Cindy Gabriela Ramirez

Cindy Gabriela Ramirez: My Cold Day in January

Stories

I was born into Jehovah’s Witnesses. My parents, young and hopeful, immigrated with me from El Salvador to Portland, Oregon, when I was just 18 months old. My mom was only 23, and she had been baptized as a Jehovah’s Witness when she was just 14. For her, the Organization wasn’t just a religion—it was her identity.

Moving to a new country was daunting, but the Spanish Congregation provided my parents with a soft landing in the early 90s. It gave them a community, a sense of purpose, and a place to belong. Naturally, it became my sister’s and my identity, too. It was all I knew.

As I grew up, I fully embraced my role in “The Truth.” I became a Regular Pioneer, dedicating my life to ministry. At 19, I married a Ministerial Servant, a match that seemed ideal within the Organization. When our daughter was born three years later, my husband and I were determined to raise her in “The Truth,” just as we had been raised, but over time, cracks began to show.

My husband and I both harbored doubts about some of the teachings and doctrines. At first, it was just quiet grumbling, things we whispered to each other late at night. Still, we carried on. But when it came time to instil these beliefs in our daughter, I found myself struggling. It felt impossible to impose the same expectations on her that had been placed on me. Gradually, we began to fade from the Organization.

By the time I reached my 30s, the pandemic hit, and I realized I was ready to leave entirely. Watching my daughter develop severe anxiety about “the end of the world” and whether she was “good enough” broke something inside me. No child should carry that burden. I began therapy—a lifeline that helped me see my life more clearly.

Around this same time, my husband lost his father to COVID-19. His grief spiralled into a deep depression, and over time, he became volatile, aggressive, and ultimately abusive. It was a dark period in my life. In 2023, I made the difficult decision to file for divorce. It wasn’t easy, but it was necessary—for my daughter and for me.

A year later, I took another step toward reclaiming my life. I submitted my letter of disassociation to the Jehovah’s Witness Organization. For me, it was an act of clarity, a way to draw a firm boundary. I didn’t want my daughter, who was now 12, to feel torn between answering for my choices and finding her own path. But with that decision came an unbearable cost.

When I shared my decision with my parents, I hoped they would understand, even if they didn’t agree. Instead, they informed me that my disassociation would be treated the same as if I were disfellowshipped. Shunned! My mom told my sister that it felt as if I had died. I tried to explain my reasons, how I needed this boundary for my mental health, my safety, and my daughter’s well-being. But the words fell on deaf ears.

On a cold day in January, I lost everything. My community. My cultural identity. My family. All of it disappeared in the space of a single conversation. Now, I am trying to rebuild. I am learning to stand on my own, to redefine who I am outside of the Organization that shaped so much of my life. It is lonely and painful, but I hold on to the hope that I am creating a better, freer future for my daughter.

This is my story. It’s not over yet, but I share it because I know I’m not alone—and neither are you.