Let me take you back a few years.
I was a student in a foreign land.
Far from home. Far from familiarity. Looking for one simple thing — a place to worship.
Like many of us in the diaspora, I was navigating life alone. We didn’t stay on campus. We rented apartments. We were young, vulnerable, and trying to build community in a place that was not ours.
At some point, a structure was introduced.
It was framed as care.
Because we were in a foreign land, it was suggested that the “brothers” in the fellowship would visit different homes — checking in, seeing how people were living, making sure everyone was “safe.”
On the surface, it sounded responsible.
But something in me paused.
I asked myself a simple question:
How is it safe for a male person to visit me alone in my apartment, simply because we fellowship together?
That question made me uncomfortable — and I listened to it.
I raised my concern.
I said I wasn’t comfortable.
That discomfort was not received as wisdom.
It was labelled rebellion.
I was told I lacked submission.
That I was overthinking.
That I was resisting authority.
But I stood my ground.
Not because I was disrespectful.
Not because I was difficult.
But because discernment sometimes sounds like disobedience to people who benefit from access.
Months later, after that “system” had been fully implemented, something unsettling happened.
Pregnancies started coming out of that very small group.
Not one.
Not two.
And this was not a large congregation.
It was a tight, intimate fellowship.
But it didn’t stop there.
Issues of abuse also began to surface — quietly, painfully, and in fragments.
Stories that people were afraid to tell.
Experiences that were buried under shame, silence, and spiritual language.
All of it happening in a foreign land.
All of it happening under the umbrella of a spiritual gathering.
Looking back now, with maturity and distance, I understand something clearly:
Not every structure introduced in the name of spirituality is safe.
Not every form of “oversight” is pure.
And not every person who resists is rebellious.
Sometimes, resistance is protection.
And today, I want to pause and say something personal.
I want to thank the 20-year-old me.
The young woman who stood alone in a foreign land and chose discernment over approval.
The one who listened to that inner pause even when it cost her belonging.
The one who trusted herself when being liked would have been easier.
That version of me didn’t have all the language.
She didn’t have all the theology.
But she had something just as important — self-trust.
And that self-trust kept her safe.
This is why I’ve been speaking about manipulation — especially in faith spaces.
Because manipulation rarely announces itself as harm.
It often arrives dressed as care, leadership, or spiritual responsibility.
And this is also why I keep returning to conversations about the boy child, the girl child, and the environments we place them in.
We must teach discernment alongside faith.
Boundaries alongside obedience.
Personal safety alongside community.
Silence does not equal holiness.
And discomfort is often wisdom trying to speak.
Some of us survived because we listened to that inner pause — even when it made us unpopular.
And for that, I am deeply grateful.