognize counterfeit peace. And most importantly, you’ve learned that discernment isn’t a sign of brokenness — it’s a sign of healing.

  • You Don’t Get to Judge a Story You’ve Never Lived

    Some people have a lot to say about lives they’ve never lived. They offer opinions on struggles they’ve never faced, pass judgment on choices they’ve never had to make, and speak confidently about paths they’ve never walked. It’s easy to form conclusions from the outside looking in. It’s easy to believe you would have handled things differently when your world isn’t crumbling beneath you. It’s easy to cast judgment when you’ve never been controlled, degraded, gaslit, or made to question your own sanity by someone who claimed to love you. But until you’ve lived it, you don’t understand the layers of fear, manipulation, and trauma that shape a survivor’s every decision. You don’t get to judge a story you’ve never lived.

    Abuse rarely begins as abuse. It starts with affection, charm, and promises. It begins with a person who seems attentive, genuine, and loving. Over time, the subtle changes start—a minor criticism disguised as concern, a raised voice dismissed as stress, an invasion of privacy justified as love. Bit by bit, the abuser rewrites reality. The victim adapts to survive, excusing behaviour that would once have been unacceptable, hoping love will somehow be enough to fix what’s broken. By the time the fog begins to clear, they’re already caught in a web of confusion, fear, and dependency. And then the world dares to ask, “Why didn’t you just leave?”

    Leaving isn’t a simple act of walking away. It’s a process of disentangling, reclaiming, and unlearning. It’s rebuilding an identity that’s been systematically dismantled. It’s risking safety, financial stability, reputation, and sometimes even life itself. Abusers don’t simply let go. They manipulate, threaten, stalk, smear, and exploit every vulnerability. Survival requires courage that most people cannot comprehend. So when someone says, “I would’ve never let that happen to me,” they say, “I don’t understand what it’s like to be trapped in fear.”

    When outsiders speak without understanding, they reinforce shame. They invalidate experiences they can’t fathom. They echo the very words abusers use to keep victims silent: No one will believe you. It’s your fault. You’re overreacting. Judgment keeps people trapped. Compassion helps them find their way out. The world doesn’t need more critics—it needs more listeners.

    Trauma doesn’t just live in the mind; it lives in the body. It changes how the brain processes information, how the nervous system responds to safety and threat, and how trust and love are understood. This is why survivors sometimes appear inconsistent, emotional, or hesitant. They’re not “unstable.” They’re healing from invisible wounds. So before you label someone’s pain as drama or weakness, remember: you have no idea what battles they fight behind closed doors.

    If you’ve never had to plan an escape in the middle of the night, if you’ve never hidden bruises—emotional or physical—behind a forced smile, if you’ve never feared for your children’s safety or questioned your own reality because of someone else’s manipulation, then thank God for that mercy. But don’t use your comfort as a weapon against those who haven’t been as fortunate. Use it as a reminder to extend grace. To hold space for those who are still finding their way out. To believe victims even when their stories sound unbelievable—because abuse always does until it happens to you.

    Every survivor carries scars, but those scars tell a story of strength, not shame. They are evidence of someone who endured what was meant to destroy them and lived to tell the truth. They prove that light can still break through even in the darkest places. When we choose empathy over judgment, we help that light grow.

    To the ones still living in fear: this isn’t your fault. You didn’t cause it or deserve it, and you don’t have to stay. You deserve safety. You deserve peace. You deserve a life where love is kind, not cruel; where home feels safe, not suffocating. Healing won’t happen overnight, but it will happen. Step by step, day by day, you’ll begin to remember who you are. And that person—the one beneath the fear and the pain—is worth fighting for.

    So the next time you’re tempted to comment on someone else’s story, remember that you’re seeing only fragments of a life you’ve never lived. There’s so much you don’t know and pain you can’t see. Be gentle with your words and generous with your grace. Because at the end of the day, none of us are called to judge—we’re called to love.

  • When Survival Has Left You Exhausted: Rest for the Weary Soul

    You are not lazy, stuck, or unmotivated. You are exhausted. There is a difference. After years of living in survival mode, your body and mind are simply tired. You’ve been running on adrenaline, holding yourself together through crisis after crisis, managing emotions that were never yours to carry, and trying to protect yourself and those you love. That kind of living takes everything out of you. It’s not that you lack drive or purpose—you’ve been in fight-or-flight for so long that your body has forgotten what peace feels like.

