The streets will teach you to watch your back.

They’ll tell you where you stand, and they’ll show you who’s for you and who’s not.

But nothing — nothing — prepares you for the day you learn that the deepest cuts can come from the very people who preach about love.

And yet… here we are.

It started with questions — not the kind that come from care, but the kind designed to cut. Questions that sounded less like curiosity and more like accusations dressed up in prayer shawls. My life was weighed against what could be found in a search bar, as if my worth, my story, my truth could be reduced to whatever Google didn’t confirm.

And when the answers weren’t there, you decided for yourselves.

You turned silence into guilt, uncertainty into scandal.

You became judge, jury, and executioner — and you didn’t even bother to invite me into the room.

From there, it spread.

Whispers slipped into prayer circles.

Prayer circles turned into gossip chains.

And before long, my name — my God-given name — was being twisted into something unrecognizable.

You spoke about me as if I were a headline, not a human.

You passed my life around like church fans on a hot Sunday morning, without ever sitting down with me — the person whose story you had reduced to ash.

And Pastor…

I need you to sit with this part.

Because you knew.

You knew what they were saying.

You knew what they were doing.

You watched me get torn apart, and you said nothing. You let them weaponize their proximity to the pulpit while I bled in silence.

I kept waiting for you to show up.

I kept waiting for you to stand in the gap like a shepherd does when wolves circle the flock.

But instead, you turned your face, and I had to learn the hardest lesson of all:

Sometimes the wolves aren’t outside the gate — they’re wearing collars and sitting in the choir stand.

Do you know what it’s like to feel erased by the very people who claim to pray for you?

Do you know what it’s like to walk into God’s house, hoping for refuge, and instead feel the sting of being hunted?

Do you know what it’s like to wonder if your name is safe anywhere?

I do.

But here’s what else I know:

The God I serve is not blind, and He is not mocked.

I’ve cried in secret. I’ve carried weight no one should have to carry alone. I’ve endured character assassination at the hands of people who shout “hallelujah” on Sunday and sharpen knives on Monday. But I refuse to break under this. I refuse to lose myself in your chaos.

Because if surviving the streets taught me anything, it’s this: danger announces itself out there. You see it coming, and you learn to move accordingly. But in here — in the so-called “body of Christ” — danger is disguised. It prays with you, smiles at you, and then whispers your name into destruction when your back is turned.

I can’t unsee what I’ve seen.

I can’t unknow what I now know.

And I can’t unhear the silence from the very pulpit that should’ve been a shield.

But what I can do — and what I will do — is stand.

Even if my voice trembles.

Even if my circle is empty.

Even if the sanctuary turns its back on me, my God never will.

So take my name out of your prayer requests.

Take my life out of your gossip chains.

Take your hands off my story — because from here forward, I’m letting God handle the parts of this battle I no longer have the energy to fight.

I release you.

But I will not forget.