For as long as I can remember, I had always been a Christian. Like most Caribbean families, I was christened as a baby before I could have a say in whether I wanted to be a Christian.

Christianity as a Child

As a young child up to the age of 10, I was a member of three Sunday schools.

When I stayed with my grandmother, Wilma, in North London, I’d attend the Sunday school at the church she attended.

When I stayed with my grandmother Lorna in South London, I’d attend the Sunday school at her church.

And then there was the Sunday school I attended at the church near my childhood home when I wasn’t at either of my grandmothers.

My favourite was my grandmother Lorna’s church. I already knew her routine because she had raised me from a baby. Saturdays, she’d cook pigeon soup, a Bajan favourite of mine. And she would make the most beautiful dresses for me to wear to church.

My favourite dress reminded me of a dress worn by Scarlett in Gone with the Wind. It was a white taffeta dress, layered from the waist down, with a black trim around each layer and a big black bow tied around my waist. I loved that dress. I felt so special in it. I’d wear it with white socks and black patent shoes with white bows in my hair.

When we would come back home from church, we’d have a Sunday roast dinner. It was always roast chicken. The skin of the chicken was always so crispy. It was my favourite part of the meal.

No matter which Sunday school I attended, it always took place in someone’s home, in their living room.

We’d be given biscuits from the McVitie’s variety box and a can of fizzy pop. We’d dissect a story in the Bible while squeezing ourselves onto the available spaces on the sofas because no one wanted to sit on the carpet.

I enjoyed all three of the Sunday schools. What’s not to love? It was the one place I was allowed to eat and drink sugar at 10 in the morning and voice my opinions openly without my overbearing mother.

At 11 years old, I had my confirmation and took my first communion.

I was no longer seeing my grandmother, Lorna, so the dress I wore was not made by her, but it was still pretty.

Again, just like my christening, I had no say in the matter. My mother wanted to send me to a good school, and being confirmed gave me options. A few months later, I was offered a place at a private Catholic school.

We had a party and celebrated my confirmation.

Now that I was confirmed, I was expected to be an acolyte at my local church, and so I did.

One to two Sundays a month, I would get to church early and set up the altar and light the candles. There’d be three acolytes on any given service, and each of us would be given duties to perform during the service.

One of my favourite tasks was reading a passage in the Bible before the vicar would do his sermon. The praise and attention I’d get because my reading was always clear and never hurried. I was confident on the podium.

Another favourite task was blowing out the candles after the sermon. I caught on quite quickly that people love seeing children take part in church, so when the service was over, a lot of the parishioners did not leave their seats. They’d watch me use a special tool to snuff out the candles, clean the wax and clear the altar.

I loved the attention. It made me feel important. I was being seen. I wasn’t getting that at home, and I was no longer spending time with either of my grandmothers. Their relationship with my mother had broken down, and unfortunately, my mother was not mature enough to not let it affect us. So church became a place of escape for me. The more I was there, the less I had to be at home.

But even though church was an escape, it wasn’t safe for me to speak up. My mother had them all fooled, and I knew that if I spoke up about the abuse, it would have got back to her instead of someone getting me real help.

Returning to Christianity as an Adult

It was 2011. My daughter was 4 years old, my son was 4 months old, and I was 27. It was the summer, and I had arranged to meet my aunt outside her church to collect my son’s baby sling that I had left at a family party.

I had not been to church or practised Christianity for almost 10 years.

My aunt told me to meet her inside, but what should have been an interaction that lasted no more than 10 minutes lasted 90 minutes because I decided to attend the service. This was a Pentecostal church, so unlike anything I had experienced in my Church of England church.

Where I was used to singing a hymn and then the service started, they had a whole praise and worship team on stage, and we sang for 30 minutes. People were dancing in the aisles, others had their hands raised up high, and some were crying because the words of the songs moved them.

Then the pastor began his sermon. He talked about men of the world, and I thought he was talking about my children’s father. Talking about the exact abuse I was experiencing. I sat there, holding my son, whilst in tears. I tried to hold them back because I didn’t want my aunt or anyone else to see me crying, but I just couldn’t stop.

