Ezra Moore: Looking In From the Cold: A Journey Beyond the Walls

I grew up in a little mountain town in the Black Hills of South Dakota, raised in a Jehovah’s Witness family. From the start, just about everything in my life was controlled—what I believed, who I spent time with, how I passed my days, even which feelings were acceptable. I was taught that the world outside our faith was dangerous, and that asking questions was a sure way to lose God’s favor.

As a child, you don’t question the world you’re handed. You accept it. I felt lucky, even proud, to have been born into what we were told was the only group on Earth that had God’s approval. And there was urgency too—we believed we were saving lives, so I grew up knocking on doors, trying to help others “find the Truth.”

But there were cracks. Music pulled at something deep inside me, but I wasn’t allowed to join band or choir. Sports were out of bounds too. Holidays and birthdays were forbidden—just things I watched from a distance, like someone pressing their nose to a window, seeing life happen inside while they stood out in the cold.

Eventually, we moved to Minneapolis, Minnesota, in 1996. There, I discovered a wonderful community of JW indie musicians and joined a band called Kloey. This outlet was like a dream come true. A few years ago, someone made a great little documentary about that JW music scene in Minneapolis called Witness Underground. You can even see footage of teenage me playing in my old band if you watch it.

I’ll never forget one Halloween when I was a kid. My class was having a party and everyone was going to wear costumes. Halloween was off-limits—maybe the most “wicked” holiday of all. But I wanted to fit in. So I made a costume and stuffed it in my backpack. I changed in the school bathroom and walked into that party dressed as the Man in Black from The Princess Bride—a blouse from my mom’s closet, a mask I made myself. I had a blast.

Later, at home, I wore the same costume while playing. My mom thought it was cute and snapped a photo. She didn’t know the story behind it. And I remember thinking, “Why is it okay now, but it was wicked two weeks ago?” It was a small moment, but something about it stuck with me.

Christmas mornings were even stranger. While the rest of the world opened gifts and gathered around trees, I was out knocking on doors. I was told I was doing something more important—preaching. But I remember those doorsteps. The smell of cinnamon and coffee drifting out. Kids in pajamas, twinkling lights, laughter. I saw these little slices of warmth and wonder through half-opened doors. It always felt like I was looking in on a life I didn’t get to have.

One Christmas, I knocked and my classmate answered. I wanted the earth to swallow me whole. There I was, interrupting their holiday, offering religious literature, trying to explain why everything they were doing was wrong. That was the first time I remember feeling ashamed of the life I was living.

Even now, holidays still feel strange. But with the help of my girlfriend, I’ve started to make new memories. We decorate. We give each other small gifts. She shows me how to make it fun. And she never pushes—just gently invites me into the warmth. Some part of me still feels like I’m breaking a rule, like I need to glance over my shoulder. But I want to let that go. I want to choose what I celebrate, and who I do it with. That alone feels like something worth honoring.

For a long time, I followed every rule. I went to the meetings, avoided holidays, knocked on doors. I kept my head down. But something inside me never sat right. Whenever I had a doubt, I’d picture myself placing it in a box, carrying it down into a dark mental cellar, and shelving it. That way I didn’t have to look at it. That way I could stay safe.

But doubts have a way of piling up.

Over time, I saw things that didn’t line up with the love we preached. I saw elders bully people who were already hurting. I saw the way obedience was valued more than kindness, how love was conditional, how quickly people were discarded. At first, I excused it—told myself it was just human imperfection. But eventually, I saw it wasn’t a flaw in the system. It was part of the system.

And then there were the scandals. The child abuse cases. The cover-ups. The Royal Commission in Australia. I watched a governing body member squirm and dodge on the witness stand. That wasn’t courage. That wasn’t truth. My faith cracked open and everything spilled out.

Like many raised in the faith, I married young—at 18. She was the first girl I loved, and marriage was the only acceptable path to intimacy. We stayed married for 24 years. As long as we followed the rules, our marriage worked. But once I started waking up, everything changed.

I realized that so much of our life was built on shared belief—not shared values, not real connection. Once the doctrine fell away, we were left standing in a quiet house, looking at each other like strangers. In the end, we both knew divorce was the kindest choice.

Leaving meant losing nearly everyone. Friends vanished. People I loved told me to never contact them again unless I was coming back. My grandparents, once central to my world, are silent now. Jehovah’s Witnesses say they don’t “shun,” but when your whole community disappears, what else do you call it?

I used to believe that people who left were bitter or broken. That they were angry and wanted to tear others down. But once I was out, I saw the truth. Most ex-JWs aren’t bitter. They’re heartbroken. They just want to be free to think, to grow, to be loved without conditions.

And even though I lost so much, I found something far more valuable.

I found love—the real kind. The kind that doesn’t ask you to change. The kind that listens and holds you through the hard parts. My girlfriend has never rushed me. She’s helped me step out of the shadows, piece by piece. With her, I can be exactly who I am.

I’ve also found kindness in places I didn’t expect. People in my town who didn’t care what I used to believe, who just welcomed me. Listened. Made space for me.

For most of my life, I believed that there was nothing good outside the walls of that religion. But that was a lie. There is love out here. There is peace. There are people who care—not because they have to, but because they choose to.

If you’re in a place where asking questions feels dangerous, where love is earned and freedom is forbidden—I want you to know something: there’s life beyond those walls. And it’s a good life. A real life. One where you get to decide who you are and who you love.

And maybe that’s the whole point.