They Taught Me Not to Trust—But God Taught Me to Heal

By the time I was five, I had already learned not to trust adults. Not just because of what happened to me—but because of what didn’t happen for me.

When I was three, I was molested by a cousin. My mom walked in and saw it happening. Instead of asking if I was okay, she beat me. Told me not to let anyone touch me. Told me I was wrong.

That was my first lesson: if you say something, you’ll get punished for it.

When she told his mother, she didn’t believe it. Said he “wouldn’t do something like that.” So now I’m getting punished, and the person who hurt me walks away.

After that, the pattern just kept going.

Uncles. Cousins. Neighbors. People who were supposed to protect me.

I started looking for ways to escape, because clearly nobody was going to help me. So I got high. A lot. I was six the first time. From then until about eleven, I stayed high just to survive the day. Sometimes it was weed. Sometimes pills. Anything to take the edge off of being a kid in a world that didn’t care what happened to me.

At school, it wasn’t any better.

I remember one time in the cafeteria, they served mashed potatoes. I didn’t want to eat them because they tasted funny. The teacher made me eat them anyway. I threw up.

She made me eat the throw-up. Right there, in front of everyone.

Kept hitting my hand to force me to do it.

My aunt was working in the cafeteria and saw the whole thing. She went home and told my mom. My mom went to the school. And you know what happened?

Nothing.

That was the second lesson: even when someone tries to help, it won’t make a difference.

So I stopped expecting help. I stopped trusting adults. I stopped believing that speaking up would get me anywhere. I became the quiet kid. The “troublemaker.” The one everyone talked about but no one really saw.

Even when I tried to get close to people, it didn’t work out. My best friend left. My family gave up on me. When I got pregnant, people called me a tramp, a whore, a problem. No one asked what happened. No one wanted the story. They just wanted to blame me.

Later in life, I tried to go to church. Thought maybe there would be peace there.

But even the pastor assaulted me.

So yeah—by the time I was an adult, trust was gone.

I didn’t trust family. Didn’t trust the church. Didn’t trust women. Didn’t trust men. Didn’t trust myself.

I became the kind of woman who kept people at arm’s length. Friendly on the surface—but don’t get too close. Don’t ask too many questions. Don’t expect me to let my guard down.

Because everyone I’d trusted had either used me, hurt me, or walked away.

But here’s the part I never saw coming: God stayed. Not the “church God” they tried to scare me with. Not the “be quiet and pray about it” God that made me feel small.

I mean the real God. The one I met when I started doing my own work. When I got into counseling and therapy. When I started to read the Bible for myself—not through someone else’s lens, but with my own eyes and questions.

That’s when I started to heal. That’s when I realized God was never the one who hurt me.

People did that. But God? He was the one who kept me alive. He was the one who gave me a healthy son when I should’ve been broken down. He was the one who helped me protect my own kids—so they’d never feel the fear I lived through.

Today, I’m still learning how to trust. It’s not perfect. I still keep some walls up. I still move carefully.

But I know now that healing is possible. And I know now that I can trust God even if I don’t always trust people.

So if you’re like me—if you’ve been let down by people you should’ve been able to count on—hear me on this: It’s okay to take your time. It’s okay to ask questions. It’s okay to be cautious.

But please know—you’re not broken beyond repair.

Trust can be rebuilt. Faith can be real again. And healing is yours, if you want it.

He saved me. One layer at a time. And He’ll do the same for you.