I still say grace before meals. I still pray before bed and after I wake up just as I did growing up on Sunday school benches, youth services, memory verses, and sermons about heaven and hell. Even now, as an adult living on my own, some habits are stitched so deeply into my religious routine that they feel automatic.
There’s something oddly comforting about ending the day the same way I did when I was five years old, like wrapping myself in a piece of home no matter where I am.
It makes me feel like I’m tethered to something bigger, something familiar, especially on nights when the only thing standing between me and the endless scroll of anxious thoughts is a whispered prayer I’ve said a thousand times before.
But somewhere between those childhood rituals and adult reality, something else crept in, too. Something heavier, quieter. Harder to pray away.
It was this whole other side of growing up religious that no one really warned me about. The side that clings to you even after you’ve left the church building. The guilt. The shame. The fear of somehow getting it wrong.
And that’s where the quiet panic begins.
Growing Up Faithful in a Fearful Mind
For so many of us raised in religious homes, adult anxiety doesn’t always come from trauma in the obvious sense. Sometimes it’s quieter. Sometimes it’s the soft, persistent fear of not measuring up. Of being watched. Judged. Left out of the “kingdom.”
And it’s not just Christianity. This is bigger than one faith. Across so many religions, shame and fear get used as tools to keep us in line.
“God is watching.” “Karma will catch up.” “Confess or suffer.”
And as kids, we listen. We absorb. And then, 20 years later, we wonder why we can’t sleep at night, why we ruminate over every mistake, why “forgive yourself” feels impossible.
See, religious anxiety isn’t always loud. Sometimes it shows up as perfectionism. Overthinking. The constant replaying of conversations, scanning for the thing you might’ve said wrong. Sometimes it’s that urge to confess thoughts you haven’t even acted on, just in case.
It’s wild, really. Because studying psychology taught me to call it by other names: anxiety, intrusive thoughts, hypervigilance, perfectionism.
But the first name I ever learned for it? Sin.
And I know I’m not alone.
I’m not saying religion is the villain here. I’m still a believer practicing my faith the best way I know how but growing up in a setting where doubts meant weakness and suffering was just “God testing you” ? Yeah, that tends to leave a mark.
The Lingering Weight of “Goodness”
It starts small.
“Don’t lie.”
“Don’t swear.”
“Don’t wear that.”
“Don’t think that.”
“Don’t want that.”
When you’re a kid, it’s just the rules. You follow them because you’re told they keep you good, pure, worthy. But over time, “goodness” stops being about actions and starts becoming something you attach to your identity. Something fragile that you can lose.
So what happens when you slip up?
Maybe you told a lie. Or skipped church. Or dated someone you shouldn’t have. Or questioned what you’d been taught.
Cue the guilt.
Then the internal monologue becomes:
“I’m disappointing God.”
“I’m not good enough.”
“I’ve failed.”
And sure, guilt has its place. It reminds us where we’ve strayed. But when you learn it through the lens of sin and punishment, it becomes something heavier. It turns into chronic self-surveillance. And suddenly, what was supposed to be a source of comfort becomes an endless loop of trying to be “better,” “holier,” “more worthy.”
That’s the part we don’t talk about enough:
How faith can coexist with fear. How anxiety can masquerade as devotion. How guilt, if we’re not careful, can become the engine of our spirituality instead of love.
As a therapist and as a Christian, I’ve had to spend years untangling those knots. Asking myself where my faith ends and where fear begins. Learning how to keep the rituals that bring me peace while unlearning the ones that keep me small.
Religious Shame, Learned Young and Carried Long
Religious shame is different from ordinary shame.
Religious shame doesn’t just say, “I did something wrong.”
It whispers “ I am what’s wrong.”
Because when morality is tied to your worth as a person, mistakes stop being moments. They become identities. You don’t just mess up. You ARE messed up.
And that kind of shame follows you into adulthood in ways you don’t always recognize:
- Struggling to set boundaries because being “selfish” feels sinful.
- Feeling anxious about resting, relaxing, or enjoying yourself because you were taught to constantly serve and give.
- Over-apologizing.
- Silencing your opinions to avoid being “rebellious.”
- Feeling disconnected from your own body, your desires, your instincts.
