Survivor Speaks Truth

Tag: Exposing Evil

  • They Know Exactly What They’re Doing

    For those of us who naturally see the best in people, it can feel almost impossible to accept the truth that some people intend the harm they cause. You tell yourself they “didn’t mean it,” “weren’t thinking,” or “didn’t realize their actions or words were hurtful,” because facing the reality of their intentional actions is deeply painful. Yet more often than not, the harm was not accidental. It was calculated, conscious, and deliberate. One of the most evident signs is that people who cause harm can control themselves when it benefits them. Someone who screams, mocks, or belittles you in private can somehow remain calm, charming, and composed in front of church members, coworkers, or anyone whose opinion matters to them. A person who claims they “can’t control their temper” suddenly becomes gentle when there’s an audience. Someone who insists they “didn’t know their words were hurtful” somehow manages to choose their tone with surgical precision when speaking to people they want to impress. Selective behaviour is not an accident; it’s evidence of awareness. If they can control their actions and tongue depending on the crowd, they know what they’re doing.

    This truth also becomes evident in the way they manipulate their words to suit the audience. They may speak harshly at home, but soften their tone in public. They may accuse you of being “too sensitive,” yet carefully craft their words for others to ensure they appear kind or reasonable. Their narrative shifts to whatever makes them look good and you look unstable. People who genuinely have no idea they’re causing harm don’t need evolving stories. But those who knowingly hurt you will bend their version of events depending on who they’re trying to convince. And watch what happens the moment consequences are possible—when their job, reputation, or access to you is at stake. Suddenly, they can regulate themselves with ease. The insults fade, the volume lowers, the charm turns on instantly. Someone who can adjust their behaviour that quickly was never out of control; they chose to be reckless with you because they assumed there would be no consequences.

    Even their remorse reveals awareness. They often only express regret when exposure or loss becomes a threat, not when they recognize the pain they’ve caused. That isn’t repentance—it’s self-preservation. A person who genuinely didn’t realize they were hurting you wouldn’t need to be caught or confronted before acknowledging their behaviour. Accepting that people know what they’re doing when they hurt you isn’t about becoming hardened or bitter; it’s about becoming honest. You can still have a soft heart and believe in goodness, but you must stop rewriting someone’s character to fit the potential you hope they have. Abusers and emotionally unsafe people rely on your compassion to protect them from accountability. But healing requires truth, and truth requires naming what happened. Recognizing that they knew and chose their actions toward you is a crucial step in reclaiming your strength, your clarity, and your freedom.

  • A Message of Hope for Every Survivor

    There are chapters of my life I never expected to walk through—chapters I wouldn’t wish on anyone. Abuse leaves marks that the eye cannot see, and it sends your soul into terrain you never imagined you’d have to navigate. There were days when breathing felt like a battle, when getting out of bed felt like climbing a mountain, and when I wondered if the pain would ever loosen its grip on my life. But even in those darkest days, when the world felt silent and God felt far away, something sacred was happening: He was redeeming my story in ways I couldn’t yet see. I didn’t know it then, but every step I took—whether trembling, crawling, or barely moving at all—was leading me into a future God had already written with hope, purpose, and restoration.

    Survivors often hear, “You’re so strong,” but strength rarely feels like strength when you are fighting to hold yourself together. What carried me wasn’t my own power; it was God’s steady hand on my life when everything else was falling apart. He saw every tear I cried behind closed doors. He heard every prayer whispered from a heart that felt shattered. He caught every piece of me that was breaking—and gently began putting me back together. Pain didn’t disqualify me. Trauma didn’t destroy me. It actually became the soil where new strength, new identity, and new purpose began to grow.

    I’ve walked through days so dark that it felt like the sun might never rise. Abuse tries to convince you that your story is over, that you’re too broken, too damaged, too lost ever to be whole again. But abuse does not have the final say. God does. And God is a Redeemer. He takes what was meant to destroy you and uses it to build you stronger. He takes what was supposed to silence you and turns it into a testimony. He takes every lie spoken over you and replaces it with dignity, identity, and truth. Where others saw weakness, God saw a warrior. Where others tried to oppress, God prepared to elevate. Where others tried to erase your worth, God wrote it into eternity.

