Growing Up Apostolic — and the Quiet, Unnamed Journey of Leaving Without
Leaving All at Once
“Any religion that doesn’t allow questioning and curiosity is dogma.”
Part Three
She was large, physically imposing, and had a stare that could strip paint off walls — or as I often thought, stare Jesus off the cross. She sat on the pew behind the pastor with the other church officers — like a holy army flanking the general. On the opposite side sat the choir, all robed and arranged, creating a full backdrop of music and power.
My mother was a choir member, the lead alto. Her tired eyes, scanning for her children, keeping us in line.
The pastor stood in the centre — his pulpit surrounded, elevated, protected.
And we sat facing them, week after week — watched.
The entire front of the church became a wall of eyes.
Judging. Controlling. Enforcing.
It was creepy. Even then, I knew something wasn’t right.
How could we worship freely when we were being surveilled like suspects?
How could questions arise in an atmosphere that didn’t allow uncertainty — only compliance?
It felt less like church and more like a courtroom.
And we were always on trial.
And I know now — I wasn’t the only one questioning.
Even if no one said it aloud. Even if the sermons screamed against rebellion. Even if the Church Mothers kept their eyes sharp and their tongues sharper.
I saw it in the mirror of others.
After I chemically straightened my hair, it didn’t take long before other girls started showing up with theirs done too. Quietly. Casually. As if it had just… happened. But I noticed. I saw the shift. I felt it.
Sometimes, all it takes is one person to cross the line.
One person to choose differently.
One person to break a silent rule.
One person to risk being seen.
That’s the thing about control — it only works if we all agree to be afraid at the same time.
But once someone pushes the boundary, even a little, others start to feel it too. Maybe I can do that. Maybe I’m not alone. Maybe this rule doesn’t own me, either.
My questioning wasn’t just mine. It was part of something larger — a quiet undercurrent. A slow unraveling. A whisper beneath the noise: There has to be more than this.
I didn’t talk about my rebellion with any of my peers.
I didn’t have that kind of friend — not in church, anyway.
What I had were church mates — people I sang with, prayed beside, greeted with hugs and holy smiles, but never truly shared the depths of my doubt or desire for freedom.
It wasn’t safe.
There was always the risk that what you shared in private would be brought up in public — as a prayer request, a warning, or a subtle rebuke wrapped in “love.”
So I kept my questions to myself.
And yet, I knew I wasn’t alone.
We were a sea of scattered rebels — bobbing in the dogma of religion,
each of us holding our breath beneath layers of expectation and fear.
I saw the flash in someone’s eyes, the hesitation before they entered the sanctuary, the slight defiance in their outfit or the way they sat just a bit too freely, slouching
We saw each other.
But we couldn’t reach for each other.
We were helpless in our inability to offer answers we ourselves desperately needed.
We didn’t have language.
We didn’t have space.
We didn’t have each other — not really.
Only glances. Only guesses. Only silence.
And still, something in us longed for more.
Over time, I began to notice cliques forming — small clusters of belonging.
There was one group of five — two sisters and three of their closest friends. They were inseparable, always whispering, always walking in step. They shared secrets and wore their closeness like a badge. They were upheld as the example — godly, committed, modest, obedient. The kind of young women the rest of us were quietly measured against. Their group sang for the glory of God.
Then there was another pair — just the two of them. Tight. Private. Protective of their bond. They didn’t mix much with others, but they had each other. You could feel it — the open defiance of one, the following of the other.
I was groupless.
Not outcast. Not unwelcome. Just… unclaimed.
But I did have a pew-mate.
She came over to my house a few times for dinner.
Those afternoons were good — a window into something more real, more human.
We talked. We laughed a little.
And though I mostly supported and listened to her, I think some part of me felt less alone in her presence.
We didn’t call it rebellion.
We didn’t call it resistance.
But maybe that’s what it was — two misfits offering each other a small refuge in a place that demanded conformity.
Looking back on my teen years — and the very beginning of my twenties — I realize now that I was already on my way out.
It didn’t happen all at once. There was no grand departure, no dramatic split from the church. Just a slow unraveling. A loosening of the cords that had bound me to a faith that demanded silence over truth.
By the time I started university, something in me had already begun to shift. My world was expanding. I was reading different books, meeting people from different backgrounds, being asked to think critically and live curiously. That alone — being allowed to ask — felt radical.