Religious shame prides itself in telling you that certain parts of you- your curiosity, your feelings, your doubts- are wrong for simply existing. And even years later, when you know better, when you’re actively unlearning it all, there’s still that quiet voice whispering, “But what if you’re wrong? What if you’re bad after all?”
The Therapist’s Religious Dilemma
And I’ve seen firsthand how these beliefs follow people into therapy rooms, sitting between us like an uninvited guest.
I remember a supervisor once bragging that he turned away a client because they were an atheist. He said, and I quote,
“HOW CAN I HELP YOU IF YOU DON’T BELIEVE IN GOD?”
I couldn’t believe it!
Because isn’t the whole point of helping people… to help people? Isn’t empathy supposed to stretch beyond our personal beliefs?
Faith should never be a filter for who deserves care. And yet, in spaces like ours, where religion isn’t just part of the culture, it IS the culture, those lines blur way too easily.
Where I’m from, there’s this unspoken (and sometimes loudly spoken) rule:
If you don’t believe in the “right” thing, You’re an outsider. An antichrist. A problem.
And hearing that as a practicing therapist? It’s disturbing. Because what happens when someone’s suffering doesn’t align with the teachings they were raised with? What happens when faith starts fueling the very anxiety it’s supposed to soothe?
That’s the kind of thing nobody prepares you for.
The silent battles. The guilt. The endless loop of “if only my faith was stronger…”
And growing up, I heard a lot of that. A lot of “us” and “them.” Who’s “saved” and who’s “lost.” Who’s “good” and who’s “wrong.”
But after everything I’ve studied, after all the people I’ve sat across from and listened to, I don’t think it works like that. I don’t believe one religion is better than another. Because at the core, the golden thread running through every major belief system is simple:
Treat others the way you want to be treated.
Psychology calls it reciprocity.
Newton said, “For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.”
Religion says, “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.”
The golden rule. The ripple effect. The energy you put out is the energy that comes back to you.
Whichever one you listen to; it’s all the same lesson.
Rewriting the Rules
This is the complicated part for me.
After over a decade of learning how the human mind works, how it breaks, how it bends, how it heals, the more I started to see the tangled threads between religion and mental health.
No matter what your faith looks like, a lot of us are carrying this invisible pressure to be good enough. To earn love. To avoid punishment. To belong.
I’ve seen people carry guilt that wasn’t theirs to hold.
Shame that was planted in them before they even had the words to name it.
And I’ve seen the damage done when religion is used as a measuring stick for worthiness.
I’ve also seen the good- the hope, the structure, the peace that faith can bring. I still experience that myself. But I know now that it’s okay to separate faith from the fear and control that sometimes come packaged with it.
Because here’s what I believe growing up has taught me:
- You are allowed to have faith without fear.
- You are allowed to question and still be devout.
- You are allowed to love your religion while discarding the parts that taught you to hate yourself.
- You are allowed to heal from doctrines that were used to control you instead of comfort you.
- You are allowed to build a relationship with your higher power that is based on love, not shame.
And more than anything, you are allowed to stop proving your worth.
Where I Find Peace Now
Here’s where I’ve landed: I don’t believe any higher power, in any form, wants us living in constant guilt or shame.
What I believe is this: Your relationship with the divine, whatever that means to you, is yours to build. Yours to nurture.
And if that relationship makes you feel anxious, afraid, or unworthy? It’s time to reimagine it. Because peace shouldn’t feel like a reward you earn for behaving perfectly. It should be the ground you stand on, no matter what.
And for me, I always find the most comfort in knowing that I have someone to talk to just as my clients do. Someone who doesn’t judge, doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t roll their eyes.
It’s a deep, unwavering comfort of being truly known and still fully loved. And when I pray, it isn’t performative. I’m not trying to be “good.” I’m just… talking. Sharing. Trusting that I’m heard. That’s the faith I choose now.
But that’s just me, in my Baptist life, in my Christian ways.
And I think anyone can feel that same peace, no matter what they believe.
Because it’s less about the name we give to our higher power and more about the relationship we build with it. When you strip away the fear and guilt, when you sit quietly with your own idea of the divine, what’s left should feel safe and freeing, not suffocating. Like the version of love that never asks you to earn it.
And when you find that…
It’s not fear anymore.
It’s home.
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