I grew up surrounded by scripture, sermons, and a whole lot of “do this or else.” For some folks, religion is a source of peace and comfort. And I respect that. But let’s talk about what happens when religion isn’t used to guide—it’s used to control. When it becomes a weapon instead of a compass. This post isn’t an attack on faith. It’s an honest look at how religious control shows up in parenting, especially when it intersects with something like parental alienation. And yeah, this is personal. I’m going to share a bit of my story, some insight into spiritual abuse, and how these experiences can impact kids long after they’ve grown up. If any of this hits home for you, you’re not alone.
Personal Story: What I Wish Someone Had Seen
I’ll never forget the emotional whiplash of being a kid in the middle of parental alienation. It’s like being in the eye of a storm that no one else sees — calm to outsiders, but chaos brewing inside. When I was growing up, my mom had full control. On the outside, she did all the things that a good mom is “supposed” to do. But there were these little moments, these insidious things that, looking back, I now see were alienation tactics.
I’ll never forget being forced to sit in a family meeting, where I was told to say I didn’t want to see my dad or stepmom anymore. The thing is, I did want to see them. I loved them. But my mom didn’t like the visits. She didn’t like how I came back from their house happy or how I had different experiences that didn’t fit the narrative she wanted to control. She would tell me she didn’t like the kind of music they let me listen to or the movies they let me watch — anything with even a little profanity was used as fuel to question their parenting.
And I caved. I remember the pressure to agree that I didn’t want to go to dad’s house anymore. I remember crying in secret afterward, feeling so conflicted because I did want to go, I just didn’t want to deal with the consequences at home.
My dad never stopped showing up. Even when I tried to reject him, even when I gave him the cold shoulder, he still showed up. He didn’t try to win me over with gifts or guilt — he just kept coming. He kept picking me up for his time, and eventually, that consistency helped maintain our bond. That probably saved me.
There was another layer to this story — one that’s harder to explain but just as important —the religious aspect. My mom used to make me read and watch the Left Behind series. If you’ve never heard of it, it’s a Christian series all about the rapture — basically, Jesus will come back, “worthy” Christians will suddenly disappear and go to heaven, and the rest of us will be left to suffer through the end times. My mom treated this like an immediate crisis. She would tell me the rapture could happen any day. She could see the signs — the end times were coming soon.
She’d say she was scared for my soul but never told me why. She’d look at me with this grave expression and say, “I’m just really scared for you. I don’t want you to go to hell, but I see you going down that path”, as she solemnly shook her head. But she never explained what I was supposedly doing wrong. I would just cry, feeling totally blindsided. One minute we were just driving down the road together, the next she was praying over me, saying she didn’t know if I’d make it to heaven. It made me feel lost and defective.
Sometimes, she’d say it was because I wasn’t a sweet enough big sister. And look, I’m not going to pretend I was the most patient sibling — I was jealous. I was a baby when my family home split apart, and my younger brothers got what I didn’t: both parents under one roof. I didn’t go out of my way to be mean, but I was carrying my own stress and confusion, and sometimes it came out sideways.
As I got older, I started to realize that what really bothered my mother was that I asked questions. I didn’t just blindly follow. I wanted to know why I couldn’t wear colorful underwear — only white. I wondered why, at age 14, I was told I wouldn’t be allowed to watch or listen to PG-13 things until I was 18 when no one else at our church seemed to have these rules. I wanted to understand what Sunday school lessons actually meant. I wanted to think critically. And that made me hard to control. So instead of answering my questions, she made me scared. Scared for my soul. Scared that curiosity was rebellion. And it worked. I was scared straight into submission.
That fear didn’t stay in the daytime. I developed horrible anxiety as a kid, which seeped out at bedtime. I’d stay awake well past everyone else, constantly checking on my family to make sure they hadn’t been raptured without me. I was terrified I’d wake up and find their beds empty. I was haunted by the idea that I wasn’t good enough to be taken to heaven. I was constantly being told I wasn’t good enough.
The only place I got any reprieve — and this is the ironic part — was at my dad and stepmom’s house. I had been told they weren’t real Christians, that they wouldn’t go to heaven, so my twisted logic became: if the rapture happens, at least they’ll still be here. If I’m with them, I won’t be alone.
That’s the only place I could sleep. I mean really sleep. I still had a LOT of anxiety, but I could rest. My dad is a night owl, and he was always up late. I’d fall asleep to the sound of him moving around downstairs. That noise was my comfort. Even now, I can’t sleep in silence. I need white noise — something, anything — because silence reminds me of fear. It reminds me of waiting for the rapture, of feeling unworthy and unloved.
All of this has taken years to unravel. But I share it to say this: if you’re seeing these little signs, don’t brush them off. Parental alienation isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s whispered through fear and shame. And it sticks with a kid long after the custody papers are signed.
What Is Religious Control in Parenting?
Let’s be clear: religion itself isn’t the problem. Many parents share their beliefs with their children in loving, meaningful ways—it can be a beautiful part of connection and identity. But when religion is used to dominate, silence, or intimidate, it crosses a very different line. That’s not spiritual guidance; that’s control dressed up as faith.
