A story about religious trauma, self-worth, and finding your own voice
Mara sat at the back of the church, the old hymnal heavy in her lap. She hadn’t planned on being here tonight—she had sworn off Wednesday services years ago—but a friend invited her, and saying “no” still felt like a foreign language on her tongue.
The old, familiar sanctuary looked smaller than she remembered. The once-polished pews bore scratches from decades of use, and the carpet smelled faintly of mildew, just as she had remembered. She traced the spine of the hymnal with her finger, surprised at how quickly the weight of the room pressed down on her chest.
When the music began, the voices were soft, but eventually grew until a swell of voices filled the space. The worship team was earnest, giving the kind of sweet harmonies that usually made Mara’s shoulders relax. But tonight, the words hung heavy in the air: “Worthy is the Lamb… we are nothing without You.”
Her throat tightened, and her body went rigid. The lyric was familiar, a refrain she had sung hundreds of times as a child, but instead of comfort, it carried a sharp edge. She remembered standing in this very sanctuary at thirteen, the pastor’s voice booming. “Without God, you are worthless… Broken. No-th-ing,” he said, drawing out the syllables of the last word. She hadn’t questioned it then. Back then, she believed it was the truth.
Now, years later, the same words scraped against a still raw place she thought had long-ago healed.
Her friend nudged her gently, offering a smile as if to say, “Sing along.” Mara forced a half-smile in return, flipping open the hymnal to page 237. She scanned the lines, her eyes blurring. She couldn’t make her lips form the words.
The hymnbook trembled in her hands. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to hurl it across the pews or clutch it tighter, as if holding on might keep her from unraveling. She noticed her heartbeat pounding in her ears, a restless energy rising in her chest. “Why can’t I just sing like everyone else?” she thought. “What is wrong with me? Why does this hurt so much?”
When the final prayer ended, she slipped out quickly, mumbling an excuse to her friend: “Long day—need to get up early.” Her friend nodded, unsuspecting, and turned to talk to another friend.
Outside, the cool evening air hit her face. She inhaled deeply, hoping it would quiet the ache inside, but the knot in her stomach lingered. She walked to her car slowly, the parking lot lights buzzing faintly overhead.
On the drive home, silence filled the space. She replayed the night: the words, the tightening in her throat, the rigidity in her body, and the rush of shame that made her want to disappear. “Others can sing these songs without flinching,” she thought. “Why can’t I?”
The unanswered question followed her all the way home, sitting beside her like an unwelcome passenger.
Maybe you have been there or know someone who has. Mara’s story feels familiar to anyone who has struggled with messages from their past coming up when they least expect them. It feels like an ambush. As if, out of nowhere comes a lyric, a smell, a turn of phrase, a sight of something unexpected—then “BOOM!” Right back to an all too familiar and often very difficult place.
I see this all too often in the counseling room! As people have shared their stories with me over the years, it has become clear to me that human beings are like sponges, especially as children. As children often internalize messages that we just cannot shake, even in our adult years. These messages, perhaps at times well-intentioned messages, leave us feeling raw as they rake across the circumstances of our lives. These moments when we find ourselves in conflict are caused by something internal, something deep within. We are left questioning what is said about us or to us, as it does not square with who we believe ourselves to be.
This was Mara’s problem. “You are unworthy” had become a message that seeped into the depths of her heart, and unintentionally and quite unconsciously, she started to live as if this were true. What I see most often is that these statements remain buried until a major crisis occurs in our lives, and people begin to question who they are and what they believe. Such is particularly true when it comes to messages given to us by our authority figures, especially when they are parents, teachers, or religious figures.
It might have been a comment made in the heat of the moment, or an off-handed comment made by an authority figure who did not carefully think through the power they had to speak into someone’s life. Those words leave scars and keep us wounded for years to come. This emotional wounding often goes uncared for and is left to fester into a ball of pain and shame that comes to the surface at the most inopportune times.
We may not be able to put a finger on what was said all of those years ago (though often we are able to), but the body will remember things the conscious mind does not. Out of nowhere, the body begins to react to something the mind says is safe. Soon, the pounding heart, rigid muscles, and tightening throat convince the conscious mind that something is seriously wrong. Left without a way to cope appropriately, we can plunge into anxiety and panic, and are looking for the closest exit. Too often, the response is met with the same kind of shaming Mara experienced… “What can’t I sing like everyone else? What is wrong with me?
The truth is, NOTHING is wrong with you! Your body is doing what it was programmed to do; alert you when something feels off or is painful. The message is simple: “something is not right, and we need to take action. Make a change, leave, run, lie down, do something. This doesn’t feel right.” It is in moments like this that we see the trauma that is stored in our nervous system, and this is particularly true of religious trauma.
So what can we do… how are we to cope? There is no one simple, quick fix, but the road to healing often begins with becoming more aware of what is happening in us both emotionally and psychologically. Then take a moment to think about the situation as it is currently happening. Ask yourself these questions:
Even knowing the answers and, if necessary, changing your belief, may not calm the anxiety and panic of the moment, but it is a first step toward healing. Having a safe place within yourself (a journal or even a discussion in your own mind) or sharing your pain with a therapist or friend over a cup of coffee can be of great benefit.
Please note that some of these old messages can be stubborn and take a while to overcome. Extend grace to yourself and remember this is a marathon, not a sprint. You can do this! the old voice entirely. But you can learn to recognize it for what it is: a memory, not a mandate.
This week, try keeping a small Echo Journal. Whenever you notice yourself feeling an outsized emotional reaction—whether in church, at work, or in a relationship—pause and write down the situation. Then ask yourself those three questions:
At first, you may only capture fragments. That’s okay. The act of noticing itself is a step toward healing. Over time, you may begin to see patterns that give you clarity and freedom.
Mara’s journey is just beginning, and like her, many of us carry echoes from the past into the present. If this story resonated with you, I encourage you to try the Echo Journal this week and notice what surfaces.
Next week, we’ll continue Mara’s journey as she faces an unexpected opportunity—and the same familiar voice of unworthiness returns in a new disguise.
Until then, remember: noticing is a powerful step toward change.