    The Bible says, “Come to Me, all you who are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” (Matthew 11:28) Those words aren’t just an invitation—they are a promise. God knows the toll that trauma takes. He sees the nights you lie awake replaying memories you wish you could forget. He knows the weight you’ve been carrying—the anxiety, fear, grief—and He’s not asking you to push harder. He’s asking you to rest. Not the kind of rest that comes from a nap or a weekend off, but the soul-deep rest that only He can give.

    When you’ve spent years surviving, slowing down feels wrong. Stillness can feel unsafe, even foreign. You’ve trained your body to stay alert, read every tone, and anticipate danger before it comes. Then, when the chaos finally ends, your system doesn’t automatically know you’re safe. It keeps scanning for threats, and you wonder why you can’t seem to focus, feel unmotivated, or cry for no reason. This isn’t weakness—it’s your nervous system recalibrating after years of living on edge.

    The world glorifies productivity. It tells you that your worth is measured by how much you do, how much you give, and how much you accomplish. But God measures differently. He’s not asking you to perform—He’s asking you to come. To lay it all down. To stop striving for just a moment and let Him carry the weight you were never meant to bear alone.

    This exhaustion you feel isn’t proof that you’re failing. It’s proof that you’ve been strong for too long. You survived what others may never understand. You kept going when it would have been easier to give up. And now, your body and soul ask for what they’ve been deprived of—gentleness, healing, and rest. It’s not that you don’t care anymore; it’s that you’ve finally reached the place where you can begin to breathe again.

    You don’t have to earn the right to rest. You don’t have to justify slowing down. Jesus permitted you when He said, “Come to Me.” His rest is restorative—it doesn’t just refresh the body; it heals the soul. It reminds you that you are safe now, loved, and don’t have to keep proving your worth through effort.

    So, if you feel unmotivated or “stuck,” don’t be hard on yourself. You are not lazy. You are recovering. You are healing from years of exhaustion, and your body has finally stopped masking. Give yourself the grace to slow down, to feel, to rest. Allow yourself to be renewed by the One who restores all things.

    Because healing doesn’t come from pushing through—it comes from surrender. And in that surrender, you’ll find the peace you’ve longed for. You are not broken; You are tired. And that’s precisely who Jesus invites to come to Him—the weary, the burdened, the ones who’ve been fighting for far too long.

    Let Him give you rest. The kind that quiets your soul, steadies your heart, and reminds you that you were never meant to do this alone.

  • Call it what it is: Abuse is Sin

    There’s a tendency in our world — and even within the church — to soften or spiritualize what God calls sin. We wrap it in excuses, justify it with nice-sounding words, or hide it behind phrases like, “They’re just broken,” “They had a rough childhood,” or “Nobody’s perfect.” But abuse, in any form — emotional, physical, spiritual, or sexual — is not just brokenness. It’s not just trauma. It’s not just a misunderstanding. Abuse is sin.

    It is a willful act that violates the heart of God. It’s rooted in pride, control, deception, and a thirst for power — the things Scripture warns against. And when we refuse to call it what it is, when we minimize it or cover it with religious language, we not only protect the abuser but we also keep the victim bound. You cannot heal from something you won’t name. You cannot find freedom in what you continue to justify. And you cannot move forward while pretending something sinful was merely “a mistake.”

    Jesus never avoided naming sin. He didn’t do it to shame, but to liberate. He confronted sin because only truth can lead to redemption. “Then you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free” (John 8:32). That verse isn’t about superficial honesty — it’s about deep, soul-level truth. The kind that shines light on the darkest corners and brings healing to places that have long been hidden.

    Healing doesn’t happen in denial. You can’t heal a wound you refuse to expose to light. You can journal, pray, and read Scripture every day, but if you keep calling abuse something less than what it was, you will never fully heal. God cannot heal what you continue to hide. Naming it — calling it what it is — is the beginning of your freedom. It’s not bitterness; it’s truth. It’s not vengeance; it’s alignment with God’s heart for justice and righteousness.

