They say time heals all wounds. But what if the wound never closed? What if it festered behind a Sunday smile, masked beneath ministry titles, hidden in the folds of faith gone wrong?

I never set out to be an author. I never dreamed of public platforms or book awards. I dreamed of peace. Of truth. Of Jesus, untainted by manipulation or control. But dreams were interrupted by nightmares wearing church clothes—by a cult disguised as Christianity, and a man who claimed to speak for God while silencing everyone else.

This blog isn’t polished for perfection. It’s a sanctuary for the broken. A battle cry for survivors. A safe house for those still whispering prayers in the dark, wondering if God hears them after all the lies spoken in His name.

I write because I remember. Every scream buried in silence. Every moment I doubted whether freedom was for people like me. I write because some of you are still there—physically or mentally—and you need someone to say, “I see you. I know. You’re not crazy. And you’re not alone.”

This space is raw. Holy. Uncomfortable. Beautiful. It will challenge the myths you were raised with and call you to confront the God you thought you knew. Not the one you or someone else invented—but the real One. The One who walked into prisons and called captives by name. The One who flips tables and bandages wounds. The One who never needed a pulpit to prove His power. The One who will meet you at your well, wherever that may be.

You’ll find stories here. Not just mine, but those of others who dared to break free, who dared to believe healing is possible after any circumstance. You’ll find reflections on Scripture, honest wrestling with doubt, moments of unfiltered praise, and the kind of hope that crawls before it soars.

This is not a blog for the faint of heart.

But if you’re looking for truth—real truth, borne in the trenches and soaked in grace—then welcome. You’ve found your tribe.

Let’s bleed. Let’s heal. Let’s immerse ourselves in God’s Word. Let’s rise.