The Story I've Been Waiting To Tell

For over a decade, I stayed silent—first because I didn’t know how to speak up, then because I was seeking accountability. I no longer have to be quiet.

"When it's uncomfortable, when it's unpopular, even when it's dangerous to speak the truth, is the precise time that the truth should be spoken." —Unknown

The First Silence

For eight years, I was manipulated and abused by a man I considered a friend, coworker, and spiritual mentor. I was not the only one.

We met at church on Christmas Eve 2013, when I was 23 years old. He was married and 14 years my senior. I was grateful for a new friendship—one in which I soon felt respected in a way I often did not, especially within the church.

A few months later, he confessed his feelings for me. I was shocked. He insisted that while “nothing could happen,” our connection was rare and special. I believed him. Trusted him. Completely.

He preyed on my naivete, and he carefully groomed me for months.

At a political event in early August 2014 where I didn’t know anyone, he became physically affectionate—touching my leg, holding my hand—and I realized we didn’t mean the same thing when we said “nothing could happen.” Later that day, he kissed me for the first time. I froze—then left quickly. But I was falling for him, as he intended.

A pattern emerged: I set a boundary; he gained more of my trust; he pushed past it. I was broken with shame—but still I trusted him. And I loved him.

About a month later, in his car, he started undressing me. I tried to stop him—closing my legs, moving his hands, pushing away from him, saying, “No…we can’t.” He ignored me. After a while, I froze. I had never had any sexual experiences before. He promised he wouldn’t go further—then he did. Then he told me he loved me.

I didn’t recognize it as assault. I thought he had been patient with me while I was frozen and unable to participate. It didn’t sink in that he forced himself on me after I said no and tried to get away.

The following June, he was accused of sexually assaulting a younger woman at church. He admitted to the sexual contact but assured me it was consensual and that the woman was lying for attention. He told me our relationship had “opened something in him,” as if I were partly to blame. My religious guilt had more than primed me to believe him.

He and his wife left the church, and I ended our relationship. However, because I didn’t recognize myself as a victim and was convinced this was my fault, I stayed silent. I believed I would be seen as a willing part of a scandalous affair. A homewrecker. A Jezebel.

I didn’t know how to go on. I found a Christian counselor—he was kind and caring and recognized immediately that I was being abused. When I rejected that conclusion, he continued to gently urge me to find someone trustworthy in my life to confide in. I stopped going after a couple of months.

Because I stayed quiet, the abuser returned. For months, he tried to restore communication, bought me gifts, showed up at my work and my apartment, and seemed to be trying to “win me back.” In April 2016, he got his way.

The Second Silence

He regularly said how much it meant to him that I forgave him. He told me I was the only person who had ever been truly loyal to him. That I was his only one. I still believed this was love. At the same time, I was sure God would punish me for returning to this relationship. I believed no one else would ever love me and that if I left him now, I would spend the rest of my life alone.

So I stayed. And I stayed silent.

He continued breaking my boundaries. I’d resist, he’d push, I’d give in. I lived in secrecy, disconnected from myself, surviving in fragments of who I used to be.

In 2018, he was hired by a church in Selma, Texas, as their Worship Pastor. By early 2020, I joined this church as a volunteer. That’s when I met Taylor, a coworker of his who quickly became a close friend. Sometimes, he liked that; other times, he did not. It was confusing.

Things went from confusing to excruciating. He became erratic, furious without explanation, leaving me desperate to fix things. He spoke to me in ways no one ever had—cruel, degrading, unpredictable. Around others, he acted normal. If I managed to please him, I caught glimpses of the man I thought loved me. But they were fleeting.

For a time, things would be calm. Then, something would set him off, and he would send me torrents of messages—accusations, gaslighting, veiled threats. Nothing I said mattered. Nothing I did mattered. I’d be left throwing up with anxiety or crying myself to sleep on the bathroom floor. After several nights like this, I started hoping I wouldn’t wake up again.

In February 2022, while on a work trip, I got an email from the church’s lead pastor, Mario:

“I’m writing to inform you that [this man] resigned as Worship/Production Pastor today.”

The next day, I learned why. Another female volunteer had accused him of sexual misconduct. With proof.

The night I returned home, I discovered that the last eight years of my life had all been a lie. I heard directly from multiple other women—including Taylor. Their stories mirrored mine, sometimes down to specific details.

I wasn’t the only one. He had done this to many before me. Many after me.

A few of us came forward and told Pastor Mario everything. He believed us, supported us, and became a rock for us in the following weeks. He took our stories to the elders and demanded an investigation. The following week, the elder board that had allowed this abuser to quietly resign fired Taylor. A week later, they removed Mario.

The Third Silence

The months that followed were more painful than anything I had yet experienced. Every morning, I woke up and had to remember anew that everything I had believed was broken. Gone.

I returned to therapy—this time to a psychologist familiar with clergy abuse. He told me clearly, and I finally understood, that I had been manipulated, controlled, and abused by a dangerous, sociopathic predator.

Taylor and I saw each other every day, even if just for a brief moment to sob, hug, and remind ourselves we weren’t alone anymore—that we were fighting for our lives together.

Surviving the agony together is likely the reason that we survived at all. It is also what created our resolve to do whatever we could to stop our abuser from hurting anyone else.

In September 2022, Taylor and I, along with two other victims, filed police reports. The detective assigned to our case spent months compiling evidence and organizing our stories—each update reopening the wounds we were trying to heal. Ultimately, the district attorney declined to prosecute, citing the unlikelihood that a South Texas jury would convict a clergyman in a case like this.

Next, we pursued a civil suit to try to hold both the church and our abuser accountable. Three of us worked with Boz Tchividjian—Billy Graham’s grandson and an attorney dedicated to defending and advocating for clergy abuse survivors. For two years, we relived our trauma as we built our case: writing statements, answering endless questions, strategizing over Zoom, and reviewing legal documents. Boz repeatedly attempted to get the church to sit down with a mediator, but they refused.

We filed the lawsuit in December 2024, knowing it was unlikely to succeed but determined to leave a public record of the abuse. If nothing else, we wanted a trail for the inevitable future victims to follow.

When the church and our abuser again called us liars and refused to take responsibility, we made the difficult decision to drop the suit rather than spend another year or more tied up in court and bound to silence.

Silent No More

None of our efforts to hold this man and his enablers accountable were about material gain (and they certainly didn’t lead to any). In fact, the cost—legal fees, ongoing therapy, unemployment, and rebuilding shattered lives—has been immense. This doesn’t even include the thousands of dollars we had given in donations and free labor to this man’s department at the church.

It was about reclaiming our voices, declaring that what happened to us was wrong, demanding better from those who claim to speak for God, and doing everything in our power to prevent further abuse.

With every other avenue exhausted, we now begin using the strongest tool we have—our own voices, telling our own stories.

There is more to come from his victims. In the meantime, I know others in my circle may be suffering in silence. If you have been groomed, manipulated, or abused by this man—or by anyone—you are welcome to reach out to me. You are not alone. (You can also read Taylor’s story here.)

If you are a survivor or simply want to understand how this abuse happens, there are several books that became lifelines for me in my darkest days. They’re a wonderful place to start.

The silence is over. Stay tuned.