    Truth and grace are not opposites; they coexist perfectly in the person of Jesus Christ. He is full of grace and truth. Grace does not mean pretending sin didn’t happen. Grace means facing, grieving, and allowing God to redeem it without letting it define you. Calling abuse sin doesn’t make you judgmental — it makes you honest. And honesty is where healing begins.

    Many victims have been told to forgive and forget, to turn the other cheek, to “be the bigger person.” But forgiveness was never meant to be a free pass for unrepentant sin. God’s forgiveness always follows repentance — a true turning away from wrongdoing. When abuse is justified or hidden, it creates a false peace, not the peace of Christ. There is nothing godly about silence that protects sin. There is nothing holy about pretending.

    When we name abuse for what it is and stand in truth rather than confusion, we begin to strip away the power it once held. The enemy works in secrecy. He thrives in the shadows of silence and shame. But when truth enters the room, darkness trembles. What was hidden loses its hold. What once controlled you no longer can.

    If you have survived abuse, please hear this: You did not cause it. You did not deserve it. And it was not your fault. The sin belongs to the one who committed it, not the one who endured it. God grieves with you. He saw every tear, every moment of fear, every time you questioned your worth. And He is not calling you to cover it up — He is calling you to truth, because truth leads to freedom.

    It’s okay to say, “This was wrong.” It’s okay to say, “That was sin.” You are not dishonouring anyone by being honest about what happened. You are honouring God by standing in His light. The truth doesn’t destroy you — it restores you. Because only what is brought into the light can be healed.

    So, call it what it is. Don’t water it down. Don’t excuse it. Don’t carry the weight that doesn’t belong to you. Abuse is sin, and sin must be brought into the light. And when it is, God will meet you there — not with condemnation, but with compassion, and freedom.

    The truth sets you free.

  • The Weight of 2,364 Days

    Today is a special day for me that carries the weight of what was lost and the quiet victory of what was survived. It’s the anniversary of the day my court case was finalized. I lived many lifetimes within those years, but this date will forever mark the day I could finally exhale — the day I could begin to heal without constantly looking over my shoulder.

    Surviving domestic violence is hard enough. But surviving the system — the secondary trauma of courtrooms, endless delays, and being forced to relive your abuse under the scrutiny of strangers — is something no one can prepare you for. It is not justice that feels like healing; it’s justice that often feels like another battle you never asked for.

    From the first filing to the final judgment, our case remained before the court for 2,364 days — more than six years of waiting, hoping, and enduring. It wasn’t 2,364 days spent inside a courtroom, but 2,364 days of uncertainty. Days that blurred together in paperwork, hearings, and prayers. These days tested every ounce of faith and resilience my children and I had left.

    Court was not a place of comfort for us — it was a battlefield dressed in suits and silence. While we were supposed to be finding safety, we were forced to sit in rooms that made us relive every wound. The system that was meant to protect often failed to recognize the complexity of coercive control, manipulation, and post-separation abuse. My children and I were not just testifying about the past — we were surviving the ongoing tactics of someone who wanted to keep control, even through the legal process.

    I watched my children grow up inside that waiting period — robbed of the simplicity of childhood because they were carrying truths far too heavy for their years. We spent birthdays, holidays, and milestones with the shadow of court dates hanging over us. But even in those years, we found light. We built strength we didn’t know we had. We clung to faith when everything else was uncertain.

    When the final decision came, I didn’t celebrate with confetti or champagne. I sat silently and let the tears fall — not because we won, but because we endured. We were still standing. God had carried us through the valley when we couldn’t walk alone.

    It’s been years since that chapter closed, but every time this date comes around, I remember the woman who kept showing up — for her children, for the truth, for the life God promised on the other side of suffering. I look back not with bitterness, but with gratitude — not for what we went through, but for what it created in us. And while those 2,364 days tested us beyond measure, they also refined us.

    They taught me that healing is not a single moment — it’s a journey of countless steps of faith, courage, and perseverance.

    To anyone still in the middle of that storm: I see you. I know the ache of waiting for justice that seems so far away. Hold on. Keep praying. Keep believing that truth prevails, even when it feels buried beneath bureaucracy and lies. One day, you’ll reach the other side too — and that day will be yours to reclaim.