Religious control shows up when spiritual teachings are weaponized instead of nurtured. It might sound like a parent warning their child they’ll go to Hell for simply asking questions. It might involve rigid rules about what to wear, listen to, or think—rules that are justified not with discussion or compassion, but with a sharp “because God says so.” Curiosity, a normal and even healthy part of growing up, gets labeled as rebellion or sin.
This type of parenting can quickly veer into what’s known as spiritual abuse, especially when it begins manipulating a child’s sense of identity, worth, or morality by threatening divine punishment. And when you’re a kid, hearing that kind of thing from someone you love and trust? It’s terrifying. Over time, it chips away at your ability to think for yourself, to trust your instincts, or even to feel safe in your own questions. It builds a fear-based version of faith—one where love becomes conditional, and God feels more like a looming threat than a source of comfort.
The Role of Religion in Parental Alienation
Parental alienation happens when one parent actively undermines or damages a child’s relationship with the other parent. And in some families, religion becomes a powerful—and deeply damaging—tool used to justify that alienation.
It can look like one parent framing the other as spiritually inferior or lost. Maybe they stop just short of saying it outright, but the message is still clear: “Your father doesn’t go to church anymore… he’s not who he used to be.” Or, “Spending time with your mom might confuse you spiritually.” Sometimes, these messages are reinforced by the larger faith community—pastors, youth group leaders, even family friends who subtly suggest that spending time with one parent is spiritually dangerous or disappointing.
Often, it’s not shouted—it’s whispered. A quiet, “I’m praying for you… I just worry about your time over there,” can carry enormous emotional weight, especially when spoken with a soft smile that masks a hard message. Children in these situations might not even realize what’s happening, but they start to associate one parent with safety and spiritual approval, and the other with guilt, confusion, or even shame.
In my own case, my mother never told me directly to hate my dad. She didn’t have to. Instead, she spent my whole childhood planting the idea that loving him—or even enjoying time with him—might cost me something eternal. That was enough to make me pause. That was enough to cause harm.
The Impact on Children
Growing up under this kind of religious pressure doesn’t just vanish when you turn eighteen. It follows you into adulthood, often in quiet but powerful ways.
You may carry guilt that doesn’t seem to belong to anything specific. You might feel anxious when you ask questions, or second-guess yourself for having doubts. You may struggle to trust your own spiritual path—or feel unsure whether you even have the right to one. When you’ve spent years being told that obedience equals holiness and curiosity equals sin, it takes time to reclaim your voice. And when parental alienation is mixed into all of that? The confusion only deepens.
Many children lose connection with a loving parent—not because they stopped loving them, but because they were taught to fear what that love might mean. They don’t understand why they feel torn inside, only that the emotional tension is real and constant. Some even start to grieve a relationship they never truly got the chance to experience on their own terms.
Psychologist Dr. Marlene Winell coined the term Religious Trauma Syndrome to describe the long-lasting impact of fear-based religious environments (Winell, 2011). Symptoms can mimic trauma responses—chronic anxiety, depression, low self-esteem, and difficulty forming healthy relationships. It’s not “just in your head,” and it’s not a sign that your faith was weak. It’s the result of emotional conditioning that was designed to control, not to care.
Breaking the Cycle and Healing
The good news is this: healing is absolutely possible. And no, it doesn’t mean you have to reject every part of your upbringing or abandon your faith entirely. It means you get to sort through what was helpful, what was harmful, and what belongs to you now.
For me, therapy was essential—especially working with someone who understood both religious trauma and complex family dynamics. Being able to name what happened, without judgment, was life-changing. It gave me space to explore my beliefs again, but this time on my own terms. I didn’t have to accept or reject anything right away. I could just begin to ask questions again without fear of being labeled or condemned.
Reclaiming or redefining your spirituality is part of that healing. You don’t owe loyalty to a belief system that was used to harm you. You get to ask big questions. You get to be curious. And you get to say “no” to interpretations that were rooted in fear, not love.
Setting boundaries is also crucial—whether that’s with the parent who tried to control you, the faith leaders who turned away when you needed help, or even the lingering internal voice that still tries to guilt you for simply growing. None of that defines you now.
And if you’re a parent yourself? There’s power in doing things differently. You can guide your children with faith, and still honor their individuality. You can talk about spirituality without fear tactics. You can raise kids who know that love and control are not the same thing—and that asking hard questions doesn’t make you bad, it makes you brave.
Final Thoughts
Religion, at its best, offers comfort, connection, and meaning. But when it’s twisted into a weapon, it can do real harm—especially when it’s used to divide families or silence children. If your experience with faith left you feeling more afraid than supported, more guilty than grounded, please know this: you’re not broken. You were shaped by something that didn’t reflect love at all.
And now? You get to rewrite the story. You get to unlearn what harmed you. You get to heal in a way that’s honest, whole, and entirely yours.
If this resonates with you, I invite you to share your story. Not just for validation—but because healing accelerates when we stop pretending we’re fine and start telling the truth. Let’s break the silence. Let’s break the cycle. Let’s build something better.
References
Winell, M. (2011) Religious Trauma Syndrome (Series of 3 articles), Cognitive Behavioural Therapy Today, Vol. 39, Issue 2, May 2011, Vol. 39, Issue 3, September 2011, Vol. 39, Issue 4, November 2011. British Association of Behavioural and Cognitive Therapies, London. Reprinted at Journey Free website: https://www.journeyfree.org/rts/rts-its-time-to-recognize-it/