At twenty-five, I genuinely believed I’d met someone worth building a life with.
Elias was twenty-seven—composed, attractive, the type whose steady confidence drew people in naturally. When he spoke, rooms grew quieter. When he shared thoughts, people actually listened.
Our paths crossed at a weekly Bible study in someone’s cramped living room. He wasn’t hard to miss. Scripture rolled off his tongue effortlessly, and he had this gift for redirecting every discussion back toward faith. Everything about him radiated unwavering certainty.
After years of romantic disappointments, I finally allowed myself to imagine something different. A partnership rooted in shared beliefs and genuine peace. It felt stable. Dependable. Like maybe, just maybe, heartbreak wouldn’t find me this time.
Elias projected an image of being above human weakness—as though he operated on some higher moral plane beyond ordinary temptation or selfish desire.
But hindsight reveals uncomfortable truths. His compliments always came attached to subtle corrections. His commentary about other women carried an edge—they dressed too provocatively, spoke too boldly, existed too visibly.
“You don’t want men looking at you that way, Hazel,” he mentioned casually after church one Sunday. “You want their respect, not their attention.”
Back then, I mistook his words for protective concern. Perhaps even genuine affection.
Before long, Elias arranged what he termed our “boundaries for spiritual courtship.” He carefully avoided calling them rules, though that’s precisely what they were—a rigid framework that gradually made me feel smaller and smaller.
He approached the conversation delicately, like presenting something precious. He’d even prepared tea and arranged chocolate shortbread cookies on a plate.
“Hazel,” he began seriously, “I need your full attention for this.”
I nodded, curious but unsuspecting about where this would lead.
“Physical contact stays off-limits until marriage,” he stated firmly. “That includes kissing. Intimacy belongs exclusively between spouses, behind closed doors.”
“Wait… not even one kiss?”
His smile suggested he’d anticipated my exact reaction.
“It protects both of us, sweetheart. Kissing opens doors to temptation we can’t afford. This honors God and safeguards your purity.”
Something inside me wavered, but I remained silent.
Then came the avalanche of additional restrictions.
“Hemlines should reach your ankles. Sleeves need to cover your wrists,” he continued matter-of-factly. “Modest clothing serves the men around you—it shows consideration for their daily battles with lust.”
Their battles? Suddenly, he felt unfamiliar. Worse still, his tone stayed calm, measured. Somehow that disturbed me more than anger would have.
“Avoid anything form-fitting or tight. About makeup… if you absolutely must, keep it barely noticeable. A woman’s character matters infinitely more than her appearance.”
He paused, possibly gauging my reaction or waiting for pushback. I just nodded weakly, my throat tight and thoughts spiraling while I desperately convinced myself this was normal.
This was commitment. This was spiritual growth.
Yet Elias wasn’t finished.
“No meaningful friendships with men. Deep conversations create dangerous emotional bonds. Satan exploits those connections outside marriage. You understand that, right?”
My gaze dropped to my lap.
“Worldly entertainment is forbidden—movies, secular music, social media—until church leadership approves otherwise. That content poisons your soul.”
“But Elias, I—” I attempted.
He raised one palm gently but firmly.
“Hazel, I understand you think it’s innocent. I’m protecting what we’re building together.”
He pressed forward.
“After we marry, you’ll leave your job. I’ll handle finances. Your purpose will center on raising our children and maintaining our household.”
“What about my career? I actually love what I do, Elias.”
A patronizing smile crossed his face.
“I know. But society tricks women into prioritizing independence over contentment. You’ll realize eventually. This path offers something far better.”
“One final thing,” he added, his voice softening as though describing romance itself, “we’ll pray together twice daily—morning and evening. That’s how godly couples maintain their bond.”
“That’s… quite overwhelming,” I admitted with forced laughter.
“Hazel, righteousness requires walking a difficult road, and I want to guide you toward holiness. Living according to God’s design isn’t wrong—it’s exactly what we’re going to do.”
And somehow, despite the heaviness pressing against my ribs and the screaming voice inside my skull, I agreed.
I followed every single guideline.