    Two thousand three hundred sixty-four days later, we were set free.

  • Two Faces, One Truth: Abuse Is Always a Choice

    When you’ve lived through abuse, one of the hardest truths to face is this: yes, an abuser can control themselves. That statement alone can take years to fully accept, because so many of us were conditioned to believe their behaviour was caused by stress, anger, or circumstance. We were told, “They just snapped,” or “They didn’t mean it.” But deep down, you start to notice a pattern that exposes the truth—if they can control how they speak, act, and appear in front of others, they can also control themselves behind closed doors. What changes isn’t their ability—it’s their audience.

    Abuse is not a loss of control. It’s the calculated use of it. Abusers are often deliberate, strategic, and painfully aware of when to turn on the charm and when to unleash cruelty. They can smile in public, offer compliments, and appear calm and collected when it benefits them. They know how to impress, gain sympathy, and make people believe they are kind, faithful, and respectable. Then, when the doors close and the witnesses are gone, they become someone else entirely. That shift isn’t an accident. It’s manipulation at its finest—maintaining power while keeping the victim silent and confused.

    If an abuser were genuinely unable to control themselves, they would treat everyone the same way. But they don’t. They never yell at their boss, curse at the pastor, or shove a stranger in line at the grocery store. They know precisely when to restrain themselves. They’re fully capable of appearing calm when there are consequences at stake. That alone proves that their behaviour is a choice. What they “lose control” of is not their temper—it’s their mask, and only when they think it’s safe to do so.

    This duality—the charming public persona versus the private cruelty—is one of the most confusing parts of abuse. The person everyone else sees is often kind, attentive, and generous. People speak highly of them, trust them, and defend them. Meanwhile, you’re living with a version no one else knows. You watch them praise others while criticizing you, raise their voice in rage one minute and then greet a friend sweetly the next. You begin to question your own perception. You think, “Maybe it really is me. Maybe I am too sensitive.” That confusion is part of their design. By maintaining a spotless public image, they create a shield of credibility for themselves and a cloak of doubt around you. If you ever speak up, they’ve already built a world that won’t believe you.

    The truth is that abusers are experts at image management. They study people’s reactions, learn what earns trust, and tailor their behaviour accordingly. It’s why many of them seem “so nice” or “so godly” in public. They use charm as a form of control and faith language to manipulate. Some even quote Scripture or speak about forgiveness while ignoring repentance. But God is not mocked. His Word says that self-control is a fruit of the Spirit. If someone truly walks with Him, that fruit will be visible not only in church pews or social circles but in the hidden corners of home. You can tell a tree by its fruit; rotten fruit can’t be disguised forever.

    What many call a “loss of control” is the deliberate use of anger as a weapon. Rage becomes a tool to dominate, to silence, to make you walk on eggshells. And when the storm passes, the abuser often acts as though nothing happened. They may even cry or say sorry to reset the power balance, not out of conviction. The goal isn’t reconciliation—it’s control. True repentance leads to change; manipulation leads to repetition. That’s the difference between a heart that wants healing and a person who wants to win.

    The Bible warns about those who appear righteous outwardly but are full of hypocrisy and wickedness within. It’s a verse that hits differently when you’ve lived it. Abusers don’t just harm people—they distort truth itself. They make evil look good and good look evil. They convince you that silence is loyalty and endurance is love. But real love does not destroy. It doesn’t leave you trembling or apologizing for being in pain. Love is patient and kind. Love protects. Love rejoices with the truth. And that’s why truth is so threatening to an abuser—because truth unmasks what they’ve spent so much time trying to hide.

    It’s heartbreaking how often victims are doubted because the abuser’s mask is so convincing. People see the public version—the friendly, composed one—and assume that’s who they really are. They can’t imagine that the same person who leads worship, coaches little league, or helps a neighbour shovel snow could be cruel in private. But that’s how abuse works. It thrives in darkness and relies on disbelief. The difference between how an abuser behaves in public and how they behave in private is one of the most evident proofs that their actions are intentional, not impulsive. They choose when to appear kind, be cruel, and play the victim themselves.

