The Harmful Legacy of James Dobson — And What Religious Trauma Survivors Need to Hear Now
Last week, news broke that James Dobson, the founder of Focus on the Family, had died. For some, he’ll be remembered as a champion of so-called “family values.” But for many of us who grew up under his teachings in conservative evangelical spaces, the legacy he leaves behind is far more complicated.
His ideology shaped how our parents raised us, how our churches treated us, and how we learned to see ourselves.
Dobson was a cultural architect of evangelical family life. His ideas filtered into pulpits, parenting seminars, marriage retreats, radio broadcasts, and living rooms across the country. Generations of parents were told they were raising children “God’s way” by following his guidance.
But the fruit of that guidance often wasn’t love, safety, or security. More often, it was shame, fear, disconnection, and in far too many cases, abuse and trauma.
Processing Complex Emotions Around Dobson’s Death
So when the news of his death broke, I wasn’t surprised that it came up in session after session with my clients. Amidst the sentiments of “ding dong, the witch is dead” and “focus on your own family,” people carried a swirl of raw emotions:
Grief about the abuse they endured in the name of God
Rage that even after leaving high-control religion, they still notice echoes of Dobson’s ideology in their mind, heart, and body
Relief that someone with such harmful influence is now gone
Confusion about feeling positive emotions about someone’s death
If I’m honest, I felt all those same emotions stirring in me, too. I’ve been reflecting on the ways Dobson’s teachings on family, discipline, sexuality, and gender roles left their mark on my own development and relationships.
As a religious trauma therapist and survivor, I want to share a few small but poignant examples of how his ideology impacted me — in hopes that naming it for what it is (abuse and trauma) empowers you to do the same. If you find yourself sorting through complicated feelings right now, I want you to know this: you are not alone.
Sex Ed, Evangelical Style
When I was a tween, my “sex talk” didn’t come from my parents. It came in the form of a book endorsed by James Dobson. I can’t remember the exact title, but I can still see the cover vividly in my mind.
This week, I even went down a little internet rabbit hole, googling “Christian parenting sex ed books in the 90s,” hoping something would jog my memory. I didn’t find that particular book, but I did find a whole stack of equally horrifying titles. Honestly, that’s a corner of the internet no one else should have to visit.
What I do remember clearly, though, is the messaging. The book painted sex as shameful, dangerous, and only tolerable within heterosexual marriage. It framed my body and my desires as problems to be managed rather than parts of me to be understood or celebrated.
So before I even entered adolescence, I had already absorbed shame I didn’t yet know how to name.
Purity Culture and Its Lasting Impact
Growing up in evangelicalism in the late ’80s and ’90s meant I was raised at the height of purity culture — a culture James Dobson helped fuel and legitimize.
His books and radio programs hammered home rigid gender roles, the dangers of “premarital sex,” and the idea that a girl’s worth was tied to her virginity.
I wore a promise ring on my left hand — a silver ring from James Avery jewelers (did anyone else wear rings like this or this from that company?). That ring was supposed to symbolize that I was “married to Jesus” until I married my future husband. It was exactly the kind of symbolic ritual Dobson endorsed, the kind of thing Christian parents were encouraged to celebrate to “keep their daughters pure.”
Looking back, I can’t quite remember what the actual point was supposed to be. Was it meant to scare off boys? To remind me not to kiss anyone too long? To keep my “lustful” thoughts in check? Probably all of the above.
But one thing is clear now: it wasn’t really about love or intimacy. It was about control.
The ring wasn’t just a piece of jewelry; it was a visible reminder that my sexuality didn’t belong to me. It belonged to God, and eventually my husband.
Like so many others, I wore that ring with pride at the time, believing it made me holy and set apart. Only years later did I realize it had fractured my relationship with my own body and desires — a relationship I’ve had to slowly and intentionally heal as an adult.
Homophobia and Internalized Shame
The messages weren’t only about sex and purity. They were also about who was allowed to love.
