The Christmas season is here, and it is hard to escape its vastness. This season seems to stretch and punctuate many areas of life. The music has been wafting notes of sleigh and Christ born through stores and has slowly started trickling its way into my home. I wish my feelings about Christmas were less complex, but the Holidays hurt. I feel a jaded cocktail of sadness and twisted joy, wound together like a striped candy cane. Ribbons of red and white intertwine tightly around each other, seemingly inseparable and sinewed together.
The old was a twistedly painful and abusive childhood, pockmarked with sentiments of happiness, ironically mostly at Christmas time. I loved to decorate the tree with my sister. Remembering ornaments from years past and debating over who got to put the angel on top of the tree that year. My family would attend the Christmas Eve candlelight service. That night always felt like a game of pretend to me, a game that I did not want to end. My sister and I donned Christmas dresses. Being an imaginative child, I liked to pretend I was Cinderella going to the ball.
Once our family arrived at church, we would quietly file into the dimly lit chapel and pass out paper-wrapped candles. Eventually, we would begin the process of lighting the candles. Someone from the aisle would light the first candle,e and we would carefully keep passing on the light from candle to candle until every candle was lit and the room was full of flickering candle glow. I remember my little hands gripping that candle so tightly, the task in front of me feeling very grown-up and important. With wide eyes, I watched beads of wax drip down onto the thin paper cup that protected my fingers.
 

For a night, all was well, and our family was one of the happy ones. We sang songs of Christ's birth, and my sister and I exchanged knowing smiles of the joy we felt. We proudly held our candles, not wanting them to burn out. Eventually, it was time to blow out our candles, and with them, a little bit of our joy. We never stayed at church very long. You see, the veneer of a bad family pretending to be a “good family” has an expiration date, and it’s very short.
We were soon ushered home, and after dinner, we opened our presents. My little sister and I took turns carefully taking the paper off each gift.  As the paper ripped, our happiness caught a little. Each tear was like a claw at the “good family” veneer. Just like Cinderella, this night would soon all be over, and I would no longer be a princess, but a dirty and unkempt girl.

My present life is a stark contrast from the old. I now have a family where I’m safe and loved by my husband and children. I have the kind of love I always dreamt that other little girls had. The new is redemption and a sacred love between me and a God who can’t be defined or kept in a storage box all year long, only to be brought out for a night. Here, I know His love for me is unending. God is love, and I am marked by His brilliant light.
I’m learning to hold onto both the old and the new. In this season, all those memories that I’ve tried to stuff away into ugly green totes are resurfaced, and I’m forced to dust them off, turning them over and over in my hands. Yet, on the other hand, I tightly wrap my arms around my Eternal Father’s shoulders; rather, He holds mine. This year is my first Christmas where I am allowing myself to feel the sadness in the middle of the Christmas madness. Sad for what was and what was not. Oddly enough, it is allowing me to feel more joy and experience more healing.
If the Holidays hurt for you too, then I want you to hear this: it’s not your fault. Take a deep breath, because you. are. not. alone.

In Part One (Shattered by the Church), I shared how our world collapsed under the weight of false narratives spread about my husband inside the church and how to spot unsafe Christians. This next chapter is about our journey through the aftermath — what we learned through the loss, and why the Church desperately needs to relearn grace for its leaders.

After we were terminated, multiple families within the church plant sought out the elders, desperate to understand why and how this happened. When they couldn’t get any real answers, they left. While we deeply appreciate their loyalty and willingness to take a good, hard look behind the curtain, we were shocked by the number of people we have never heard from. People we had done ministry with for five years, who we considered our family, didn’t even reach out once. Not a phone call. Not a text. Not even a goodbye in the driveway. Total silence. I understand it can feel awkward, or that sometimes people truly don’t know what to say. But still…we can do better, church. We must.

One of my dearest friends still attends that church; she was at my house several times the week it all happened and remains one of my dearest friends to this day. I never wanted anyone to feel like they had to choose sides—they don’t.

We still love the Lord, but we feel like we don’t belong in any church. It’s like we are caught in some strange loop where nothing fits or feels right. Church doesn’t feel like the healing sanctuary away from the world that it should be because it’s the place where we received some of our deepest wounds.

