The Day I Chose Integrity Over Belonging
A Story About Finding Your Voice When the Pulpit Fails You
It was a cold Sunday morning in Montana.
I was in my usual spot—left side of the sanctuary, maybe twenty-five people scattered across the red chairs. The guest speaker had been preaching for about fifteen minutes when something shifted inside me.
A sudden charge. Heat rising through my chest. My nervous system screaming: something’s not right.
The guest speaker in the pulpit was making jokes about women—not innocent slips or awkward humor, but open discrimination dressed up as “biblical truth.” People laughed.
That uneasy laughter that fills a room when everyone knows something’s off but no one wants to be the first to name it.
When Your Body Knows Before Your Mind Does
I felt it in my body before I could make sense of it in my mind—that familiar tension when your integrity and your environment are completely out of step.
My body literally would not let me stay seated.
“I will not sit here while people laugh at harm,” I whispered under my breath.
So I stood up. Walked out. Never went back.
That single moment—choosing to trust my body over the room’s approval—changed everything. When the pastor later defended the speaker over a text message instead of addressing the harm, I knew my body had been right.
Integrity felt like leaving.
And it felt like freedom.
The Problem with Pulpits
Here’s what I’ve learned after years in ministry and through my doctoral research: pulpits rarely give people language for what’s happening in their bodies.
Instead, they often try to spiritually bypass it away.
Philosopher Michelle Panchuk calls this “hermeneutical injustice”—when people aren’t given the words to describe their own experience.
You might feel shame from religious leaders calling your anxiety a sin. They’ll slap you with bible verses about not being worried… just look at the birds…
You might experience spiritual abuse but be told it’s “submission” or “obedience.”
Without the right language, you can’t even name what’s wrong.
That morning in Montana, I already understood that idea in theory. But sitting in a space that didn’t just miss the harm but multiplied it? That was something else entirely.
Theory met embodiment. And I couldn’t unsee it.
The Moment Everything Changed
Walking out that day wasn’t just about one sermon. It was about choosing integrity over belonging.
For years, I had tried to offer guidance to improve harmful systems from the inside—slowly trading pieces of myself for approval.
But integrity? Integrity felt like standing up.
Like walking out.
Like never going back.
My body knew what my mind was still learning:
Some spaces aren’t safe for the human soul.
Some systems can’t be changed—they can only be left behind.
Why I’m Here
This is why I started this Substack.
Because religious trauma sucks—and too many people are left trying to make sense of it alone.
I want this space to be a community of survivors.
A place where we give language to what’s been dismissed, minimized, or blamed on our supposed “lack of faith.”
A space where your nervous system can finally exhale.
You weren’t too sensitive.
You weren’t asking too many questions.
The box you were in was just too small for all that you are.
And your body knew it all along.
An Embodiment Practice: Reconnecting to Your Integrity Compass
If it feels safe in your body and mind, I invite you into a short embodiment practice that can be helpful for reconnecting with your internal compass.
Your body holds wisdom your mind is still learning to trust. Let’s listen to it together.
Find a comfortable seat. One hand on your chest, one on your stomach.
Take three slow breaths.
Notice what it is like to pay attention to your body.
For some this may feel comforting. For some of us, returning to our bodies may cause anxiety because what we’ve been taught about and experienced in our bodies. It is okay to go at the pace that works for you. You can conclude here if you need to.
If it feels safe to continue, think of a time ou chose integrity—when you spoke your truth, set a boundary, or walked away from something that wasn’t right for you.
Notice what it is like to connect your breath to a memory of integrity.
Take three more slow breaths and quietly repeat:
“My body knows the difference between safe and unsafe.”
“I can trust my body’s wisdom.”
“Choosing integrity over approval is choosing myself.”
End with both hands over your chest.
Breathe deep.
Your integrity compass lives here—in your body.
It will not mislead you.
This really stayed with me — especially “Integrity felt like leaving.” That moment when the body rises before the mind can catch up feels so true. It’s astonishing how clearly our bodies know when something sacred is being crossed.
Your words about hermeneutical injustice struck deep too — the loss of language for what’s happening inside us. I recognise that silence, and how freeing it is when someone finally names it.
What you’re building here — a space where the body’s wisdom is trusted and language becomes a kind of healing — feels both brave and necessary. Thank you for writing this.
“You weren’t too sensitive.
You weren’t asking too many questions.
The box you were in was just too small for all that you are.”
Labeled sensitive and asking questions led to other labels- digging other people’s sin and having no ability to forgive and then the one causing disunity and disruption.
I still believe in the church. Just not the church I grew up in, and served as youth pastor for 13/14 years. All these labels were put on me when they terminated my service and safeguarding leaders who are still having affairs.
My body cannot sit well with all that happening. The feeling of isolation and rejection hurts, but to have internal peace is far more important than belonging in a community that is OK with all that.
I still don’t know what will happen with me and my family in the future. That is why Abraham’s story speak to me more than ever. The call to leave is clear, but to where is still in the process of discovery.