I remember the constant anti-LGBTQ+ rhetoric that poured out of Focus on the Family. Sometimes it was direct — sermons, books, or “family values” campaigns that made it clear homosexuality was a sin. Other times it was more subtle: the silence in church when gay people were mentioned, the questioning looks anytime someone was “suspected” of being gay, the whispered warnings that same-sex relationships led to misery, broken families, and separation from God.
I absorbed it all.
And when I started to sense my own queerness bubbling up, that rhetoric was right there in my head, telling me I was broken, wrong, and unworthy of love.
It wasn’t just a teaching or a theological stance. It was a weight I carried inside me. Untangling that internalized homophobia has been part of my healing journey — and while the echoes still sometimes show up, they’re drowned out by the much louder voice within me that knows I deserve love and acceptance just as I am.
The 72-Hour Rule
Fast forward to my late 20s and early 30s. I was still deeply embedded in high-control religion, still closeted, and still trying to convince myself I could make it work with a man — I just hadn’t found the right one yet.
I remember having a conversation with one of my male pastors I was friends with (who was married and about 10 years older than me) about the sexual issues that men and women supposedly had to navigate within marriage.
(Aside: And honestly? WTAF. A married male pastor, a decade older, talking to his much younger female congregant about sex in marriage? The power dynamic, the patriarchy, the misogyny, the sheer awkwardness — it was all so inappropriate. Just… no. That deserves its own post.)
He told me — casually, as though it were simply a fact of life…that men need sex every few days — biologically.
I remember blinking at him, trying to make sense of what he was saying. Every few days? And if not, what? Would they explode? Spontaneously combust? Cheat? Turn to porn? How was this my responsibility to manage?
At the time, I didn’t know this so-called rule was one of the myths perpetuated by James Dobson. But it sparked fear in me. It told me that if I didn’t comply sexually, I would be responsible for my partner’s downfall. It told me that my own comfort, desire, or lack thereof didn’t matter.
What mattered was fulfilling someone else’s “biological need.”
I remember feeling dread in the pit of my stomach. If this was what a heterosexual marriage required, maybe I couldn’t make it work after all.
In a way, this teaching reinforced something I had already learned in my faith community: self-erasure. My needs, my desires, my boundaries were secondary. And worse, I believed that was how God intended it to be.
Untangling the Legacy
When I look back at all of these pieces, I see the throughline. Dobson’s teachings weren’t just evangelical quirks. They were a systematic way of controlling bodies, relationships, and identities.
They taught us that sex was dangerous, that women’s worth was in their purity, that men’s needs were urgent and unyielding, and that queerness was a threat to the family itself.
And the harm didn’t stop when we grew up or left church. It followed us into adulthood, shaping how we saw ourselves, how we related to others, and how safe we felt in our own skin.
For some, it meant entering marriages that didn’t honor their sexuality.
For others, it meant years of sexual dysfunction, shame, or fear.
For many queer people, it meant silence and hiding — followed later by the grief of realizing how much of life had been stolen by that shame.
Moving Toward Healing
Naming these harmful legacies is painful, but it’s also necessary. When we tell the truth about what was passed down to us, we loosen its grip. We remind ourselves and each other that we weren’t broken kids — we were kids raised in a broken (and abusive) system.
Healing looks different for each of us. For me, it’s meant reclaiming my body as my own. It’s meant a lot of therapy. It’s meant unlearning the belief that my worth is tied to purity or performance. It’s meant learning that I can take up space. It’s meant embracing my queerness as something sacred and good, not shameful or wrong. And it’s meant realizing that intimacy — whether sexual, emotional, or spiritual — was never meant to be about control. It was meant to be about connection, safety, and love.
For those of us who grew up in the era of James Dobson and Focus on the Family, healing may take time. But each time we name the lies for what they are, each time we reclaim a piece of ourselves, we move closer to wholeness and freedom.
Looking for Support? You Don’t Have to Do This Alone.
I work with survivors of religious trauma, purity culture, and high-control religion in California, Florida, and Missouri. Whether you’re in the thick of faith deconstruction or trying to heal from years of spiritual harm or abuse, I’d be honored to support you.
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