what I haven’t said

part 2/4

This is part 2 of a 4 part series. If you missed part one, read it here.

“Masking” is a thing we do to hide parts of ourselves in order to stay safe. I’m reading a book about it right now and it’s making realize how much of myself I’ve masked and kept hidden, not just because of my neurodivergence, but because I didn’t feel safe in spiritual communities. I hid the parts of myself I knew would cost me my belonging.

The past couple of years have undone me emotionally, spiritually, and relationally. Some of it was out of my control. Some of it I can own. But mostly, it’s shown me how much I’ve changed and also - how hard it is to change in public.

Trauma is gonna do its thing and sometimes you just don’t know how much it’s changed you until you start to heal a little bit. I look back on the years since our first big trauma and I have so much regret. Not necessarily for the things that I did or didn’t do, but regret isn’t always felt because you did anything wrong. Sometimes it’s just a longing for things to have been different.

I wish I’d been more honest about what was happening in me. (and I wish it had been safe to tell the truth.)

I wish I hadn’t metabolized the verbalized threats to my acceptance and belonging.(and I wish that I’d never wrapped myself up with people who believed that avoidance, silence, and threats are righteous behavior.)

I wish I’d noticed when I was projecting my fears and insecurities onto people who didn’t deserve it. (and I wish people had assumed the best about me.)

I wish I hadn’t let women with more social power police my behavior so that I could stay in their good graces. (and I wish every person of faith, but especially public Christian figures, would deconstruct their relationship with power and image.)

You can accept the responsibility of your own behaviors without blaming other people for them, while also wanting people to do the same thing. Once I did that, I was able to process my anger, grief, and regret and move on from it.

When those emotions and the events that had hurt me weren’t taking up space in my mind anymore, I prayed a pretty bold prayer. I knew that trauma had changed me indefinitely. And I knew that the people I’d known and loved before trauma weren’t comfortable with “the new Kristen.” A few of them said as much. They missed how I used to be. (and so did I, to be honest.)

But as I healed, I felt more and more that there wasn’t a place for me in their lives anymore. At least, not in the way that there had been. So, I prayed that God would move me out of spaces where I’m not welcome - where I’ve been judged or criticized publicly or privately, and move me somewhere healthier, where I don’t have to fight for acceptance and understanding. Where I didn’t have to wonder, every day, where I stood with people.

I prayed — Align me with people who are aligned with you and who understand this work you’ve called me to do.

Cue - 18 months of rejection after rejection. Doors closed. Opportunities dried up. Relationships shifted or disappeared. Even though I knew that this is what I’d asked for, it didn’t make it hurt any less. I’ve never had to die to myself more. I worked on myself, looking inward to make sure I was carrying myself in a healthy way, of course, but also in a way that reflects the image of God.

Search me and know me, consider all my ways. For the first time in my life spiritual life, I prayed those things without any self hatred.

It was my first time going through a refinement process without shame. I offered myself compassion while challenging myself to be better, stronger, braver, and to live my life with a more sincere faith. But to do that, I had to deconstruct my relationship with how I’m being perceived. I had to give up my need to control my image. It’s been one of the hardest spiritual disciplines of my life to let people misunderstand me and not rush to fix it. I had to be able to hear someone bearing heavy false witness against me and resist the urge to frantically try to correct the narrative.

I’m fighting that even right now, as I write this.

But a few things have happened this year that have been the antithesis to what I experienced last year. Instead of rejection after rejection, I’m experiencing invitations. Instead of criticism, I’m hearing, “I get it now.” Instead of losing sleep at night, wondering and worrying about what people think of me and what they’re saying in group texts about me, I’m in bed by 10pm and I sleep all night.

I’ve also spent some time in repentance.

When I started speaking up about spiritual abuse online, the response was truly overwhelming. I would have hundreds and hundreds of messages from people who’d been hurt, whose faith was falling apart, and who felt like they had no one in their lives to listen to them or walk through the pain with them. They were shepherdless, broken, lonely, misunderstood, and just looking for someone to bear witness to their pain without trying to fix their faith.

I became that person for them and also helped them connect with other people and groups to walk through it with them. My public ministry was one of healing, restoration, and reconciliation. But privately, I was attacked, talked about around dinner tables, criticized deeply, and pushed out of what I thought were secure relationships.

When I got a book publishing deal, the pressure to preform and remain in the favor of those with more influence and social power became unbearable. I couldn’t handle it. I started regularly disappearing from social media, afraid that anytime I posted something, I’d lose followers and disappoint my publisher or people who were expecting certain things from me.

I’d see the passive aggressive stories about me from famous Christian influencers who either had not concept of the abuse of their social power, or they just didn’t care. I scrolled through hundreds of dms from people who had weaponized words from those influencers and used them to hurt me, to prove me wrong and to assert their spiritual superiority over me. The pressure to stay in the good graces of people who were never going to give me grace in the first place broke me. I sacrificed my voice and my work to try to achieve some sort of peace.

Well meaning peers would offer advice that would require me to lie and deceive the people who were reading and being discipled by my words — you. I couldn’t do that. I wouldn’t. But I could play it safe. Over the last few years, I’ve let fear, and a frantic need to be understood, lead more of my decisions than I want to admit. I’ve stayed quiet when I should’ve spoken up. I’ve let other people’s comfort be more important than anything else. And I’ve felt sick about it. And I’m sorry.

I fought for the comfort of people who were not only committed to misunderstanding and assuming the worse about me, they were actively mistreating me. I thought if I made them happy, they would want me around. I thought if I could make them think better of me, I would think better of me too.

It doesn’t work like that.

You have to learn to accept how God has made you and how pain has changed you regardless of how anyone else feels about it. When you accept your flaws and mistakes along with your gifts and your strengths, you earn an integrated, joyful, abundant life that doesn’t factor in other people’s perceptions into your worth.

The past couple of years have been a dismantling of false safety, and a rebuilding of deeper trust - in myself, in God, and in the work he’s called me to do. I’m finally starting to experience the alignment, peace, and security that I’ve fought for.

The Liminal Way was born out of that process. It’s what I should have been doing a long time ago. It’s both my repentance (to God and to you) and my repair. I don’t feel shame or regret in the sense that I feel like I’ve done anything wrong or egregious. My regret is in knowing I could have done things better. I don’t expect anyone to understand the pressure that I’ve felt and why I’ve done things the way I have and right now, it doesn’t even matter. I just want to continue doing what I do with clarity.

If you’ve been in a similar place (misunderstood, misaligned, or like you’re slowly becoming someone you recognize again), I hope you’ll come along.

Join the waitlist for The Liminal Way right here.
And if you want to support the operation costs for the first year, you can do so here.

Tomorrow, I’ll share more about who this is for, because we’re Team Clarity now. I’m leaving no room to wonder where you stand or if you belong.

See you tomorrow,
- Kristen