Since our termination, our family of 6 had to move and start over again. I recently sat across from my four teenagers and asked how they were doing, now a year and a half after the day their Dad was fired. Each one is in a different place. We have worked hard to cultivate a home that is a safe place for all the feelings. One of my children said quietly, “My heart is broken—and it will never be whole again.” The church, and the people inside it, are where his sweet and gentle heart was wounded at the tender age of 11. How do we even begin to reckon with that as parents? How do we help our children process the pain caused by the very people who were supposedly our church family? I know we’re not alone in asking. 

We personally know of three other pastors just in our state who experienced oddly similar situations within months of our termination. These are wonderful, God-fearing men who now sell insurance, teach, or work construction—not because they lost their calling – but because the church drove them out. My husband has had many churches reach out to him about open pastoral positions, but we just can’t do it. Steve said to me recently, “If I worked anywhere else—say, as a teacher or in sales—and someone got mad at me, it would affect me...but in ministry, when someone gets mad at me, it affects you and the kids. And I’m not willing to put our family through that ever again.” We believed we could make a difference. And I still believe that we did. But the cost was far greater than we ever imagined.

While I don’t have statistics to quote, I can say this: we know far too many good pastors who have walked away. There are many churches of every size across the nation without pastors because those who lead with humility and integrity often become the easiest targets. If you’re a church elder, a member, or simply someone who loves Jesus, please hear this: this is not an isolated event. Ministry should be a place of refuge, not ruin — for everyone, including pastors. Certainly, some situations and sins are perhaps disqualifying — but “blind spots” should never be a reason for removal.

Somewhere along the way, people forget that pastors are people too. They need space to be human, to wrestle, to have blind spots, and to grow. They need the same deep wells of grace that they spend their lives pouring out for everyone else. If the people who preach grace can’t safely receive it themselves, something is deeply broken in the Church. Being in vocational ministry has become a battleground. Instead of uniting, believers are wounding each other in… Jesus’ name, and satan is applauding from the sidelines.

While the betrayal still hurts, the Lord is unwavering in His love for us, and I will always cling to that. The Lord didn’t rush me to hurry up and heal; He simply sat with me in it. And piece by piece, He began to remind me that His character hadn’t changed, even if His people had wounded us.

If you’ve experienced this kind of pain, please know: you are not alone. As a former pastor’s wife and now a counselor, I understand the heartbreak that can come from serving in ministry. I’ve sat in the silence after the storm, wondering where God was in the wreckage. And I’ve also seen His healing hand in the quiet rebuild. If you’re carrying wounds from church hurt or burnout, I’m here—and I would be honored to walk with you toward healing, hope, and restoration.

I still remember the day that the ministry broke us.

My husband and I sat huddled together on our living room couch. Two elders from our church sat across from us, their faces tight and serious. I greeted them with my usual warmth—but I could feel the heaviness pressing in. After an awkward silence and tension mounting, one of them swallowed hard. I finally said, half-joking, “You’re scaring me.” The other elder didn’t hesitate. “We’ve decided to remove Steve as the lead pastor.”

My ears rang. My vision blurred. I tried to hold it together, but the sobs came before I could stop them. Steve just sat in silence, stunned. They stood, offered a few awkward words, and left us there—alone, hollow, and shattered.

My husband Steve and I were in vocational ministry for seven years. We stepped into it with hearts on fire—terrified but convinced that God had called us to love people and serve His Church.

When our sending church approached Steve about planting a new church, it felt like an answered prayer. A small core group—five couples who’d been driving 45 minutes every Sunday—wanted to start something local. They were kind, sincere, and full of vision. They didn’t just want a church for themselves; they wanted one for their city.

We bonded quickly with that core group. They became family. We shared meals, childcare, laughter, and life. When our basement flooded, they showed up with shop vacs. During the pandemic, they joined us in livestreaming services from our living room. Our kids made coffee, rocked babies, and served on the “security team.” It wasn’t just our job—it was our life.