    The truth may be painful, but it’s also freeing. When you finally understand that their behaviour wasn’t because of you, your shortcomings, or something you did wrong—it was because of their desire to control—you stop trying to fix what you never broke. You stop believing that if you just prayed harder, loved more, or forgave faster, they would change. You start seeing their words for what they are—excuses. And you start seeing yourself as God sees you—worthy of peace, safety, and love that doesn’t leave bruises on the heart.

    So, can an abuser control themselves? Yes. They’ve been doing it all along. They control their temper when the police drive by. They control their tone when the pastor calls. They control their story when they need sympathy. The only time they “lose control” is when they think there will be no consequences. That’s not lack of control—that’s abuse.

    If you’ve ever questioned your reality because they seemed so different around others, please know this: you’re not imagining it. You’re seeing the truth that others haven’t yet seen. And though they may deceive people for a time, nothing hidden stays hidden forever. The Bible says, “There is nothing concealed that will not be disclosed, or hidden that will not be made known.” God sees every mask, every manipulation, every secret act of cruelty done in the dark. One day, all of it will be brought into the light.

    And when it is, remember this—it’s not your job to expose them; God promises to reveal the truth. Your job is to heal, to walk in freedom, and to trust that the same God who saw every moment of your pain will bring justice in His time. They controlled themselves when they wanted to; now you can take back the control they stole from you. Because truth, once seen, cannot be unseen—and it’s truth that sets you free.

  • They Don’t Want to Be Exposed — Because Abuse Thrives in Silence

    People who mistreat you don’t fear accountability because they think they’ve done nothing wrong. They fear it because they know exactly what they’ve done and don’t want it exposed. Abusers thrive in the shadows. Their power depends on your silence, confusion, and desire to keep the peace. They manipulate, twist the truth, and control the narrative, all to protect one thing: their image.

    Abuse doesn’t survive in the light. It can’t. Truth and exposure are its undoing. That’s why people who mistreat you will work tirelessly to appear kind, generous, or godly to the outside world. They crave admiration and credibility. Their greatest fear isn’t losing you — it’s losing control over how others see them. That’s why they smear, gaslight, and play the victim when you finally find the courage to speak.

    They know that the moment you tell the truth, the mask starts to crack. The version they’ve sold to the world — the caring partner, the devoted parent, the “pillar of the community” — begins to unravel. So, they’ll do everything in their power to silence you. They’ll call you bitter, unstable, dramatic, or unforgiving. They’ll accuse you of seeking attention. They’ll use Scripture out of context to guilt you into staying quiet: “Turn the other cheek,” “Don’t gossip,” “Love covers a multitude of sins.” But love doesn’t cover sin through silence — it confronts it with truth.

    The Bible tells us to “have nothing to do with the fruitless deeds of darkness, but rather expose them” (Ephesians 5:11). That’s not bitterness; that’s righteousness. God never intended for evil to be hidden under the guise of “keeping the peace.” Real peace can never exist where lies and abuse are allowed to flourish.

    Abuse thrives in silence because silence protects the abuser and punishes the victim. It allows the cycle to continue — sometimes for generations. When people refuse to speak out, predators are emboldened, manipulators are empowered, and victims are left to suffer in isolation. The truth doesn’t destroy families, churches, or communities — sin does. Silence helps it spread unnoticed.

    When you choose to speak, you break that cycle. You take back your voice from the one who tried to steal it. Speaking the truth doesn’t make you divisive — it makes you free. It invites healing and accountability. It brings light to dark places where God can finally begin the work of restoration.

    Those who mistreat others will always fear exposure because exposure forces them to face the truth they’ve been avoiding. It strips away their control. It shows the world who they really are beneath the mask. And while they may hate you for speaking, remember this: your courage threatens only those committed to deception.

    So, don’t be afraid to tell your story. Don’t let their fear of exposure become your reason to stay silent. You are not responsible for their reputation — they are. You are responsible for protecting your peace, your healing, and your truth.

    Abuse thrives in silence, but truth sets people free. When you speak, you shine light into darkness — and once light enters a room, darkness can never reclaim it.

  • How Trauma Changes the Brain—and How Healing Restores It

    Over the years—both through my own journey as a survivor and through sitting with countless others who’ve carried the invisible weight of abuse—I’ve come to realize something science continues to confirm: trauma doesn’t just live in our memories; it lives in our brains, our bodies, and our nervous systems. It changes how we think, react, feel, and connect with others.