    I’ve lived through moments that should have crushed me. I’ve endured things that still bring tears to my eyes when I think about them. But here’s the truth: I am still standing. I am still healing. I am still rising. Not because of who harmed me, but because of who holds me. Every time I thought I’d reached the end, God whispered, “This is where I begin.” Every time I felt abandoned, He reminded me, “I will never leave you nor forsake you.” Every time I questioned my future, He said, “I am making all things new.” And He is—not just in my life, but in yours, too.

    If you are reading this and you feel like the darkness is still thick around you, if you feel like you’ve lost too much, or you’ve been hurt too deeply, if you wonder whether restoration is possible for someone like you, hear me: God is not done. The pages of your story are still turning. The healing you long for is still unfolding. The redemption you can’t yet see is already in motion. What others used to break you, God will use to bless you. What tried to destroy you will become the very testimony that sets others free. What felt like the end will become the beginning of something beautiful, something you never imagined was possible.

    There is hope for you. There is healing for you. There is joy ahead for you. Whether your steps are steady or trembling, keep going. Whether your voice is strong or quiet, keep speaking. Whether your faith feels certain or fragile, keep holding on. Because God is not just redeeming my story—He’s redeeming yours, too. And the same God who brought me through every valley, every battle, every storm, is walking with you right now. You are not forgotten. You are not forsaken. And you are not too broken to be made whole again. Your best chapters have yet to be written.

  • Silence Protects the Abuser, Not the Survivor

    Silence is often mistaken for peace, but for a survivor, silence is something entirely different. It is the place you retreat to when speaking feels dangerous. It is the space you hide in because telling the truth has never been met with safety. People on the outside don’t understand this—they wonder why you didn’t say something sooner, why you stayed, why you kept quiet. But they don’t realize that silence is not chosen lightly. It is shaped by conditioning, experience, fear, and by the knowledge of what happens when the truth threatens someone who lives behind a mask. Abusers cultivate silence. They depend on it the way a fire depends on oxygen. They groom you to downplay the harm, keep secrets, and question your own reality. They convince you that no one will believe you, that speaking up will make things worse, that you’re too dramatic, too emotional, misremembering, that you are overreacting, or too sensitive. They rely on your empathy, your loyalty, your desire to “keep the peace,” your hope that the good moments mean something. They weaponize your love. They twist logic, Scripture, or your words until you wonder if maybe staying quiet is easier than being destroyed. Silence becomes the price you pay to avoid punishment.

    But silence never protects the survivor—it protects the abuser. It keeps their reputation intact. It allows their lies to stand unchallenged. It preserves the image they’ve curated for the world: the charming spouse, the devoted parent, the respected professional, the person who could “never” do what you’re saying they did. Silence hides the truth that would expose the cruelty happening behind closed doors. And while you carry the weight of wounds you didn’t cause, they walk freely, confident that your silence will shield them from the consequences of their actions. That is how abuse survives—not because survivors are weak, but because abusers are strategic. They understand that their greatest threat is your voice. They know that if you ever speak, the illusion they rely on begins to crack. So they keep you quiet through fear, gaslighting, manipulation, shame, and spiritual distortion. They condition you to believe that your silence is necessary, noble, godly, or protective, but it isn’t. Silence is the cage they build around you.

