When people hear “Jehovah’s Witness,” they usually think of the well-dressed, polite people knocking on doors on a quiet weekend morning. But for those of us who grew up inside it, there’s a lot more beneath that polished surface. What people see is a clean exterior, but the depth of control, fear, and isolation within that lifestyle runs deep.
I was a Jehovah’s Witness for 18 years. My best friend growing up was the daughter of a prominent elder, which meant I was always close to what was considered the “right” way of doing things. I was never baptized, but that didn’t shield me from the same expectations. In the eyes of my community, I “knew better,” so I was judged—and punished—accordingly.
The consequences of that judgment shaped every aspect of my childhood. It wasn’t just about missing out on birthday cupcakes at school. It meant I wasn’t allowed to have friends outside the religion, which was incredibly isolating. We were expected to preach to classmates, often putting us in uncomfortable, confrontational situations. I remember being mocked, getting into arguments with both students and teachers, and feeling ashamed for just existing differently. We were children, but we were taught to be soldiers of faith—taught we should be ready to die for our beliefs.
Practicing for Death
We practiced skits about being handed a slip of paper and told that signing it would save our lives if we renounced our faith. The message? Don’t sign. Die faithful. And that kind of conditioning didn’t stop there. We were told never to accept blood transfusions, even if it meant death. We were constantly reminded that Armageddon could come at any time, and we were shown vivid illustrations of death, destruction—crows pecking the eyes from corpses we were supposedly going to help clean up after God’s wrath.
But the trauma that stuck with me most was being told I would never grow old. That the End would come first. That I would live in a paradise on Earth, in perfect health, forever young. Coming to terms with the fact that I will age and will die has been one of the hardest parts of my healing. The anxiety it causes is deep. I didn’t grow up knowing death was a part of life—I grew up thinking death was for those who didn’t believe.
Finding Life in Healthcare
Maybe it was inevitable that someone so afraid of death would end up working so closely with it. I started working in healthcare at 17—first as a CNA, later in psychiatric and pharmaceutical research, and eventually as a registered nurse. Working in long-term care helped me see aging as something natural. But even now, after pronouncing deaths as an RN, I still struggle to accept the reality of mortality. It’s a truth I was never prepared to face.
Healthcare taught me something the religion never could: how to witness suffering without having all the answers. How to sit with people’s pain without needing to explain it away or promise it would all make sense someday. Sometimes healing isn’t about fixing—it’s about being present.
When Anger Fades Into Understanding
But even as I was learning to help others process their pain, I was still carrying my own. After leaving the Jehovah’s Witnesses, I felt a strong need to help others, especially those also trying to escape or make sense of their past. I joined a Facebook group for ex-Witnesses and those questioning the religion. But being there started to retraumatize me. The wounds people carried were raw. Their stories brought back my own pain. I reached a point where my blinding anger started to fade, and I began to see my trauma in a more nuanced light.
I no longer want to “burn down Kingdom Halls.” I’ve let go of the belief that every Jehovah’s Witness is evil. Many are genuinely kind people who truly believe they are doing what’s right. It took me years to understand that and to be okay with it.
Writing My Way to Truth
That shift is part of what led me to write The Chosen, the second book in my series. I started writing it after publishing The Silence. The world in my story had been plunged into darkness, and I thought—what comes after a collapse like that? Religion. In real life, people often turn to faith during chaos, and I wanted to explore how easily people fall into high-control belief systems after trauma.
In The Chosen, the group called Zenith’s Chosen is directly inspired by Jehovah’s Witnesses. Mira Roehart, my protagonist, carries many of my thoughts and feelings. Her friend, Katalina (Kat), is modeled after my childhood best friend. I made Kat a deeply zealous character—someone lovable but indoctrinated—because that’s how my friend was. She wasn’t cruel, just fully immersed in her beliefs. I want readers to feel the tension of that dynamic. How someone can hurt you without meaning to, and how love can still exist within painful memories.
Chapter 24—Thank You for the Privilege of Losing Everything—dives into the emotional aftermath of leaving a high-control group. It explores how people, in their pain, can become something they once hated. The quotes from that chapter still hit me:
“You lie and you say Zenith’ll give them a home, a family, a future—but one wrong step, one whispered doubt, one godsdamn mistake… Poof. Gone. Just like that. How is that justice?”
“You tear apart families! You condemn us to die alone and afraid, cast out like vermin, like we ain’t even human!”
“Do you have ANY IDEA what it’s like? To have your entire life—your family, your friends—ripped away like you never mattered?”
“You forsake us. You forget we ever existed. And then you act like we should thank you! Thank you for the privilege of losing everything.”
Every one of those lines came from a place of lived experience. That bitterness, that raw anger—I lived it. But in my story, Mira prevents a character from killing a member of Zenith’s Chosen, despite once feeling the same rage. That moment is about healing. It shows how we can go from cheering on vengeance to choosing mercy. That level of healing doesn’t feel possible when your wounds are fresh—but I wanted to show that it can happen.
From Trauma to Medicine
The parallel between my nursing work and my writing became clearer as I worked on this book. My hope is that The Chosen helps people who’ve left Jehovah’s Witnesses—or anyone who’s struggled with religious control—see themselves in the story. See how easy it is to fall into these systems. See that there’s a way out. And most importantly, see that recovery is possible.
Both nursing and writing have taught me the same thing: sometimes the most powerful medicine comes from simply being witnessed. From having someone say, “I see your pain, and it matters.”
This book is still a work in progress, but every chapter I write feels like another step toward turning trauma into something that heals instead of harms. Not just for me, but for anyone who recognizes their own story in Mira’s journey.
If you’ve left a high-control religious group or are considering it, know that you’re not alone. Read Chapter 1 of The Chosen to see Mira’s world before everything changes—and follow her journey as she navigates the seductive promises of those who claim to offer light.
You can also read more about my current writing projects and how personal experience shapes every story I tell.