I didn’t grow up insecure.
I grew up being evaluated.
My worth was measured quietly but constantly, by obedience, purity, sacrifice, and how well I stayed within the lines drawn for me. Love was conditional. Belonging had rules. Safety depended on compliance.
Even my body wasn’t fully mine.
Depending on which church we attended, the rules changed…
Sometimes my skirts had to fall to my ankles.
Other times, below the knee, but never above. Trust me, they would check.
I wasn’t allowed to wear shirts that dipped below my collarbone. This still rings in my ear to this day… “Don’t forget to bend over and make sure you can’t see down your shirt”.
My sleeves had to fall below my elbow, or all the way to my wrist.
No makeup.
Not even a little.
Soap and water only to clean your face.
No tinted lotion.
No painted nails, even clear.
No jewelry of any kind.
In some churches, I wasn’t even allowed gold or silver clips in my hair.
The only exception was a watch.
Because it told time.
Because it had a function.
Because it wasn’t for beauty.
Wedding bands weren’t allowed.
They were considered decorative. Symbolic. Unnecessary.
But when someone got engaged, a watch was permitted.
Not just any watch…
I watched people receive very expensive Cartier watches when they got engaged.
That was somehow acceptable.
Because it served a purpose.
Because it signaled commitment without ornament?
Because it fit within the rules.
Adornment was sinful, but status, when framed as function, was not.
Even then, I noticed the contradiction.
How meaning wasn’t chosen by the person wearing it.
How symbolism was allowed only when it followed the approved script.
How expression was restricted, but compliance could be expensive.
My hair wasn’t mine either.
I wasn’t allowed to cut it.
I wasn’t allowed to dye it.
Length mattered.
Natural color mattered.
Changing it, even slightly, was seen as vanity. As rebellion. As paying too much attention to yourself.
So I learned to live with my body as something to preserve, not personalize.
To maintain it, but never choose it.
Then there were more contradictions.
Some churches allowed fishnet nylons.
Others required nude nylons, especially if you were on the platform.
I was part of the music band. I sang. I played during services.
If I didn’t wear the approved nylons, I would be pulled aside and sat down.
Not allowed to sing.
Not allowed to play.
Not allowed to participate that service.
It didn’t matter that my skirt met the length requirement.
It didn’t matter that my sleeves were correct.
It didn’t matter that nothing about my appearance was immodest.
What mattered was compliance.
Because there is no moral logic where fishnet stockings are acceptable in one church and sinful in another, unless the point is submission, not purity.
That’s the part that stays with you.
Not just the rules, but how quickly they could change, and how fully your belonging depended on anticipating them correctly.
You learned not to trust your own judgment.
You learned that “right” wasn’t consistent.
It was contextual.
And it was decided for you.
So I learned to monitor myself.
My thoughts.
My tone.
My posture.
My clothing.
I learned to dress not for comfort or joy, but for safety.
To scan rooms before entering them.
To check mirrors like they were verdicts.
To keep my body quiet and unobtrusive.
When you come from a cult, the belief that you are never enough doesn’t feel like insecurity.
It feels like truth.
Leaving didn’t make that belief disappear.
I thought freedom would feel loud, like relief, like clarity.
Instead, it felt quiet. Disorienting.
Because the rules were gone but the surveillance wasn’t.
Even now, I sometimes hesitate in a fitting room.
Is this allowed?
Is this too much?
Is this correct for this environment?
That voice followed me into adulthood.
It shaped how I work.
I over-prepare.
I over-explain.
I take responsibility for things that aren’t mine.
I feel uneasy when things are going well, like I’ve missed something and correction is coming.
Rest makes me anxious.
Praise makes me uncomfortable.
Stillness feels undeserved.
For a long time, I thought these were just personality traits.
That I was disciplined.
High-achieving.
Hard on myself in a productive way.
But the truth is, I was trained to stay alert.
In that world, you didn’t relax.
You didn’t trust ease.
You stayed watchful, because love could be withdrawn, belonging revoked, safety taken away.
That training bled into everything.
I stayed too long in situations that felt wrong because leaving felt like failure.
I ignored my instincts because I was taught they couldn’t be trusted.
I mistook self-abandonment for loyalty.
Even now, I sometimes confuse peace with laziness.
I find myself asking for permission no one has required.
Permission to rest.
Permission to want.
Permission to take up space, physically, emotionally, creatively.
The hardest part hasn’t been fear.
It’s been identity.
When your worth was defined for you, discovering who you are on your own feels destabilizing. You don’t know which voice is yours and which one was implanted. You don’t know if you’re choosing or reacting.
Some days I still feel like I’m waiting for evaluation.
Have I done enough?
Have I earned peace yet?
Am I safe now?
What I’m learning slowly, is that the habits that once kept me accepted are not the ones that will keep me whole.
That voice telling me to do more, be less, stay contained, it was once a survival skill. It kept me safe in a system where even your body had rules.
But survival skills don’t always make good life companions.
I don’t have a neat ending here.
Just this realization:
Maybe “enough” isn’t something you reach.
Maybe it’s something you practice believing.
Not because you’ve healed everything.
Not because you’ve earned rest.
But because you refuse to keep living like your worth, and your body, are conditional.
If you’ve left a controlling belief system, religious or otherwise, and this feels familiar, I want you to know something:
You’re not broken.
You’re not behind.
And you’re not failing at healing.
You’re undoing years of conditioning that taught you to distrust yourself.
And that work is not small.