    Yet something powerful happens when a survivor finally decides to speak. The moment the words leave your lips, even if your voice trembles, the darkness loses its grip. The truth begins to breathe. You feel the weight shift, not because everything becomes easy, but because the burden is no longer carried in secret. Speaking up does not create destruction—abuse does. Telling the truth does not divide families—abuse does. Naming the harm does not ruin reputations—abuse does. Survivors do not speak to punish. They speak to stop generational cycles, heal, protect their children, and reclaim the part of themselves that learned, for far too long, that their voice didn’t matter. And with every truth spoken, another layer of shame falls away. People may still choose to believe the lie. Some will prefer the illusion. Some will take the easy narrative rather than confront the real one. That is the cost of honesty in a world that idolizes appearances. But even then, your voice matters. Because silence protects the abuser, but truth protects the survivor. And once you step into truth, even if it costs you relationships, comfort, or approval, you step into freedom. You step into clarity. You step into the life you were meant to live before someone convinced you that hiding was safer than being heard. Silence may have protected them, but it will not protect them forever. There comes a day when the truth rises—in a whisper, sometimes in a roar—but either way, it rises. And when it does, you realize that your voice was never the danger. Your silence was. And choosing to speak is the moment everything begins to change—not because the past disappears, but because you finally refuse to carry it 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.

  • 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.

  • Hurt You, Blame You: The Manipulation of False Victimhood

    There are few things more disorienting than being wounded by someone you trusted, only to have them turn around and claim they are the one who has been wronged. It is not enough that they inflicted the pain — they also rewrite the story to put themselves in the center as the victim. This tactic is not how normal, healthy people respond to conflict; it is a hallmark of manipulation, and it is one of the ways abusers maintain control over those they harm.

    When you love someone, mistakes will happen. Words may come out wrong, tempers may flare, and feelings may get bruised. In healthy relationships, those moments are met with accountability. A sincere apology is offered, an effort is made to repair the damage, and both people walk away with a deeper understanding of one another. Abusers, however, do the opposite. Instead of owning the harm they cause, they deflect responsibility and recast themselves as the ones who have been unfairly treated. Suddenly, the person they hurt is left with their own wounds and the burden of defending themselves against untrue accusations.

    This reversal is deeply confusing. Survivors often replay the events in their minds, asking themselves if they are overreacting, if maybe they misunderstood, or if they somehow caused the whole thing. That cycle of self-doubt is precisely what the abuser hopes for. The more you question yourself, the quieter you become. The more you silence your instincts, the easier for them to continue controlling the narrative. Over time, you can feel invisible, as if your voice and your truth don’t matter.

    What makes this tactic so effective is the sympathy it wins from others. When an abuser positions themselves as the victim, outsiders often rush to their defence. People may rally around the one causing harm, while the actual victim is left isolated, disbelieved, and even blamed for the situation. This compounds the trauma, because not only are you living through the pain of betrayal, you’re also experiencing the loneliness of being misunderstood.

    The truth is that causing deep hurt and playing the victim is not normal conflict. It is not just a misunderstanding; it is not two people simply seeing things differently. It is deliberate manipulation to keep the focus away from accountability and leave the real victim silenced and confused. Once you can see this pattern for what it is, you begin to understand that you are not crazy, you are not overreacting, and you are not the one to blame.

    Healing from this kind of manipulation means reclaiming your story. It means naming what happened and refusing to carry guilt that does not belong to you. It means surrounding yourself with safe people who will listen and believe you and learning to trust your perspective again. You were there. You know the truth. You do not need to accept the false narrative forced on you.

    Abusers may try to steal your voice by turning themselves into the victim, but the truth has a way of cutting through lies. You don’t have to live under their distorted story forever. Your pain is real, your experience is valid, and your freedom is possible. When you step out of the fog of manipulation, you can see clearly that pretending to be the victim while causing harm is not strength, it’s not righteousness, and it’s not love — it’s abuse. And you are not bound to it anymore.

  • The Church Cannot Stay Neutral on Abuse

    For too long, churches have wavered when it comes to addressing abuse. Some avoid the subject altogether, while others downplay it as a marital “conflict” or “personal struggles.” But let’s be honest—abuse is not a disagreement, and it is not a personality clash. Abuse is sin. Abuse is violence of the heart, the tongue, and often the hands. Abuse destroys families, silences voices, and leaves wounds that last a lifetime. When the Church minimizes it or chooses neutrality, it has already chosen a side—and it is not the side of the victim.