After the sermon, I walked straight to the pastor and asked him if he knew my children’s father. When he said no, I gave him his name, where he worked and lived because I just couldn’t understand how he knew so much. He told me God was speaking to me, and so for 3 years, that became my church.

I wanted that church to be my home, but the more I wanted to embed myself into the community and their way of life, the more they wanted me to chip away at myself in order to fit in. But I couldn’t.

Single mothers were treated as pariahs. I once sat through a sermon where the pastor stated that children born out of wedlock were mistakes and shouldn’t be here. Because of that, their lives would be filled with hardship.

But God was telling me the opposite.

I questioned my aunt about this, and she sided with the pastor. And yet I was still confused. Here was a woman who had been married twice, had children in wedlock and yet one child was in prison, and another was on the way to follow the same fate.

Looking back, I realised I was surrounded by people, women specifically, who were male-centred and only felt worthy with a husband by their side.

Another time, I asked to volunteer and teach the Sunday school. I was told I would have to attend the Wednesday service along with the Sunday services I was already attending. I explained to the pastor that my children’s sleep, which directly impacted their performance at school, was important. And as Wednesday services finished at 9pm, I would not be able to attend.

There was no leeway given. No alternative solutions. I had to attend Wednesday services with my children, or I would not be able to serve. Apparently, this was God’s way.

I went home and cried, spoke to God, and she said, I do not need the church to serve. I can serve in any way I please.

I left that church shortly afterwards. I heard through others attending there that the pastor stated I couldn’t hack it. A few months later, it was revealed that they were a cult.

I found another Pentecostal church to attend. This one was more inclusive. Yes, the single mother stigma was still there, but they made me the face of the church, and I was happy to do so. I was part of the greeting team, and I welcomed everyone who arrived. At the end of the service, I would talk to the parishioners who stayed to drink tea and socialise.

But something was off. I was still having issues in my life. Issues that kept repeating. I couldn’t achieve goals, keep promises to myself or even set boundaries. And praying and fasting weren’t working.

I didn’t feel whole, secure in myself. I didn’t feel worthy.

Christianity didn’t fit me, and yet I was scared to say this out loud. What if I did say it and then found out I was the problem?

So I kept quiet and moved to another church. But this time it was hard to keep showing up every week. I was no longer resonating with the sermons. I wasn’t vibing with anyone. I didn’t want to serve in the community, and I didn’t tithe. It didn’t feel genuine, and every time I thought about it, such as setting up a direct debit, I was met with huge resistance. And then I felt guilty about the resistance.

I stopped talking to God. I pretended she didn’t care about people like me. That maybe hardship was what I was meant to experience indefinitely.

And one week missed from going to church turned into a month, and then six months.

But I was still on their mailing list. And I sent my children to their holiday camps, and my daughter joined the youth, so technically, I was still a member, right? Yes, those were the things I used to say to myself because I was not ready to admit to myself that I was no longer part of the church.

I was changing. I was ready to lead myself. At the time, I did not know this. At the time, I was running from myself. I was doing that in every facet of my life. Just running. Hoping I wasn’t taking up any space. Because I felt I was not worthy of it.

Revelations

It was 2019, and I’d just started my new job. It was the job all finance bros aspire to have. I worked in private equity, being flown to exotic countries by the company for free. Working with billionaires and millionaires whilst being paid well. On paper, I was living the ultimate dream.

On the inside, though, I was falling apart.

I’d decided to stay with a cheater I didn’t love, and that choice was triggering panic attacks. But so was the male presence in my company — I had no idea why.

My male colleagues were nothing but respectful, and yet having them near me sent me running to the nearest bathroom to let my panic attacks play out. Years later, I would remember I had been sexually assaulted by a male family member as a young child.

One day during my lunch break, I told my sister about my panic attacks, and she recommended a therapist.

I called the therapist and booked a consultation for a Saturday morning.

The day arrived. It was Saturday morning, the children were at coding and gymnastics, and I was getting ready to make my way to my consultation with my therapist.

I didn’t fancy taking public transport, so I booked a Zipcar and drove there.

Once I got to the address, I realised the therapist worked from her home. I parked the car in one of the available spaces a few doors down.

