To anyone passing by, we must’ve looked like something out of an old-fashioned family drama.
My kids and I wore modest, prairie-style clothes. We homeschooled—before it was a trend—and I gave birth to all five of my children at home.
We lived in a quiet coal town in rural Tennessee. We looked different, sure, but harmless.
But what no one saw—what I worked hard to hide—was the truth.
Behind closed doors, I was trapped. My life was dictated by a rigid set of rules that governed everything from how I dressed to whether I could visit a doctor.
I was stuck inside a Christian Fundamentalist cult.
The Life I Was Forced to Live
Inside our home, I wasn’t just a mother or wife—I was property.
I had no right to vote, no job, no trips to the library.
I couldn’t even take my kids to the doctor without permission.
I called my husband “My Lord,” only wore dresses, and faced punishment—literal spankings—if I ever “stepped out of line.”
When we married in 1994, I already knew about his strong religious beliefs.
But there was no way I could’ve predicted the darkness they would evolve into.
From the beginning, he had a temper. He’d slam me into walls or sit on me when he was angry.
And yet, he always had an excuse: some pastor, a church group, or another Christian self-help book that claimed to have the answer to “fix” his behavior.
I Thought We Were Okay—Until I Saw What Was on His Screen
For a long time, I tried to convince myself we were happy—or at least normal.
I walked on eggshells, but I believed in our family. Then in 2003, everything changed.
I came home from errands one day, arms full of groceries, trying to make it all in one trip.
My husband was sitting at the computer. He jumped when I walked in—and that’s when I saw what was on his screen.
A woman, bound, gagged, blindfolded… completely exposed.
My heart dropped. “What is that?” I asked, stunned. He shrugged and told me it was “art.”
Then, as if flipping a switch, he launched into a discussion about a book we’d picked up at a homeschool conference—written by Doug Wilson, a Christian pastor.
The Dangerous Doctrine Behind the Smile
Doug Wilson was well-known in our religious circles. His books promoted the idea that husbands held complete responsibility—and control—over their families.
A wife’s spending, appearance, behavior, sex life… all were the man’s domain.
These ideas weren’t fringe; they were popular among our Baptist and Reformed Presbyterian peers.
The books didn’t openly condone violence, but they created a twisted framework.
Husbands would casually swap ideas on “discipline” like wives traded recipes.
One day, as he unpacked groceries, my husband said, “Correcting wives isn’t a new concept.”
I didn’t know where this was headed, but I knew enough not to push back. I looked at the door and quietly swept the floor, praying for silence.
There Was No Way Out—And No Safe Word
My husband told me this wasn’t about random anger anymore. This was going to be “Christian Domestic Discipline.”
He said it was a way to control his temper, to channel it through “God’s will.” He called it a solution.
Soon, I was reading everything he told me to—forums, guides, even handbooks on something called “Taken In Hand.”
According to this disturbing ideology, violence became “structured,” and hitting your wife was framed as an act of love and obedience to God.
I started questioning myself. Could this really save our marriage? Could this make things better? But at the same time, I wondered: how much more could I endure?
Signing My Silence
Then came the day he asked me to write out a contract.
We were in the living room, Steve from Blue’s Clues on in the background to entertain the kids.
He told me there was a script on a forum. I asked if he could print it.
“No,” he said, “it has to be in your handwriting, so it looks like it’s from you.”
So I sat at the desk, writing words I didn’t believe onto fancy ivory stationery: “I will not accuse my husband of domestic violence due to Christian discipline.”
He said we’d start small, ease into it. Just a little test.
The First “Lesson”
It happened a week later. I was in the kitchen, frosting cookies with the kids. He looked at the grocery receipt.
“You overspent,” he said.
“It was only a dollar and eighteen cents,” I whispered.
“Go to our room.”
The children were playing outside. He motioned for me to get on the bed.
Then he prayed. Then came the sound of his leather belt leaving his pants.
I buried my face in the pillow and silently screamed into the feathers as he struck me.
I kept hoping that, as a Christian, someone would rescue me.
That someone would see. That someone would save me.
The Moment I Realized No One Was Coming
Years passed, and the truth eventually sunk in: no one was coming. I would not be rescued.
If I wanted to survive—if I wanted my children to have a different future—I had to be the one to make it happen.
So in October 2007, I did the unthinkable.
I gathered my children, waited for nightfall, and we escaped.
What I’m Doing Now
Today, I speak out. I share my story to shed light on the abuse, exploitation, and dehumanization happening in some corners of religious fundamentalism.
These aren’t just rare horror stories—they’re real, they’re hidden, and they’re happening behind the closed doors of homes that look perfectly normal from the outside.
My book, A Well-Trained Wife: My Escape from Christian Patriarchy, shares it all—uncensored, unfiltered, and with the hope that no woman ever feels as alone as I once did.