My jeans disappeared into storage boxes alongside most of my makeup, leaving only mascara and tinted lip balm. Spotify playlists vanished. Books I cherished got packed away. Television shows that once provided comfort after exhausting workdays became forbidden.
Brunch invitations got declined. Birthday celebrations went unattended. Coffee dates with friends who didn’t “walk in faith” stopped happening entirely.
When Elias discussed obedience, I interpreted it as devotion. When he described submission as love, I forced myself to believe him.
Every morning, I scraped my hair into a severe bun and buttoned loose, shapeless blouses. I reminded myself this reflected godly femininity. I joined Elias for phone prayers twice daily, even through exhaustion, sleepless nights, and moments when God seemed impossibly distant.
One evening during our engagement, we attended Bible trivia with friends. Elias butchered “Nebuchadnezzar” so completely it sounded nonsensical, and genuine laughter burst out of me—the uncontrollable kind. Others chuckled too.
Even Elias briefly grinned.
But later, inside his car, everything shifted.
“Hazel, that behavior was inappropriate,” he said flatly, eyes fixed ahead. “Women shouldn’t make themselves the center of attention like that.”
“I didn’t mean anything negative,” I responded quickly. “It was genuinely funny.”
“I’m not upset, sweetheart,” he replied with eerie calm. “But we represent something. People watch us. You don’t want to be remembered for your loud laugh.”
I stared silently through the window the entire drive home, internally berating myself.
“He’s correct, Hazel. This is growth. Maturity. This is what love requires.”
Two months disappeared. We still hadn’t shared a single kiss.
When I finally mentioned it—gently, tentatively—Elias shook his head.
“We’re different from typical couples. Complete purity makes it sacred.”
I didn’t protest. Just nodded and swallowed the longing.
“I wasn’t always this strict,” he mentioned once, almost absently. “I witnessed how infidelity destroyed my family, and I vowed to live differently. My father… he crossed lines he shouldn’t have.”
But gradually, something felt wrong. His phone constantly buzzed with notifications he’d answer privately in hallways. If I entered rooms unexpectedly, I’d catch him closing apps or deleting messages.
“Is something going on?” I asked once.
“Just church business, Hazel.”
I believed him. I needed to believe him. But quiet suspicion began settling into my chest like freezing water.
Then one Friday evening, my entire reality shattered.
I’d attended a low-key book club at a friend’s place—tea, novels, nothing dramatic. It was among the few activities I still permitted myself, and I clung to those fragments of normalcy like oxygen.
When it concluded early, I walked home through cool evening air and quiet streets.
Passing the community center where Elias volunteered Friday nights, I noticed lights still glowing. Front doors stood propped open. I wasn’t deliberately looking, but something pulled my gaze toward the entrance.
That’s when I saw them.
Elias was kissing another woman. Not a quick, accidental brush—this was deliberate. Practiced.
His hand rested intimately on her waist while the other cradled her face. She leaned into him naturally, comfortably, laughing softly—like they’d done this countless times before.
I froze completely.
My mind couldn’t process the scene unfolding before me. Cold spread through my body. My feet became concrete.
My fiancé—who claimed kissing dishonored God, who said holding hands invited temptation, who criticized me for laughing too loudly—was standing on church grounds kissing another woman like everything he’d preached was meaningless.
“This can’t be real,” I whispered aloud.
I stepped closer uncertainly, squinting through disbelief. Definitely Elias. And the woman—I recognized her from the coffee shop near my office. I’d seen her at church once. Elias had labeled her “inappropriate” and told me to avoid her entirely.
Now she was kissing him.
“You’re terrible, Eli,” she teased playfully, pulling back with bright laughter.
“You inspire it…” he murmured, his thumb tracing her jawline tenderly.
Nausea hit me instantly.
I turned and walked away before they noticed me. No tears came. No screaming. Just mechanical steps forward, as though watching someone else’s life implode from a distance.
The following morning, I called him. No rehearsal necessary. My heart still hammered from what I’d witnessed, and betrayal sat heavy in my chest like wet concrete.
He answered quickly.
“Elias,” I said, voice trembling but determined. “I saw you last night. Kissing her outside the community center.”
Silence stretched too long.
“That’s not what happened.” His words tumbled out panicked and desperate.
