I was born and raised as a Jehovah’s Witness in the 1970s and 80s, a second-generation member of the faith. When I was just an infant, a Witness came to my mother’s door, and she soon began studying and attending meetings—despite my unbelieving father’s disapproval.
One of my earliest memories is of My Book of Bible Stories, a children’s book from the organization. The horrifying images in that book terrified me, filling my childhood with nightmares and an overwhelming fear of dying at Armageddon. I can’t imagine how any child could sleep peacefully after seeing those pictures before bed. That fear stayed with me well into adulthood, controlling my thoughts and emotions for years.
As a Witness, I was told to shun disfellowshipped individuals, but I never understood why. It always felt so cruel. When I turned 16, my mother told my brothers and me that we could decide for ourselves whether to continue attending meetings. My siblings and I all chose to leave. For the first time, I began experiencing life outside the organization—working, going to college, and socializing. But I often felt empty, watching friends get married and start families while I struggled to find my place.
I eventually had my daughter after a two-year relationship with a controlling partner. When that ended, I felt lost again. While living with my parents, a Witness came to my door, and I started studying again, hoping to fill the void. I wasn’t baptized at the time, but I later met my son’s father. When I became pregnant, he pressured me to have an abortion. I refused, and the relationship ended.
By my late 30s, I was still searching for direction. A sister at the Kingdom Hall terrified me by saying that if I didn’t get baptized, my children and I would die at Armageddon. That fear pushed me to get baptize —not faith, not conviction, just fear. I now realize that was the wrong reason to make such a commitment.
Not long after, my son’s father came back into our lives, wanting to marry me. I thought he had changed, but I later discovered he was cheating. When I turned to the elders for guidance, they told me I had to work things out with him—even though he was openly unfaithful. According to their “two-witness rule,” I needed two people to confirm his adultery before they would recognize it. One day, while out in field service, I saw his car parked at another woman’s house. That was all the proof I needed. I mentally checked out of the religion then and there. The elders showed no concern for me or my children, and I fell into a deep depression.
I stopped going to meetings, feeling completely lost. In my search for love and stability, I entered another relationship with a non-Witness and became pregnant again. Not knowing any better, I confessed to the elders—subjecting myself to their judgment and shame. At 41 years old, I was disfellowshipped.
That’s when the worst pain of all began. My mother—the only Jehovah’s Witness in our entire extended family—immediately started shunning me. When I was in the hospital delivering my youngest daughter, she refused to visit. I had to bring my baby to her house just so she could meet her. I was desperate for help, and when I asked my mother to babysit while I returned to work, she agreed—on the condition that I only speak to her about my daughter and nothing else. The awkwardness was unbearable, but I had no one else to trust.
Later, she did something that shook me to my core—she told me she wanted to adopt my daughter. I thought she was out of her mind. Of course, I said no. Still, she continued to indoctrinate my daughter, showing her Jehovah’s Witness videos despite my repeated objections. She even excluded me from family gatherings with my brothers, even though they had never been baptized Witnesses.
Being treated like a dead family member was unbearable. Sometimes I would call my brothers in tears, but they couldn’t truly understand, as they weren’t being shunned. I had no one to turn to. The loneliness took a serious toll on my mental health, and I struggled to find the support I needed. Even when I was a Witness, I had never felt truly accepted—by my mother or by the organization.
Eventually, I wanted to search for God, but I feared falling into another high-control religion. One day, I was invited to a Christian church. I had never been to one before, and I was overwhelmed by the warmth of the worship and the sermon. Over time, I developed a real relationship with God—one free from fear, guilt, and control. Today, I feel closer to God than ever before.
Yet, my mother’s shunning has not changed. It has been 13 years, and she still refuses to speak to me. My son recently begged her to have a relationship with me, but she told him no, saying I had disobeyed her and Jehovah. She said she would never forgive me. It was heartbreaking to hear those words from my own mother.
I still visit my father occasionally, and when I do, I see an old picture of my kids and me at the Kingdom Hall. Every time, it triggers the painful reality that this cult stole years of my life and my relationship with my mother. It robbed me of a normal childhood and left me with years of depression. And still, my mother tells my children she is praying for me to return. I just shake my head.
Three months ago, I finally searched online for information about Jehovah’s Witnesses, and I was astonished by what I found. I had never realized the scale of the ex-JW community—thousands of people telling their stories of shunning, child abuse cover-ups, suicides, and deception within the organization. The more I learned, the more I knew I had to speak out.
That’s when I decided to start my own YouTube channel. In just three months, I have had countless current and former Witnesses reach out to me, thanking me for sharing my story. Some have even left the organization after watching my videos. I had no idea how massive the ex-JW community was—possibly even larger than the 8 million members the Watchtower claims to have.
I’ve had to accept that I may never have a relationship with my mother again. I’ve heard too many stories of ex-JWs whose families shunned them until the day they died. I pray that won’t happen, but I have to leave it in God’s hands.
If sharing my story can help just one person, then it’s worth it. So many of us have suffered from shunning, and yet, the word “shunning” isn’t even mentioned in the Bible! I thank God I survived, despite the depression, the rejection, and the pain. Now, I get to share with my children and others that God loves us—no conditions, no fear, and no high-control organization dictating that love.
Maybe this was God’s plan all along—to use my story to help others. I’m ready to do just that.
Thank you for letting me share my story.
