I was 25 when I thought I’d finally found someone decent. His name was Elias. He was 27, confident without being loud, handsome in that clean, pressed way, and always quoting Scripture like it came naturally. He led our Bible study group with such conviction that people leaned in when he spoke. He seemed sure of everything — faith, morality, purpose — all the things I’d been stumbling through alone.
After years of heartbreak and false starts, Elias felt like safety. He called himself a man of God. He talked about patience, humility, and devotion. And I wanted to believe him.
One evening, he invited me to tea and shortbread biscuits — his “serious talk” setup. He smiled that calm, pastoral smile and said, “Hazel, I want our relationship to be holy. That means no physical intimacy before marriage. Not even kissing.”
I remember blinking. “Not even kissing?”
“It’s for your protection,” he said smoothly. “Kissing leads to temptation. We don’t want to dishonor God.”
I nodded, unsure but willing. He made it sound noble. Like I’d be proving something — to him, to God, maybe to myself.
Then came more “guardrails.” He didn’t call them rules, but that’s exactly what they were.
He told me my skirts should fall below the ankle. Sleeves to the wrist. No tight clothes. No makeup beyond “the natural look.” “A woman’s modesty,” he said, “is a kindness to the men around her. You help them guard their eyes.” The irony didn’t hit me until much later.
Then he said, “No close friendships with men. Emotional conversations lead to sin.” And, “No worldly entertainment — no TV, no music, no social media. They corrupt your spirit.”
I asked, “Even gospel music?”
He smiled, almost pitying. “You don’t need music, Hazel. You need focus.”
By the time he finished, I barely recognized the person he was describing — quiet, hidden, obedient. Still, I convinced myself it was devotion, not submission. Love meant sacrifice, right?
So I followed the rules. I boxed up my jeans and favorite dresses. Deleted Spotify. Stopped meeting friends for brunch. My life became smaller, holier — or so I told myself. Elias said we’d pray together every morning and night. I set alarms for it. Even when I was exhausted, I prayed because that’s what a “godly woman” did.
But the more obedient I became, the more his tone changed. He’d correct me softly but constantly. Once, during a Bible trivia game, he mispronounced “Nebuchadnezzar” and I laughed — genuinely laughed. Later in the car, he said, “That was inappropriate. A woman’s laughter shouldn’t draw attention.” I apologized for being too loud. That was the night I realized I’d stopped feeling like myself.
Still, I stayed. Because he was “good,” and I wanted to be good too.
Two months into our engagement, I noticed Elias had started hiding his phone. He’d step outside during calls, clearing messages when he came back. When I asked about it, he said, “Church business. Nothing for you to worry about.”
Then the first cracks appeared quietly. Elias had opinions about everything — especially women. He’d say things like, “A woman shouldn’t dress to be noticed; she should dress to be respected.” At the time, I mistook it for wisdom. Looking back, it was control wrapped in scripture.
Then one Friday night, everything fell apart. I’d gone to a small book club gathering — the one social thing I still allowed myself. When it ended early, I walked home, passing the community center where Elias volunteered on Fridays. The lights were still on. I wasn’t planning to stop. But something made me look.
There he was, standing under the awning — kissing another woman. And not the kind of kiss you explain away. His hands were on her waist. She laughed softly, and he kissed her again like he’d done it a hundred times.
For a moment, my mind refused to believe it. Then it hit me all at once: the rules, the lectures, the guilt — all of it, a mask for control. And the man behind it? Just a hypocrite in a suit quoting verses he didn’t live by.
I didn’t confront him right then. I just walked home in silence, numb and shaking.
The next morning, I called him. My voice barely worked, but I managed: “Elias, I saw you. Outside the community center. With her.”
He hesitated, then lied. “That’s not what it looked like.”
“It’s exactly what it looked like,” I snapped. “You made me feel sinful for wanting a kiss, and there you are kissing someone else?”
“I was lonely,” he said weakly. “You’ve been distant.”
“I’ve been obedient!” I said, voice breaking. “I gave up my friends, my clothes, my music — everything you said was wrong — for you. And you blame me?”
“You’re twisting this, Hazel. Don’t make it ugly.”
“No, Elias,” I said quietly. “You already did.”
That was the last time I spoke to him.
A few weeks later, word spread. Other women came forward. The church launched an inquiry, and Elias was asked to step down. His mask had finally cracked on its own. I didn’t rejoice — I just exhaled for the first time in months.
Then his mother called.
“He’s ashamed,” she said in a voicemail. “He needs you. Please don’t abandon him.”
When I didn’t respond, she showed up at my door. Her eyes were red. “He’s my son. Please… he’s lost.”
I met her gaze and said, “I’m not abandoning him. I’m choosing myself. I won’t marry a man who uses God as a shield for his hypocrisy.”
She nodded slowly, tears glistening. She didn’t argue.
That night, I took off my engagement ring and set it on the counter. For the first time in a long while, my reflection didn’t look afraid.
The weeks that followed were messy — grief mixed with relief. I cried for the version of me that thought love meant silence. I mourned the woman who mistook control for care. But each day, I felt a little lighter. I brewed coffee. I played the songs I’d deleted. I laughed again — loud, unfiltered, free.
Months later, I saw Elias at the grocery store. He looked smaller. “Hazel,” he said softly, “I’ve been praying to see you. I just want to say I’m sorry. I hope one day you can forgive me.”
I met his eyes and said, “God might want forgiveness. But He also wants truth. You never offered me that.” Then I turned away and didn’t look back.
That night, I made dinner for myself — coconut curry, chili flakes, and a glass of wine. I played music. I danced barefoot in my kitchen. The world didn’t end. It began again.
Today, I’m with someone new — Matthew. He prays with me, not because he demands it, but because we both want to feel close to God. He laughs when I laugh. He tells me I’m beautiful, not because I’m modest, but because I’m alive.
With him, I can wear color. I can have opinions. I can exist without apology. That’s love — not control disguised as holiness.
Sometimes I still hear Elias’s voice in my head, warning me to be quiet, to be small. But then I remember the truth I fought to reclaim:
God never asked me to disappear to be worthy of love.
He just asked me to be honest — and brave enough to walk away when love wasn’t love at all.