I gripped my phone harder.
“It’s exactly what happened. You forced all these rules on me. You wouldn’t even kiss me once. And now you’re kissing someone else like your standards never existed?”
“I… Hazel, I felt lonely,” he sighed heavily. “I wasn’t thinking straight. You’ve seemed distant lately.”
Disbelief flooded through me.
“I’ve been distant?! Elias, I sacrificed everything for you. Friends, career aspirations, my own identity. I molded myself into whatever you demanded so I’d be good enough for you. And you’re actually blaming me?”
“That’s not what I meant,” he backpedaled weakly. “You’re misinterpreting this. Making it worse than it is.”
“No, Elias!” I said, voice strengthening. “I’m finally seeing clearly. You’re not righteous. You’re just a hypocrite.”
He tried again, softening his tone.
“I messed up. Everyone does, right? I’m human, Hazel. Haven’t you ever—”
I ended the call mid-sentence. Those were the last words I ever heard from him.
I didn’t report him to church leadership. I didn’t need to—karma handled it.
Weeks later, a friend messaged me. Another woman had come forward. The board investigated. Elias was removed from ministry. His reputation crumbled naturally, not because of my accusations, but because truth eventually surfaces.
Then the phone calls began.
“Please don’t end the engagement,” Charlotte, his mother, pleaded in a voicemail. “He needs you desperately. He’s completely lost without you.”
I never responded.
So she appeared at my door.
Her eyes looked raw when I opened it, face etched with worry. Her hands twisted together anxiously.
“He’s my son,” she said quietly. “He’s mortified. He’s suffering. Please… don’t abandon him, Hazel. Please, sweetheart.”
Looking at Charlotte, I saw someone who’d probably spent decades staying silent, following rules that never actually protected her.
“I’m not abandoning anyone,” I replied firmly. “I’m choosing myself. I won’t marry someone who enforces standards he doesn’t live by. I won’t silence myself so someone else can maintain false righteousness.”
She blinked rapidly, then nodded slowly. No further words came.
That evening, I returned the engagement ring. I held it briefly, then released it completely.
Grief arrived in waves initially. I mourned the version of myself I’d buried trying to fit Elias’s impossible expectations. I grieved for the girl who believed obedience would earn love. Who thought disappearing would bring her closer to God.
But gradually, healing came.
One morning, I woke feeling genuinely light. I brewed coffee and played music I’d deleted without question. I sang along while cooking breakfast. I laughed freely, loudly, without apologizing.
Some mornings, his voice still echoes in my thoughts, disguised as wisdom. But I’m learning to distinguish fear from genuine faith. I’m learning to trust my own instincts again.
Then one afternoon, I encountered Elias at the grocery store. He stood near the produce section, looking diminished somehow. Our eyes met before I could turn away.
“Hazel,” he said softly. “I’ve been hoping we’d cross paths.”
I nodded politely but stayed silent.
“I’ve… I’ve wanted to apologize. I made serious mistakes. But I hope eventually you’ll forgive me. That’s what God would want.”
“God may desire forgiveness, Elias. But He also demands honesty. You never gave me that—not once.”
He started responding, but I’d already turned to leave.
I walked through the spice section and selected dried chili flakes. Passed freezers and grabbed fresh fish. Found coconut milk—my favorite kind. I was cooking dinner later. Something I wanted. Something that made me happy.
Moving through those aisles, I felt the quiet confidence of someone who’d stopped performing for others.
I thought about Matthew—the man I’m dating now. Who prays with me because we both genuinely want to connect with God together, not because it’s mandatory. Who calls me beautiful not for covering up, but for being authentically alive.
With Matthew, I laugh however loudly I want. I dress in clothes I love, watch shows I enjoy, dance spontaneously, and express opinions without constant anxiety.
He doesn’t measure my value through silence or sacrifice.
He simply sees me. And loves me.
That evening, I prepared fish in coconut milk with chili flakes. Poured wine. Lit candles. And thanked God for returning me to myself.
Weeks later, I opened my laptop and registered for a weekend writing workshop. I used to dream about crafting meaningful stories… now I was finally letting myself pursue it.