Most faith communities are built on good intentions. They aim to offer guidance, belonging, and spiritual growth. They encourage forgiveness, patience, humility, and grace. But sometimes, without realizing it, these same values can create an environment where harmful behavior is overlooked, excused, or quietly tolerated. Not because anyone wants harm to occur—but because no one is taught how to recognize it when it hides behind faith. This is one of the central truths revealed in The Story I Had to Tell. The book does not accuse the church of malice. Instead, it shows how harm can grow in spaces meant to heal when awareness is replaced with assumption, and silence is mistaken for peace.
One of the most common ways faith communities unintentionally enable harm is by placing appearance above behavior. In the book, the man was respected largely because he was known as a church-going individual who spoke about God and participated in ministry. That image carried weight. It created trust before character was truly observed. When someone is publicly associated with faith, their actions are often given more grace than scrutiny. Small acts of disrespect, emotional coldness, or arrogance are dismissed as personality flaws rather than warning signs. Another enabling factor is the pressure to keep the peace. Faith communities often encourage endurance and patience, especially for women. In the story, discomfort was repeatedly pushed aside in the name of understanding, forgiveness, and not wanting to create conflict. Concerns were softened. Intuition was quieted. The idea that “things will get better” became a reason to tolerate what felt wrong. Over time, this mindset allowed unhealthy behavior to continue without challenge.
The book also highlights how silence can be spiritualized. Silence is often interpreted as maturity, humility, or restraint. But in the author’s experience, silence was used as a form of control. Missed greetings, lack of acknowledgment, and emotional withdrawal were not addressed because they were subtle and difficult to confront. Faith communities are not always equipped to address quiet harm. Loud conflict is easier to name than consistent emotional absence. As a result, silence is left unquestioned, even when it causes serious emotional damage. Another way harm is enabled is through unequal accountability. In the book, responsibility was often placed on the woman to adjust, understand, and endure. Her role became one of constant accommodation. Meanwhile, harmful behavior went unchecked because it did not violate obvious rules. This imbalance is not always intentional. It often comes from a belief that patience is virtuous and that questioning behavior may be unkind or judgmental. But when only one person is asked to change, the environment quietly supports the one causing harm.
Faith communities can also unintentionally enable harm by discouraging questions. The author describes moments where concerns were minimized rather than explored. There was an unspoken expectation to trust spiritual authority and religious involvement without deeper examination. When faith is treated as proof of goodness rather than a responsibility to live with integrity, it becomes harder for women and families to voice concerns without fear of being seen as divisive or unfaithful. The book is especially clear about how discernment is misunderstood. Discernment is often mistaken for judgment, negativity, or fear. In the author’s experience, sensing that something was wrong did not come from bitterness—it came from observation. Patterns mattered. Consistent disrespect mattered. Emotional distance mattered. Yet discernment was repeatedly overridden by the belief that faith alone should be enough. This misunderstanding allowed harmful dynamics to continue longer than they should have.
From a mother’s perspective, the consequences of this environment are devastating. The book shows how harm does not remain isolated within a relationship—it reaches into families, homes, and children’s lives. When faith communities fail to recognize subtle manipulation, they indirectly contribute to the isolation of women who need support the most. The author does not blame the church outright, but she makes it clear that silence and inaction have real consequences. One of the most important messages in the book is that faith should never require blindness. Belief does not mean ignoring patterns. Forgiveness does not mean tolerating repeated harm. And humility does not mean shrinking oneself to preserve appearances. The author writes from a place of faith that has been tested, not abandoned. Her story calls for awareness, not rebellion.
What makes this message powerful is its restraint. The book does not attack religion. It does not accuse leaders by name. Instead, it gently but firmly exposes how good intentions, when paired with avoidance and silence, can allow harm to grow unchecked. It reminds readers that faith should protect peace, not sacrifice it. In the end, The Story I Had to Tell asks an important question: What happens when communities value harmony more than truth? The answer is not always dramatic. Often, it is quiet. It looks like women doubting their intuition. Families walking on eggshells. Children growing up around unspoken tension. And faith being used as a reason to withstand what should never be endured.