    Neutrality in the face of abuse is not compassion; it is complicity. When a victim is told to “pray harder,” “submit more,” or “forgive and move on” without accountability for the abuser, the Church has failed. Those words do not sound like the heart of Christ; they sound like echoes of the oppressor. Jesus never turned a blind eye to injustice. He confronted religious leaders who misused power, defended the vulnerable, and exposed sin that others tried to hide. He named evil for what it was and defended the oppressed.

    When churches remain silent, abusers are empowered. They learn quickly that they will be shielded if they keep up appearances, hold a position, or quote the right Scriptures. They thrive in environments where image and reputation matter more than truth and righteousness. Meanwhile, victims are often left isolated, discredited, and sometimes even pushed out of the very place that should have been their sanctuary. A church that protects its reputation instead of protecting its people is not representing Christ—it is representing cowardice.

    The Bible does not allow us to stay neutral. Proverbs 31:8 9 says, “Speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves, for the rights of all destitute. Speak up and judge fairly; defend the rights of the poor and needy.” Neutrality is not biblical; it is disobedience. To refuse to call out abuse is to permit it to thrive. It is to tell the oppressed that their suffering matters less than the comfort of the congregation or the image of leadership. And God does not take lightly the mistreatment of the vulnerable.

    Look at the Old Testament prophets—Isaiah, Jeremiah, and Amos—they cried out against oppression and injustice. They didn’t whisper carefully so as not to offend powerful men; they declared the Word of the Lord with boldness. Jesus Himself overturned tables in the temple when people used religion to exploit others. He called out hypocrisy, pride, and cruelty. He stood on the side of truth, even when it cost Him His reputation, His following, and ultimately His life. The Church He founded cannot do less.

    The world is watching. Survivors are watching. Our children are watching. What message do we send when we shelter wolves in shepherd’s clothing but drive wounded sheep from the flock? What are we teaching the next generation when we are quicker to protect the image of a leader than to stand up for the hurting? Neutrality may feel safe for leadership, but it leaves the vulnerable exposed. And when that happens, we do not reflect Christ—we betray Him.

    It’s time for churches to take a harsher stance on abuse. To call it what it is: evil. To protect the vulnerable with action, not empty words. To refuse to hide behind shallow statements about grace and forgiveness while ignoring repentance, accountability, and justice. To discipline those who abuse instead of excusing them. To create environments where victims can come forward without fear of being shamed, silenced, or cast aside.

    Because the truth is this: when we remain neutral, we have already chosen the oppressor’s side. And Christ never stood on that side. He stands with the broken, the oppressed, the silenced, and the wounded. If we are His Church, then that is where we must stand.

  • Would More Time Have Changed the Outcome?

    One of the common questions survivors of abuse wrestle with is this: Would time have changed the outcome? If I had waited longer before committing and gotten to know them better, could I have spared myself the heartbreak? Could I have seen the red flags earlier? Could I have known?

    These questions can circle endlessly in the mind, like a continuous loop. They come from a deep desire to make sense of something that feels senseless, bring order to chaos, and find logic in something that seems unthinkable. After all, if there’s a reason, then maybe there was a way it could have been prevented. And if it could have been prevented, the pain might not feel so permanent.

    But the hard truth is that you can ask a thousand variations of those questions and never find an answer that truly satisfies. When someone is committed to hiding who they really are, time is not always the great revealer we wish it to be.

    Abusers are often skilled at deception. They know how to say and do all the right things to win trust. Some even present themselves as the ideal partner—attentive, charming, kind, spiritual—because that image is part of the grooming process. Many are patient and calculated in their deception, willing to conceal their true selves for months, years, or even decades if it means keeping control. Waiting longer, unfortunately, does not guarantee clarity when a person is determined to stay hidden.

    That is one of the painful aspects of abuse: it is built on deliberate deception. It’s not that the victim was naïve, blind, or unworthy of trust—it’s that the abuser chose to conceal, lie, and manipulate. You could have waited longer, asked more questions, sought more advice, and still not uncovered the truth until the abuser chose to reveal it—or until the mask slipped on its own.

    The “what if” questions often morph into self-blame: I should have known, been wiser, caught it sooner. But these thoughts place the weight of responsibility in the wrong place. Trusting someone is not a failure. Believing in the good you saw is not a weakness. The shame belongs to the one who betrayed that trust, not the one who gave it in good faith.