    When I first began learning about trauma’s effect on the brain, I was struck by how perfectly the research explained what I had lived through. The hypervigilance made me jump at the sound of a door closing. The brain fog would roll in like a storm cloud when I tried to focus. The sleepless nights, the exhaustion that never seemed to lift, the sense that I was always on guard even in moments that should have felt safe. It wasn’t weakness or lack of faith—it was a brain that had been rewired to survive.

    Studies show that chronic abuse—whether emotional, physical, psychological, or sexual—literally changes the shape and function of the brain. The amygdala, that tiny almond-shaped structure responsible for detecting danger, becomes overactive, firing off alarms even when there’s no real threat. The hippocampus, which helps us store and recall memories, can shrink in response to prolonged stress, making it harder to remember clearly or to distinguish between past and present danger. And the prefrontal cortex, which is supposed to help calm those alarms and keep emotions in check, often goes offline during moments of fear or stress. When you’ve lived through trauma, this imbalance can make it feel like you’re living with one foot in the past and one in the present—ready to run, even when you’re safe.

    As a practitioner, I’ve seen these patterns repeatedly play out. Clients often say, “I feel broken,” or “I can’t seem to calm down,” or “I don’t know why I can’t just move on.” But looking deeper, we see that their brains aren’t broken—they’re protective. They learned to adapt in an unsafe environment. The same overactive amygdala that once kept them alive now keeps them anxious. The same dissociation that shielded them from pain now makes them feel numb or detached. The same survival mode that helped them endure is the very thing that prevents rest and healing.

    Even those who “only” witnessed abuse—children who heard yelling through the walls, who watched a parent being hurt, or who grew up walking on eggshells—show similar patterns in the brain. Their stress response systems stay on high alert. Their cortisol levels fluctuate wildly. Their developing brains, surrounded by fear, begin to equate safety with unpredictability. I’ve worked with adults who still flinch at raised voices or freeze when someone slams a cupboard door. Their bodies remember what their minds have tried to forget.

    The symptoms that follow are not just emotional—they’re physical. Chronic migraines, digestive issues, autoimmune flare-ups, and fatigue often trace back to that same overworked stress system. The body stores what the mind cannot process. When cortisol surges repeatedly, it wears down the immune system and interferes with sleep, memory, and mood. That’s why trauma healing isn’t just about talking—it’s about calming the nervous system, restoring balance, and helping the brain relearn what safety feels like.

    But there’s hope. I’ve witnessed it—in my own life and the lives of the people I’ve had the privilege to walk beside. The brain is resilient. It can change through safety, love, faith, and consistency. Every time we practice grounding, breathe deeply instead of reacting, and let ourselves be vulnerable with someone safe, we teach the brain a new pattern. Neuroplasticity—the brain’s ability to rewire—means that healing isn’t just possible; it’s biological.

    Faith has been a cornerstone of that process for me. When I finally began to understand that my hypervigilance wasn’t a lack of trust in God but the natural result of a traumatized nervous system, I was able to approach healing differently. Instead of condemning my reactions, I learned to extend grace to myself. I began to see that God designed the human brain to protect us—even if that protection became a prison for a time. Healing became an act of partnership: God renewed my mind while I practiced patience and self-compassion.

    What I’ve come to understand is that trauma really can leave its imprint on the brain—sometimes it shows up on scans—but the most powerful changes are the ones we can’t see. You can’t capture courage or faith on an MRI. You can’t measure the strength it takes to get up every morning and keep fighting to heal. Trauma shows itself in so many hidden ways—through anxiety that never seems to rest, nightmares that replay what we wish we could forget, a body that startles too easily, or the profound exhaustion that lingers even after a full night’s sleep. It can look like memory lapses, mood swings, or the constant urge to withdraw because the connection feels unsafe. But the brain that once learned to survive through chaos can also learn peace through safety, truth, and love. That’s the beauty of how God designed us—we’re not stuck the way trauma left us. Healing takes time, but it’s possible. I’ve seen it in others, and I’ve lived it myself. The scans can show what trauma did, but only a healed life can show what grace can do.