Spiritual abuse does not always announce itself with shouting, threats, or obvious cruelty. Sometimes, it enters quietly—through missed greetings, withheld respect, and silence so consistent it begins to feel normal. That is what makes it so dangerous. By the time many women recognize what is happening, they are already questioning their own intuition, excusing behavior that feels wrong, and mistaking endurance for faith. This is the heart of The Story I Had to Tell. It is not a book about losing faith—it is about learning how faith can be misused, and how easily discernment can be dismissed when harm hides behind religious language and appearances. One of the most overlooked signs of spiritual abuse is silence used as control. In the book, silence is not accidental. It appears repeatedly—ignored greetings, unanswered questions, a refusal to acknowledge presence. These moments may seem small to outsiders, but over time they carry weight. Silence communicates rejection without accountability. It allows disrespect to exist without confrontation, leaving the woman on the receiving end to wonder what she did wrong. The author shows how silence, when repeated, becomes a way to dominate space and diminish another person’s sense of worth.
Another quiet sign is disrespect disguised as humility. The man presented himself as a church-going individual, someone involved in ministry, someone who spoke about God. That image made it easier to overlook behavior that did not align with kindness or consideration. When someone claims faith, people often hesitate to question them. The author describes how arrogance, lack of basic courtesy, and dismissive behavior were repeatedly excused because of religious identity. Faith became a shield—one that discouraged accountability instead of encouraging integrity. The book also reveals how intuition is often reframed as fear, especially for women. The author sensed something was wrong long before there was a clear incident to point to. The discomfort came from patterns—coldness, entitlement, lack of gratitude, emotional distance. Yet those feelings were pushed aside for the sake of peace, patience, and giving the benefit of the doubt. In faith-based spaces, women are often encouraged to be understanding, forgiving, and quiet. The book challenges that idea by showing how ignoring intuition does not preserve peace—it slowly erodes it.
A particularly painful sign explored in the story is isolation that happens gradually. There was no dramatic declaration cutting family ties. Instead, it happened through subtle discouragements, unspoken rules, and emotional tension. Visits became uncomfortable. Conversations became strained. Access to family felt controlled. Over time, this isolation weakened support systems without ever being openly stated. The author illustrates how isolation does not always look like confinement—it can look like distance that grows quietly, one uncomfortable moment at a time. The author also sheds light on control masked as concern. Words were not always harsh, but actions carried an edge—interruptions, corrections, dismissive tones, and subtle dominance. Even moments that should have been neutral or kind were overshadowed by a need to assert authority. These behaviors were not loud, yet they consistently placed the woman in a position of shrinking herself to avoid conflict. This kind of control is especially difficult to name because it does not leave visible marks, but it leaves lasting emotional damage.
One of the most important knowledge in the book is that spiritual abuse does not require cruelty—it thrives on imbalance. The imbalance of respect, voice, and power becomes clear when one person is always excused while the other is expected to adjust. The author never portrays herself as perfect or all-knowing. Instead, she writes with honesty about the moments she ignored, the doubts she silenced, and the hope she held onto longer than she should have. This transparency makes the message stronger: discernment is learned, often through painful experience. From a mother’s perspective, the cost of spiritual abuse becomes even clearer. The book is not only about a relationship—it is about what happens when manipulation reaches into family, motherhood, and future generations. The author emphasizes that protecting peace is not selfish. It is necessary. Faith should not require enduring emotional harm, and love should never demand silence in the face of disrespect. The quiet signs of spiritual abuse are often the ones no one warns women about because they are easy to explain away. A missed hello. A cold tone. A feeling that something is off. But as this book makes clear, those small moments matter. They tell a story long before words do. In the end, The Story I Had to Tell is an invitation—not to judge, but to discern. Not to abandon faith, but to practice it with awareness. And not to remain silent, but to trust that peace, once protected, is worth more than appearances ever could be.