About three years into the church plant, the workload became unsustainable. Steve was preaching, helping our team set up and tear down equipment, editing sermons, counseling families, and managing just about every detail on his own. We were desperate for help. That’s when we hired another pastor.

At first, he and his wife seemed like an answer to prayer—friendly, charming, local. But little by little, cracks began to show. They spoke of every previous church they had worked at as toxic, every former pastor as abusive. Somehow, they were always the victim. They moved fast in friendship—too fast. Looking back, there were red flags everywhere, but we were too trusting, too hopeful, too tired to see the truth. The leak had already begun.

Slowly, the narrative shifted. Subtly. Quietly. The new pastor began meeting privately with elders, confiding his “concerns” about Steve—Steve’s supposed "abuse", his “blind spots,” his “narcissism.”

We didn’t know that trust was eroding behind closed doors until the day the whole thing capsized. When the elders sat in our living room and told us Steve was being removed, there was no moral failing, no scandal, no disqualifying sin. They even offered to write him a letter of recommendation. Just… not there.

Eighteen months later, the reasoning still doesn’t make sense. Looking back, there were so many red flags—so many subtle signs that something wasn’t right.

While many of these symptoms fall under what could be classified as narcissism, I hesitate to use that word as it has become overused. What matters more than a label is discernment—recognizing when a person’s pattern of behavior consistently harms others and disrupts unity in the body of Christ.

Unsafe Christians are surprisingly hard to spot at first. They cloak their dysfunction in spiritual language and are typically very charming, which can make their behavior confusing at first. Healthy leadership is marked by humility, accountability, and a willingness to apologize. When something feels off, it probably is. Wisdom asks us to press pause, seek multiple sources of wise counsel, and pray. 

I’ll share how this experience reshaped my understanding of ministry, what we learned through the loss, and why the Church desperately needs to relearn grace for its leaders.

I recently met a new friend who was in a horrific car accident when she was a teenager. On that fateful night, her life changed forever. One of her legs was shattered in that accident. She told me with tears in her eyes how painful this one moment has scarred her physically and emotionally. Before the accident, she was a star volleyball and softball player and even had the potential to play in college. All those dreams were destroyed after the accident.

At first, her journey toward recovery was pockmarked with deep depths of depression. Her life had been so active and full before that night. As she battled those unanswerable questions, she wrestled with God as to why this had happened to her. Most days, she struggled just to get out of bed. My friend, who was once a star athlete, could no longer even take herself to the bathroom and would never run again.

In time, and with a lot of hard work, she came to grips with her new reality. She worked her tail off in physical therapy, and today she can walk with her cane. While life is not what she once dreamed of, she is doing so much better than she was. She walks with a limp, but she walks.

I was recently thinking of my friend’s story when I reflected on some of my clients’ healing journeys. Trauma survivors, too, have suffered unimaginable losses. For every survivor, there are typically deep lows and, thankfully, some beautiful highs. In the beginning, healing often feels impossible. Many of us who grew up with painful, traumatic childhoods shove all that pain into an overflowing “closet” in our minds and lock the door. Some even drywall over the door to try to “forget.” The problem is, our bodies know the overflowing closet is still there. The trauma usually finds a way of leaking out. For many, it looks like walking with a limp—carrying hidden pain that shapes every step forward.

Often, survivors of childhood trauma feel lost when trying to interact with the outside world—not because they don’t want to connect, but because they never learned how. Children who endure horrific trauma in their own homes typically have no idea how to connect with others in appropriate and lasting ways. All of their energy goes into surviving. Their limp can show up in many ways: deep anger, distrust, and intense fear, to name a few.
What others may not see is the enormous effort it takes for these abused children—now adults—to do the most ordinary things: get out of bed after a night of memories, take a shower, put on clothes, walk into work, smile at a neighbor, listen in class, and try to make sense of it all—while carrying the heavy, hidden weight of trauma.

People who have survived the unimaginable have been in horrific “accidents” as well. Their scars may be visible, or they may not. After working with one of my clients for a long season, a well-meaning family member asked her husband, “Is she better now?” That question discouraged her greatly, because while she is not 100% healed (and may never be this side of Heaven), she has come so far.