I was nervous, excited, but most of all, I was desperate. I wanted to make my relationship with my boyfriend at the time work, and I believed I was the problem that needed to be solved.

I knocked on the door. The therapist answered and led me upstairs to her living room. It was blue and white and quiet. I sat down on one of the sofas, and on my right, in the corner of the room, I saw sage burning.

Beyond the smoke, through the windows, I saw beautiful plants, and the sky was blue. Not one cloud in sight.

She asked me questions such as how I found her, why I’d decided to do therapy, and what was going on with me right now, and I answered her honestly.

During the consultation, I realised I wasn’t crazy. I wasn’t the problem. Who knew the reason I was having panic attacks was due to my boyfriend at the time making me relive my traumatic childhood?

I left that consultation in tears, but I felt seen and understood. I didn’t have to over-explain myself or bring out a fucking whiteboard to explain what I was feeling, like I had to for my ex.

I went home and did the therapy exercise my therapist gave me to do. I shouted in my home, in the quiet, with just me, that whatever was in my home was not welcome anymore.

I went to bed in the foetal position and stayed like that for the rest of the weekend. I bawled my eyes out. For the first time, I allowed myself to take up space because I wasn’t too much.

And this was pretty much my routine during the weekend, every week for 6 months. I’d go to my therapy session on a Saturday morning. I’d then come back home and go to bed and cry in the foetal position. This was how I processed the sessions. This was how I took up space. This was how I embodied the work I was doing.

In between those weekly sessions, I began to speak up more. I began to show my boyfriend at the time that I was the intelligent one out of the two of us.

He began to see that I knew I was the intelligent one without me having to say it. I acted it. I spoke it. I disagreed with him. I did my own thing. I told him outright when I didn’t like something. And I began to see how insecure he was. How he actually hated the fact that I was working in private equity.

He even tried to sabotage my going away with the company I worked for. I had told him 6 months before about this trip, and the weekend before I was due to fly, he acted like it was the first time I had told him.

Before therapy, I would have told my employer that I wouldn’t be able to go due to childcare, but I sat there and said to him, “Well, I’m going, so you better speak to your family and get them to help you with the children.”

He couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t believe it. And at that point, I realised that this man knew he had punched well above his weight with me, and he wasn’t going anywhere unless I decided so.

It was December. I was sitting with my therapist, and I told her that I’d finally made a decision and I was ready to leave my boyfriend. I also told her that I wanted to leave Christianity. It was the first time I’d said that out loud. The first time I’d said that to anyone.

I told her it wasn’t working for me. I didn’t belong there. It wouldn’t allow me to be great and see my worth. Christianity wanted me to see myself as broken. A failure. But I wasn’t. Even through all of my abuse and bad decisions due to my abuse, I was raising two children in a loving home and providing for them. I was giving them the childhood I never had or saw. Literally just allowing my heart to guide me in raising them.

I became an accountant while homeless. Like, who does that? And yet Christianity stated that I was not worthy and undeserving. I did not believe that.

She nodded, like she expected this. She asked me what my spiritual views were now. I told her I still believed in God — I had too many stories where God had supported me and provided miracles, like when I had to use the money I’d saved to start up a business on outstanding car fines, and God used a stranger to give me a cheque with the exact amount I had saved.

You can read that story here

She recommended a book called Conversations With God by Neale Donald Walsch.

Well, as soon as I got home, I ordered all 3 books of Conversations with God. Once they arrived, I eagerly ripped the packaging, sat down on my bed and opened book one to the first page.

I started reading and then began to feel sick. I immediately threw the book to the floor.

What do you mean, I am the one who possesses the power? I can make my own decisions? God doesn’t really care about the decisions I make because they all lead back to where I’m supposed to be in the end?

I became angry. I’d been making decisions based on rules, and this book was saying there are no rules.

That book lay on the floor for four months.

I know it sounds crazy, but I didn’t move it. I didn’t even want to touch it. Every day I would get out of bed, tidy my bed and step over the book. I would hoover around the book. Tidy around the book, but I never touched the book.

Then, in April 2020, a year after I’d had my first therapy session, I decided to give the book another try, and this time I couldn’t put it down. I was ready to hear the message. I was ready to accept that I am God.