Kalia: From Shunned to Strong—Rebuilding a Life of Purpose and Love

I was a third-generation Jehovah’s Witness—my grandparents joined when my mum was a baby—so for many years, it was all I ever knew. For much of my early childhood, I was also home-educated, which meant I had very little interaction with people who were not Witnesses. I entirely believed that people on the outside were under the control of Satan, were bad people, and would hurt me. But I felt safe within the congregation.

The congregation I belonged to as a small child strongly believed in the notion of “spare the rod, spoil the child.” It was not uncommon for children (including me and my siblings) to be hauled into the foyer or toilets to be smacked during the meetings. At home, items such as belts and wooden spoons were regularly used.

My parents divorced when I was seven. At the time (early 2000s), there was a lot of stigma about divorcees. My mum struggled to cope, and the physical abuse worsened as she tried to control us. A few years after the divorce, we relocated to rural Wales. It took time to be accepted into the new congregation, but we eventually made friends and felt welcomed. Still, we were always seen as the strange townie kids.

At that time, there was a known paedophile in the congregation. Although I was fortunate not to suffer at his hands, my friends did. He was only removed after he assaulted his son's wife.

By the age of 14, I had been sexually assaulted by a ministerial servant from a congregation in the southwest of England. I entirely blamed myself—for tempting a brother, for allowing it to happen. The guilt and shame consumed me, and I attempted to take my own life.

When my mum discovered what had happened, she took me straight to the police station to report it—something very discouraged by the organization, as it was considered “bringing reproach on Jehovah.” Since I was not yet baptized, my mum had to answer the elders’ questions: were there witnesses? What exactly had happened? What had I done to make or allow this to happen? She was shocked at the victim-blaming.

I was referred for counseling through the police, which helped massively. But one thought kept circling in my mind: What if it had been rape? What if I had become pregnant? I would have been forced to carry a rapist’s child and blamed for it. That’s when I could no longer agree with the doctrine of no abortions under any circumstances—though I kept that view to myself.

I completed my A-levels, during which I made some risky choices. I recognize now that this was in response to no longer feeling suffocated by the abuse at home. While my mum responded brilliantly to the assault, she could quickly lose her temper and regularly lashed out physically.

During school, I decided I wanted to pursue a law degree and work for the Crown Prosecution Service to help victims. For the first time, I spent extended periods with people who were not Witnesses. I met someone I had been taught was sinful and disgusting to Jehovah—but this person was kind, funny, supportive, and genuine. Just by being themselves, they forced me to confront my homophobic views and realize these people weren’t what I'd been taught. I began to wonder what else I had been misled about.

In an attempt to relieve the guilt from my school experiences, I got baptized at 17. Higher education is heavily discouraged—it’s seen as storing up treasures on earth rather than in heaven. I wasn't allowed to attend university in person, but distance learning was considered acceptable. So I enrolled with the Open University.

At 18, I was balancing part-time work, household responsibilities, ministry during the week and weekends, and studying a couple of days each week. I wasn’t doing anything scripturally wrong. Initially, I kept my studies private, but I let it slip to the wrong person. The news spread like wildfire.

When I didn’t buckle under the initial pressure, it intensified. Elders’ wives, pioneers, and “friends” made direct comments—or slipped them into Watchtower discussions—about how pursuing higher education showed a lack of faith. I started avoiding meetings when I knew higher education would be discussed. That, too, was noticed. Congregants began shoehorning such criticisms into unrelated topics. It became unbearable.

I became suicidal again, was self-harming, and fell into a deep depression—but I couldn’t share what was going on. When I told my mum how I felt, her response was, “Just let the comments roll off. Water off a duck’s back.” It was meant to help but felt dismissive of the intensity of my pain.

My friends stopped associating with me. From a group of about 15, only two were still talking to me by the time I was disfellowshipped. I had done nothing wrong, yet I was socially excluded and deeply isolated.

One evening, while taking my younger brother to football with the congregation kids, I bumped into an old school friend. He was enthusiastic and encouraging when I told him about my law degree—so different from the congregation’s response. We began talking regularly, and a romantic relationship blossomed.

When my mum found out, she reported me to the elders. Initially, I was privately reproved. But when I didn’t end the relationship—again reported by my mum—I was disfellowshipped. I was told to choose: my family and faith, or him. I made no response, so my mum chose for me. I was told to be gone by the next morning.

I was disfellowshipped at 20 and made homeless two weeks before Christmas in 2013.

A customer of mine paid the deposit and first month’s rent for a cottage. They drove me around when my car broke down. They let me use their internet so I could study. I spent my first Christmas with them. They listened with care and indignation. I was shown more love and kindness by them than I had ever received from my supposed brothers and sisters.

My mum told me it would have been less shameful if I had died. She said I’d never finish my law degree, called me mentally unstable, and said I should be sectioned. Everything I knew vanished overnight—my community, friends, and family were gone. I attempted suicide again, but my dog—who came with me—was my lifeline.

Three years later, I invited my mum to my graduation. I had completed my law degree. It felt good—perhaps a little petty—to remind her that I had done it. The romantic partner I mentioned earlier? We got married a month after my graduation. My mum sat in the back row, looking sour. We've now been married almost nine years and have a beautiful daughter.

I had attended the Memorial each year but otherwise kept my distance. Eventually, I went to counseling, confronted my anger and pain, and started healing. I reassessed my beliefs, tried attending meetings again, but stepped back before requesting reinstatement.

Then COVID hit. As a new mum with PPD and general anxiety, I returned to meetings. After a couple of months, I realized how much I personally disagreed with. Still, I pushed forward and got reinstated.

The love-bombing was intense. People who hadn’t reached out in seven years were suddenly thrilled I was back. It screamed hypocrisy. I kept my daughter away from it all. When my mum gave me the “My Book of Bible Stories,” I returned it. She reminded me of my obligation to teach my child about Jehovah.

One night, my husband asked me, “If it’s not good enough for her, why is it good enough for you?” That hit me. I canceled my study, blocked the elders, and stopped attending meetings. A short while later, I read my first piece of so-called “apostate” material—and realized the thing that had controlled me for so long was false.

In the past three years, I’ve been training as a counselor and currently work with clients who’ve experienced trauma. One thing stands out: the trauma of shunning runs deep. You are taught that outsiders will lose their lives, shown examples of struggling former members, and led to believe only God’s people can save stray sheep.

They say you will lose your life if you leave. That’s true—but not in the way they mean. You lose the life you knew. But once outside, you get to choose what to do with your life. You can sleep in on Saturdays, choose your values and beliefs, and pick your own friends and family. You gain autonomy.

The life you knew is over, yes—but now you get to build a new one that’s right for you. Understanding the trauma has been huge for me. I know that, once I’m fully qualified, I want to work with survivors of religious trauma.

To anyone still in or still struggling: yes, it fucking hurts. I’ve been where you are. But once you start living for you, life becomes beautiful. Full of connection. Full of love. With people who value you, without guilt or shame.

You don’t have to hide anymore.

You are enough.

You are worthy of happiness.