Mapping Religious Trauma: A THX Framework for the Faithful Wounded

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From THX Series Hub: The Narcissist’s Playbook & The Life After

There are some wounds that hide behind halos.

Religious trauma, for me, didn’t arrive in a single dramatic moment. It unfolded quietly—through memories that, at the time, didn’t feel like trauma at all. Just church. Just doctrine. Just doing what I was told. And yet it shaped how I saw myself, what I thought was wrong with me, and how terrified I was of never being good enough.

I grew up inside a belief system that said it had answers. And in many ways, it did—comfort in grief, structure in chaos, meaning in suffering. But it also trained me to fear my own mind. It blurred the line between morality and control. And it made me believe that the way I was wired—neurologically, emotionally—was somehow sinful.

This is my attempt to map what that system felt like, using the THX frameworks I now use to understand human experience. I’m not claiming this is how everyone experienced faith. Only that this is how I did. And maybe how others did too, in the quiet parts of their story they haven’t had words for yet.

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The 12 Utilities, As I Lived Them

These are the building blocks of trust—what I now call the “12 Utilities.” At the time, I didn’t have this language. I only knew when something felt missing.

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PERMAH: What Flourishing Could Have Felt Like—But Didn’t Always

As I look back, I can see how what I was given was supposed to be love. Salvation. Good news. But it didn’t always land that way.

What I needed was a faith that helped me flourish. What I got—too often—was a faith that taught me to disappear.

These are the six dimensions of flourishing I now understand through PERMAH. Here’s how they showed up in my life… and how they didn’t.

🌟 Positive Emotion

I was told joy was a fruit of the spirit—but it always seemed buried beneath sacrifice, shame, or seriousness.
Laughing too loudly, feeling too much, wanting things just because they made me happy—that all seemed… wrong.
Even grace was bittersweet: a gift I didn’t deserve and had to feel bad about to receive.

What I needed: The freedom to feel joy without fearing it would be taken away.
What I got: A system that saw pleasure as temptation and silence as virtue.

♻ Engagement

There were moments—singing in church, candlelight at midnight Mass—where I felt transported.
But mostly, I felt disengaged from myself. My own thoughts were suspicious. Curiosity was rebellion.
If I got “too into” anything outside of scripture or service, I felt like I was straying.

What I needed: Flow, presence, wonder.
What I got: Self-surveillance. A low-level fear of being too much or too far.

🧡 Relationships

Church was a community, yes—but it was also a hierarchy.
There were insiders and outsiders. People we should pray for but not be close to.
And if you were questioning or queer or neurodivergent, intimacy often came at the cost of honesty.

What I needed: Safe connection.
What I got: Conditional belonging—and the constant threat of losing it.

🌀 Meaning

This is the one I still wrestle with. Because the system gave me meaning—deep, existential meaning.
My life had purpose. My suffering wasn’t random. There was a grand story.
But it was a story that only made space for one kind of hero.
And if you didn’t fit that mold, you were either a project to fix or a threat to silence.

What I needed: A sense that I mattered, exactly as I was.
What I got: A beautiful story that couldn’t hold all of me.

🏆 Achievement

I was praised for obedience, for memorizing verses, for fasting, for staying “pure.”
But it never felt like growth. It felt like performing.
And when I struggled, the answer was always “surrender.”
Which sometimes meant: don’t try. Don’t push back. Don’t reach too far.

What I needed: Encouragement to become.
What I got: Instructions to conform.

🧘‍♀️ Health & Wellbeing

This one hurts the most.
Because the system was supposed to care for my soul. But it didn’t understand my mind.
My autism wasn’t seen. My anxiety was spiritualized.
And grace—the very thing meant to heal me—became something I was afraid to lose.

What I needed: Wholeness. Integration. A way to be well and still be me.
What I got: A cycle of trying harder, feeling worse, and praying no one would notice.

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The Admiration Equation: What I Was Supposed to Feel—And What I Actually Felt

These emotions—admiration, awe, gratitude—are meant to be what flows from a life of faith. Not just belief, but wonder. Not just obedience, but inspiration. They’re the emotional echoes of flourishing.

But in the system I grew up in, those emotions were… complicated. Sometimes they were real. Other times, they were demanded. Or faked. Or used to justify control.

✨ Admiration of Skill

I was told to admire the Church. The priests. The saints. The popes.
And to be honest, I often did.
There was brilliance—centuries of philosophy, theology, music, architecture.
But somewhere along the line, that admiration became one-sided.
You could admire them—but never question them.
Their skill gave them power, not responsibility.

What I needed: A sense that spiritual skill was something to learn, to grow in, to be invited into.
What I got: The message that admiration = silence. That reverence meant never holding leaders accountable.

🔠 Admiration of Goodness

This one felt especially twisted.
I was taught that true goodness looked like self-denial. Martyrdom. Total obedience.
So I tried to be good by disappearing.
By being quiet. By giving up what I wanted. By shrinking.
And the people who spoke up—who named abuse, who claimed their identities—were often labeled as dangerous.

What I needed: Goodness that looked like compassion. Courage. Integrity.
What I got: Goodness defined by compliance. And a fear that being too fully myself made me bad.

🌐 Awe

I did feel awe.
In candlelight. In sacred silence. In music that cracked something open in me.
But awe got tangled up with fear.
I was in awe of the mystery—yes—but also terrified of the punishment.
Hell was real. God was always watching. My thoughts could betray me.
Awe became a weight I carried, not a light I walked toward.

What I needed: Wonder without threat. Mystery that invited me deeper, not demanded I surrender.
What I got: Awe laced with fear. Worship that felt like trembling, not opening.

🙏 Gratitude

This one was always tricky.
I was grateful—for the people who showed up with kindness, for moments of connection, for beauty in the midst of confusion.
But I was also taught to be grateful for what hurt me.
To thank God for trials, for unanswered prayers, for rules I didn’t understand.
To be grateful even for punishment—because it meant God cared.

What I needed: Gratitude rooted in love, in mutuality, in freedom.
What I got: A version of gratitude that asked me to call harm a gift.

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🧽 Where I Go From Here

This map isn’t finished.

It’s the first sketch of something I’ve carried for years—quietly, heavily, and sometimes without language.
Now, I’m learning to name it.
Not to shame the past, but to understand it.
To reclaim the parts of me that were hidden, judged, or confused into silence.
To see what was missing, and begin imagining what could take its place.

There’s more I want to write.
More layers to explore.
The places where free will felt like a trap.
The theology of control that shaped how I saw myself and others.
The letter I wish someone had written to me as a child, trying so hard to be holy.

But for now, this map feels like a beginning. A clearing. A soft place to land.

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✨ Reflection Prompt

If any part of this resonates with you—
Ask yourself:

What emotions did your faith tradition ask you to feel?
And which ones did it never make room for?

You don’t have to answer it all today.
Just start noticing. That’s how mapping begins.

Faith, Fractured. Image created by ChatGPT (DALL·E), April 2025.

Interpretation:
A moment of private reckoning—where reverence meets rupture. The bowed head and distant crucifix evoke a sacred tension: the longing to belong to a faith that once held you, and the ache of knowing it may never have truly seen you.