    It’s also important to remember that abusers are often very strategic in how they control the narrative. They may surround you with half-truths, isolate you from those who might see the truth, or use religious language to make themselves seem righteous. They can be so convincing that even those closest to the situation may not see what’s happening. If an entire community can be fooled, it’s not reasonable to expect that more time alone would have guaranteed that you would see through the act.

    So, would time have changed the outcome? The answer is no. Because the problem was never about how much time was given—it was about how much truth was hidden. Abusers reveal themselves when it benefits them, not when it protects you. They control what they show and for how long.

    The danger of endlessly replaying these questions is that they keep you stuck in the past, carrying blame that doesn’t belong to you. Healing begins when you release that burden and acknowledge reality: you were deceived, not because you failed, but because someone was determined to hide. That is their guilt to bear, not yours.

    While we cannot go back and change the past, the future can be different. The wisdom gained, the strength forged in pain, and the clarity born from experience can help shape the way forward. The “what if” questions may never give you the peace you’re looking for, but choosing to let go of them opens the door to a new kind of peace that comes from truth, healing, and freedom.

    You don’t need to ask if more time would have saved you. The better question is: What will I do with my time now? The answer can be this: You will live it free from self-blame, anchored in truth, and open to the life still waiting for you.

  • Abuse is Never a Victim’s Fault

    One of the most harmful misconceptions about abuse is the idea that victims somehow cause or deserve it. This belief, whether spoken outright or implied through questions and judgment, adds another layer of harm to people already suffering. Abuse is never the victim’s fault, and understanding why is essential if we want to create safer and more supportive communities.

    Abuse is not simply a reaction to anger, hardship, or stress. It is not an accident that “just happens” in the heat of the moment. Abuse is a deliberate choice. An abuser decides to use control, intimidation, manipulation, or violence to dominate another person. Whether the abuse takes the form of emotional cruelty, financial control, physical harm, or psychological tactics, the common thread is intentionality. The responsibility for that decision always rests with the abuser, never with the victim.

    Despite this, many survivors carry guilt and self-blame. This is partly because abusers are skilled at creating confusion. They convince their victims that they are the problem, that if they behaved differently, the abuse would stop. Over time, this message sinks in, leaving victims feeling as though they are at fault. Society often reinforces these lies by asking harmful questions: “Why didn’t you just leave?” “What did you do to set him off?” “Are you sure you’re not overreacting?” These kinds of responses fail to hold abusers accountable while placing an unfair burden on survivors. They overlook the reality that leaving an abusive relationship is statistically the most dangerous time for a victim, and they fail to recognize how deeply effective manipulation can be—so insidious and persuasive that it can entangle even the strongest, most intelligent, and most discerning individuals.

    The reality is that victims are often incredibly resilient people. They may stay because they believe the abuser will change, because they want to protect their children, or because they have been isolated from resources and support systems. Sometimes they stay simply because they are doing their best to survive in an unsafe situation. None of these realities makes the abuse their responsibility. Abuse is something done to them, not something they caused.

    When blame is placed on victims, abusers are protected. The cycle continues, survivors are silenced, and healing becomes harder. But when we speak the truth—that abuse is never the victim’s fault—we begin to break this cycle. We release survivors from the weight of shame that was never theirs to carry, and we shine a light on the only place responsibility belongs: with the abuser.

    Advocacy starts with shifting the conversation. Instead of asking victims why they stayed, we must ask why abusers choose to harm. Instead of doubting survivors, we must believe them and support them. And instead of shaming people who have lived through abuse, we must create environments where they feel empowered, safe, and validated. Abuse thrives in denial and silence, but it loses its power when we confront it with accountability, compassion, and truth.

    The message is simple but vital: abuse is never the victim’s fault. Survivors deserve to be heard without judgment, supported without conditions, and believed without hesitation. Real change will come when society refuses to shift responsibility onto those who have already suffered and instead demands accountability from those who choose to abuse.