Healing After Religious Trauma: Finding Connection Beyond Faith and Fear
Last weekend, my wife and I hosted the first open house for our group of pickleball friends that’s been forming and growing over the past year and a half.
We crammed nineteen people into our very tiny cottage, pulled out every folding chair we could find, and somehow managed to create space for everyone. A jigsaw puzzle was set up in the garage for anyone who needed a little introvert timeout, icebreaker cards were scattered on tables for those who love a good prompt, and our kitchen counters were overflowing with soup, bread, and a mix of snacks people brought to share.
It was cozy. Warm. Booming with laughter at times.
As a religious trauma survivor who has struggled to rebuild community after leaving high-control religion, it felt really, really good.
The Idea…
Earlier this fall, I read a New York Times piece about Samin Nosrat (author of Salt, Fat, Acid, Heat) and her weekly dinner gatherings with friends. That article stirred something in me.
It wasn’t just about the food—it was about the ritual of community. The act of setting aside regular time to gather, to share a meal, to tell stories, and to laugh. It felt like a small but meaningful way to counter the isolation, division, and disconnection so many of us feel these days.
I told Kate, “I kind of want to do something like that.” She was immediately on board.
We started brainstorming:
“Maybe we try a monthly get-together.”
“What if it’s open house style so there’s no pressure or formal meal time?”
“Maybe we’ll cook the main dish, and others can bring snacks or drinks if they want.”
We didn’t know if anyone would come.
We didn’t know if people were too busy or too tired or too overextended.
We didn’t know if our little cottage would feel cozy or cramped.
We definitely knew we would need to invest in some more spoons.
So, we leaned in and hoped it would be one of those “If you build it, they will come” situations.
Turns out—it was.
Finding Community as an Adult (Which Is Weirdly Hard)
If you’ve been following my blog for a while, you’ve probably heard me talk about my amazing group of college friends here and there. We’re still very close, even after almost three decades. The only problem? We are scattered across the country. While we’re lucky to see each other a few times a year, we’re not exactly available for spontaneous coffee hangouts or “want to come over for dinner tonight?” invitations because it requires someone to get on a plane.
And as I’ve written before, making new friends as an adult is its own special brand of weird. Without the built-in community of church or university, where exactly do you meet people? There’s no “adult recess” or “mandatory group project” to nudge you together.
So when I stumbled into a local pickleball group last year, I didn’t expect much more than some light exercise and an uptick in my swearing (hitting the net is the worst, am I right?). But what I found was something much better: people who didn’t care what I believed, didn’t expect me to perform, and—best of all—didn’t take themselves too seriously.
The Night Of…
When I say our place is small, I mean it. But as people began to arrive, it somehow expanded with the sound of laughter, conversations spilling across rooms, and new connections forming between folks, some of whom had only previously exchanged pleasantries on the court.
Our guests ranged from their early 30s to their early 70s—an eclectic group of kind, funny, thoughtful humans who came together through a shared love of pickleball, where pretty much the only rule for belonging in our group is “don’t be an asshole on the court.”
People stood in the kitchen refilling their soup bowls while swapping stories about work, travel, or unique hobbies. Others gathered in the living room debating who the best vocalist of all time was.
At one point, I caught myself quietly standing in the doorway taking it all in. Everyone was connecting and being themselves. Nobody was trying to prove anything or perform.
And in that moment, I realized: This is what community can look like now. It doesn’t have to be built around shared doctrine or adherence to strict rules for living and belonging.
It can just be built around shared humanity.
What We Lose, and What We Rebuild
When I left high-control religion, I didn’t just lose faith—I lost people. The community that had once been my second home suddenly became a place I didn’t belong and wasn’t welcome. It’s a kind of grief that’s hard to describe unless you’ve lived it. You’re not just losing relationships—you’re losing the structure that told you who you were and how to live.
In the years that followed, I kept searching for something that could fill that gap. But everything felt different. Friendships outside that world were slower to form, looser around the edges. There were no small groups or sign-up sheets or guaranteed built-in gatherings.
That night at the open house, our living room looked like chaos: people packed in like sardines, soup dripped on the counter, folding chairs jammed into any open corner—but somehow, it worked. People laughed, lingered, and connected, and none of it required us to believe the same things. Connection, I realized, doesn’t have to be neat, perfect, or fear-driven—it can just be.
It wasn’t the community I grew up with.
But maybe it’s closer to the one I needed all along.
The Aftermath
After the last guest left and the dishes were mostly done (emphasis on mostly), Kate and I sat on the couch surrounded by the quiet hum of an evening well spent.
I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time: joy that was rooted in a sense of community and “I’m not alone.” Not the “grateful for blessings” kind of joy I used to force myself into when I was trying to “be more positive”, but something simpler—something grounded in presence and connection and belonging.
It struck me how significant that was for me as someone healing from religious trauma. Because in high-control religion, community is often conditional. It’s built around obedience and sameness. When you start to question or change, that belonging can vanish overnight.
But that night, sitting in our tiny, messy living room, I realized I was experiencing something different—something real.
Community that wasn’t transactional.
Connection that wasn’t dependent on conformity.
Belonging that didn’t come with a side of fear.
Relearning How to Belong
For many religious trauma survivors, the loneliness after leaving church is brutal. You might find yourself scrolling through old group photos, wondering if any of those people would still talk to you now. You might join social groups, only to feel out of sync—like everyone else knows the rhythm except you. You might even tell yourself, “I’m just better off alone,” because the risk of rejection feels too high.
But here’s what I’m learning: belonging can be rebuilt, slowly and intentionally, even after it’s been shattered.
And it doesn’t have to look like it used to.
It might look like a monthly open house where people bring snacks and laughter.
It might look like a group text that starts as “pickleball schedule,” then gets renamed “Main Heauxs,” and now is a mix of court times, memes, and life updates.
It might look like someone saying, “Hey, can I get that soup recipe? It was off the charts!”
The next day, we got message after message from people thanking us for hosting.
They said they felt lucky to have found this group.
They said the night felt comfortable, welcoming, and fun.
One person even said, “I have a plant I want to give you!”
I was overwhelmed by the heartfelt responses to the evening. Because for so long, I had wondered if that sense of belonging was something I’d lost for good—like a phantom limb I could still feel but never touch.
And now, here it was—rebuilding itself, one folding chair and pot of soup at a time.
If You’re in The Lonely In-Between…
If you’re in that strange, painful place between leaving religious community and rebuilding your life, I want to tell you this: it won’t always feel this empty.
The ache of disconnection won’t last forever.
Start small. Join a book club or a trivia night. Invite someone to meet up for coffee or go on a walk. It doesn’t have to be perfect. You don’t have to be fully healed or certain.
Connection doesn’t require certainty—it just requires willingness. And yes, it’s scary. You might worry that no one will show up, or that it’ll be awkward, or that your soup will burn, or that your space isn’t big enough. But people are hungry for belonging, too. Sometimes they’re just waiting for someone else to make the first move.
The Quiet Triumph
Hosting that open house wasn’t just a social event.
It was proof that community can exist without control. That belonging can return after spiritual exile.
That healing sometimes looks like pulling up another chair and saying:“There’s room for you here - let me go find you a spoon.”
For the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like an outsider.
I just felt… home.
Ready to Begin Healing?
If this resonates, I’d love to support you. I’m a licensed therapist specializing in religious trauma, spiritual abuse, and purity culture, and I’m currently accepting new clients in California, Florida, and Missouri.
👉 Request a free consultation below to learn more about working together and what healing could look like for you.