I have a love-hate relationship with the Facebook “Memories” feature, which lets you revisit photos and posts you shared on the exact same date years ago.
For someone who has spent the last five years recovering from religious trauma and undoing the harm of a decade as a pastor’s wife, it can feel like pouring salt into an open wound. At the same time, I love looking back at old photos of my three daughters at different stages of childhood, reminiscing over strawberry-picking adventures, or revisiting the funny things they said while they were still figuring out the ins and outs of language.
Recently, I came across a post from when I was parenting a five-week-old and a two-year-old. It was a desperate plea for someone to come help me in the evenings while my husband spent the night running our church’s youth ministry program. I’d forgotten about that season of my life—the long nights of trying to rock a fussy newborn to sleep while my toddler begged me to lie beside her and read books until she drifted off.
Silenced
The long-buried memories from that season came rushing back—a visceral snap back to a time of loneliness and desperation. I remembered being pulled aside by church leadership and gently scolded for asking for help in a public, online forum. I was reminded that I needed to think before posting because people were talking and wondering what was wrong (with me, my marriage, or the church).
I was never told exactly what those whispers were about.
At the time, I was trapped in a vicious cycle of service and shame. I was expected to quiet my pain because it was uncomfortable for people to see a pastor’s wife struggle, whether with her mental health or simply the strain of solo parenting with limited support.
My challenges made parishioners feel awkward. While I believed the simplest solution was for someone to help me, the church’s solution was to silence me.
I couldn’t see that when I posted, begging for someone to come hold my infant, to simply be in community with me. Now, I can see that I was abandoned by a group built on the foundation of “fellowship.” My role was to serve, not to be served and I didn’t fit the mold of the meek pastor’s wife.
Where do we go from here?
Using My Voice
In the twelve years since I made that Facebook post, I have evolved into someone who isn’t afraid to use her voice. I was never going to be the kind of woman who sat quietly while people whispered cruel, hurtful things about my family and me.
When I was young and naïve, I thought it was my job to joyfully forgive and forget. But I’m older now, and wiser, and I know that change isn’t born from silence and submission.
During the COVID-19 pandemic, my husband Daniel was laid off from his ministry position. In 2023, Christianity Today reported that 15 percent of churches had laid off staff.
In Canada, where I live, there is limited reporting on how many clergy members or church staff lost their jobs. Anecdotally, though, we watched many churches struggle financially, and the least fortunate were forced to make difficult staffing decisions.
I didn’t want Daniel to return to ministry, but it became clear that he felt called to work in the church. However, his options were more limited, now that he was progressive in his theological beliefs, including his pro-LGBTQ+ inclusion and pro-women stance. And then there was his rejection of the traditional doctrine of hell.
Eventually, he found the perfect role at a church that was making a meaningful impact in the community, serving as a drop-in shelter for the unhoused and marginalized during the day, while he could co-lead as a pastor on Sundays.
Pastor’s Wife?
While I love the work he does, and I fully support the church, I have declined to participate as a pastor’s wife or a parishioner. The wounds run too deep and my ability to feel safe within the four walls of a church is limited—at least at this point in my life.
Today, I am married to a pastor, but I am not a pastor’s wife. My identity is not behind the stained glass of a pretty stone church. It’s not even beside my husband, as he prays, preaches or serves meals.
My identity is my own. It’s a beautiful thing, soft and malleable, constantly evolving as I heal from past hurt and embrace the person I am becoming.
Sylvia Plath captures how I feel about my sense of self brilliantly in The Bell Jar: “I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart. I am, I am, I am.”
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Brianna Bell is a Canadian journalist whose work has been featured in The New York Times, The Guardian, The Globe & Mail, and more. Brianna’s memoir, God Lover, will be published by Dundurn Press in June 2027.