She endured horrible abuse at the hands of her own family. When I first started to work with her, she could barely leave her home without having a panic attack. She has had to claw her way out of the depths of pain and suffering and has worked her tail off in therapy. Today, she can go to the store independently. To someone on the outside, this might seem trivial. But for her, it’s a miracle. She is walking with a limp, but my goodness—she’s walking. Healing hasn’t been instant, but it has been real and lasting. And that’s the hope for every survivor: that even with a limp, you keep moving forward.

Whether the accident was physical, like my friend’s, or emotional, like my clients’, trauma leaves its mark. Some scars are visible, others are invisible—but all are real. Survivors often walk with a limp.

Healing might look like panic attacks that slowly give way to independence. It might look like learning to connect with others after years of isolation. It might look like trusting again after betrayal. Healing isn’t instant, and it doesn’t always mean going back to who we were “before.” But it is real, and it is possible. And even if you walk with a limp for the rest of your days, please know this: you are walking. That is nothing short of remarkable.

If you are carrying the weight of trauma and longing to take the next step, you don’t have to walk alone. I would be honored to walk with you.

Many years ago, I had the privilege of working with a counselor who helped me recognize that my reactions—and at times, my inability to react—were not character flaws, but symptoms of past experiences. She often reminded me, “The symptoms tell the story.” It took a long time for me to fully understand what she meant, but when I did, it changed my entire perspective.
To illustrate this sentiment, imagine someone who has been in a car accident and now experiences persistent leg pain. They would seek medical care, describe their symptoms (leg pain), and the clinician would use that information to make informed decisions about what tests or procedures might be necessary. After appropriate diagnostic testing, the clinician could provide a diagnosis—say, a broken leg—and recommend a treatment plan, such as immobilization in a cast followed by rehabilitation.
In the world of counseling, we can also make informed hypotheses based on someone’s symptoms. Though science has made remarkable strides, we do not have the ability (yet) to scan someone’s brain and automatically diagnose the issue. As counselors, we can begin to gather the symptoms together, watch them over time, and make an educated postulation as to why those symptoms exist. For example, if a client repeatedly experiences panic attacks whenever they are near dogs, it would be important to watch that symptom and continue to gather information. In time, we might reasonably theorize that they may have had a distressing or traumatic experience with a dog at some point in their life. 

I appreciate this investigative approach because, as the client, it often feels as though our symptoms are working against us. We may feel helpless—unable to stop experiencing shame or unable to prevent panic attacks when entering a particular building. In those moments, survivors can feel as though their lives are being controlled by their symptoms and that their symptoms are their enemy.
However, when we reframe the question from “Why can’t I stop this?” to “What are these symptoms trying to tell me?” we shift our perspective. Instead of condemning ourselves, we can ask, “What is my body trying to tell me right now? Why are my internal alarm bells going off so intensely?”
In this way, we move from being critics to becoming detectives. Curiosity becomes the antidote to guilt and shame. Rather than pouring our energy into silencing the alarm, we invest it in understanding what triggered it. This shift not only fosters self-compassion but also opens the door to deeper healing.

When we begin to see our symptoms as messengers rather than enemies, we open the door to understanding ourselves with compassion instead of criticism. Every reaction, every moment of panic, every wave of shame is a clue pointing toward a story that matters—yours.
You do not have to unravel it alone. As a trauma-informed counselor, I walk alongside clients in discovering what their “alarm bells” are trying to say and how to respond in ways that foster safety, healing, and hope. If you’re ready to turn self-criticism into curiosity and take the next step toward wholeness, I invite you to reach out. Your symptoms are speaking—let’s listen together

Many of us who live with Complex PTSD were taught as children that having needs was wrong—or worse, dangerous. We were either punished for expressing those needs or ignored until we learned to silence ourselves. I internalized this message early: my needs would not be met, so why bother voicing them? I learned to keep my thoughts, feelings, and desires tucked away, hidden like dirty dishes no one wanted to see.
Now, in my adult life, I am no longer in that abusive environment. I’m married to a safe and loving spouse who genuinely wants to support me and meet my needs. It’s a beautiful gift, and I am grateful. But here’s the hard truth: for the first 25+ years of my life, I was conditioned not to have needs. So even now, when something is bothering me, I still feel like speaking up would be a burden. Instead, I stack that unspoken need—like a dish—into the sink of my soul and carry on.
At first, this didn’t seem like a problem. I have prided myself on my self-reliance. I thought, I can handle it. I’m strong. I do not need help! But every little unspoken thought, every swallowed hurt, every unmet need became one more dirty dish tossed into the sink. A mental plate here, an emotional bowl there. Some come clean easily; others are caked with dried-on pain and resentment. And I just keep stacking—telling myself, Just one more. I’ve got this. Until the sink starts to overflow. What was once a manageable pile becomes a precarious swaying tower. One more insignificant fork could send it all crashing down—grimy plates, milk-crusted bowls, baked-on casserole dishes shattering across the floor of my life. And I start to panic.
I don’t need anything from anyone, I tell myself. That’s what makes me strong... right?
I’m learning. Actually, I’m unlearning. Unlearning the conditioned belief that self-sufficiency is the only way to stay safe. It took me years to build these walls, and now I’m slowly, painfully dismantling them. I’m learning to “practice” sharing—offering a dish or two to someone safe. It might sound simple, but to someone with Complex PTSD, this kind of vulnerability can be terrifying.
I had to start small. Every once in a great while I hand a dish to my husband. He receives it gently, without judgment. Last week, I called a dear friend on a hard day and offered her a dish. She gingerly turned it over in her hands and said, “I’m so sorry. That must be so painful.” She didn’t throw it back in my face. She wasn't annoyed. She simply held it for a few minutes. She was safe with my dish. Every time I’m brave enough to share, and someone proves to be safe, a little piece of me heals.
I am realizing these dishes were never mine to carry alone. They were never meant to stay piled up inside me. The more I practice giving away a dish or two, the more I build the courage to hand over a whole load. I’m learning what it means to be loved—and it is one of the most courageous things we can do as survivors.

You can be brave too.
Start small, I mean really small.
Hand over a dish to someone safe.

Childhood is a time that should be filled with wonder, love, and protection. Unfortunately, few people get to experience an idyllic childhood. When a child is repeatedly exposed to painful experiences, this can create childhood trauma. This type of trauma can take on many forms. In the realm of psychological distress, we distinguish between big “T” and little “t” trauma. Big “T” trauma typically includes extreme events that can cause severe psychological distress, including (but not limited to) abuse, sexual assault, and life-altering medical conditions. Little “t” trauma denotes the often neglected stressors that tend to have a compounding effect, gradually eroding an individual's sense of security and overall well-being. A few examples of little “t” trauma would be emotional neglect, parental divorce, and bullying. Whether big “T” or little “t” trauma, all forms of trauma deserve compassion, care, and a tailored approach to healing.

How can we begin to heal when faced with our childhood trauma? Where do we start, and how do we continue? When faced with the beginning of this arduous journey, it can be tempting to continue to stuff all of the painful memories into the “closet” of our minds and firmly close the door. What happens when the door just won’t stay closed anymore? It could be time to start working with a counselor.

I love this quote from Desmond Tutu, “How do you eat an elephant? One bite at a time.” At the beginning of the counseling journey for someone with childhood trauma, counseling can look and feel like an unraveling process. Picture a big knotted-up ball of yarn. That big ball of yarn did not get knotted up overnight, but over the years and even decades. It takes time and hard work to unravel and sort through our most painful and deeply rooted memories. One memory might be connected to another and another - those memories need to be untangled and sorted through. While this sounds like an arduous road that no one would desire to travel, I can share with you that there is hope on the other side.

Remember the overflowing “closet” in our minds? What if it wasn’t quite so overwhelmingly full? The isolation of secrets and painful memories multiplies their power. The beautiful part of counseling is that over time, memories are usually less painful after they are processed through. Secrets lose their power over us when they are exposed.

If you’re looking for someone who could help you gently unravel your story alongside you, please reach out. My expertise is in childhood trauma counseling for adults. I would be honored to walk alongside you in your healing journey. It can be a lonely one, but it doesn’t have to be.