I was 25 when I thought I’d finally met a good man. His name was Elias. He was 27 — confident but never loud, neatly put together, and always quoting Scripture as if it were second nature. He led our Bible study group with such conviction that people leaned in whenever he spoke. He seemed certain about everything — faith, morality, purpose — all the things I’d been struggling to grasp on my own.
After years of heartbreak and disappointment, Elias felt like peace. He called himself a man of God. He spoke about patience, humility, and devotion — and I wanted to believe him.
One evening, he invited me over for tea and shortbread biscuits — his usual setup for serious conversations. Smiling that calm, pastoral smile, he said, “Hazel, I want our relationship to honor God. That means no physical intimacy before marriage. Not even kissing.”
I remember blinking. “Not even kissing?”
“It’s for your protection,” he said smoothly. “Kissing leads to temptation. We don’t want to dishonor God.”
I hesitated but nodded. He made it sound so noble — like restraint was proof of devotion, not just to him but to God.
Then came what he called “guardrails.” They weren’t rules, exactly — except they were.
He told me my skirts should fall below my ankles. My sleeves to my wrists. No tight clothes, no noticeable makeup. “A woman’s modesty,” he said, “is a kindness to the men around her. You help them guard their eyes.” The irony didn’t register until much later.
Then came, “No close friendships with men. Emotional intimacy leads to sin.” And, “No worldly entertainment — no TV, no music, no social media. They cloud your spirit.”
I asked, “Even gospel music?”
He smiled gently, almost pitying. “You don’t need music, Hazel. You need focus.”
By the time he finished, I hardly recognized the version of myself he wanted me to be — quiet, hidden, compliant. Still, I told myself it was devotion, not submission. After all, love meant sacrifice, didn’t it?
So I followed his rules. I packed up my jeans and favorite dresses, deleted Spotify, stopped meeting friends for brunch. My world got smaller, holier — or so I told myself. Elias said we’d pray together morning and night, so I set alarms. Even when I was exhausted, I prayed, because that’s what a “godly woman” was supposed to do.
But the more obedient I became, the more critical he grew. He corrected me constantly, though always in that soft, “loving” tone. Once, during a Bible trivia night, he mispronounced “Nebuchadnezzar,” and I laughed — genuinely laughed. Later, in the car, he said, “That was inappropriate. A woman’s laughter shouldn’t draw attention.” I apologized for being too loud. That was the night I realized I didn’t feel like myself anymore.
Still, I stayed — because he was “good,” and I wanted to be good too.
Two months into our engagement, I noticed Elias had started guarding his phone. He’d step outside to take calls and delete messages afterward. When I asked, he said, “Church business. Nothing for you to worry about.”
Then the cracks began to show. Elias had opinions about everything — especially women. “A woman shouldn’t dress to be noticed,” he’d say. “She should dress to be respected.” Back then, I thought it was wisdom. Now I see it for what it was: control disguised as scripture.
One Friday night, it all unraveled. I had gone to my small book club — the one social thing I still allowed myself. When it ended early, I walked home and passed the community center where Elias volunteered on Fridays. The lights were still on. I wasn’t planning to stop, but something made me glance inside.
And there he was — standing under the awning, kissing another woman. Not a quick or uncertain kiss. His hands were on her waist. She laughed softly, and he kissed her again, like it wasn’t the first time.
For a moment, my mind refused to process it. Then the truth hit — all his rules, lectures, and guilt trips were never about faith. They were about control. And the man behind it all was nothing more than a hypocrite quoting verses he didn’t live by.
I didn’t confront him that night. I just walked home — silent, shaking, numb.
The next morning, I called him. My voice trembled. “Elias, I saw you. Outside the community center. With her.”
He paused, then lied. “That’s not what it looked like.”
“It’s exactly what it looked like,” I said. “You made me feel sinful for wanting a kiss — and you’re out kissing someone else?”
“I was lonely,” he murmured. “You’ve been distant.”
“I’ve been obedient!” I shouted. “I gave up my friends, my music, my clothes — everything you told me was wrong — for you. And now you blame me?”
“You’re twisting this, Hazel. Don’t make it ugly.”
“No, Elias,” I said quietly. “You already did.”
That was the last time we spoke.
Weeks later, word spread. Other women came forward. The church opened an inquiry, and Elias was asked to step down. His mask finally cracked on its own. I didn’t celebrate — I just exhaled for the first time in months.
Then his mother called.
“He’s ashamed,” she said in a voicemail. “He needs you. Please don’t abandon him.”
When I didn’t respond, she came to my door, eyes red from crying. “He’s my son,” she said. “Please… he’s lost.”
I met her gaze and said gently, “I’m not abandoning him. I’m choosing myself. I won’t marry a man who hides behind God to excuse his hypocrisy.”
She nodded slowly, tears glistening. She didn’t argue.
That night, I took off my engagement ring and set it on the counter. For the first time in a long while, my reflection didn’t look afraid.
The weeks that followed were messy — grief tangled with relief. I cried for the version of me who believed love meant silence, who mistook control for care. But every day, I felt a little lighter. I brewed coffee. I played the songs I’d deleted. I laughed again — loud, unfiltered, free.
Months later, I ran into Elias at the grocery store. He looked smaller somehow. “Hazel,” he said softly, “I’ve been praying to see you. I’m sorry. I hope one day you can forgive me.”
I met his eyes and said, “God may want forgiveness. But He also wants truth. You never gave me that.” Then I turned and walked away.
That night, I made myself dinner — coconut curry with chili flakes and a glass of wine. I played music. I danced barefoot in my kitchen. The world didn’t end. It began again.
Today, I’m with someone new — Matthew. He prays with me, not because he demands it, but because we both want to feel close to God. He laughs when I laugh. He tells me I’m beautiful, not because I’m modest, but because I’m alive.
With him, I can wear color. I can speak my mind. I can exist without apology. That’s what love really is — not control dressed up as holiness.
Sometimes I still hear Elias’s voice in my head, warning me to be small, to be quiet. But then I remember the truth I fought to reclaim:
God never asked me to disappear to be worthy of love.
He only asked me to be honest — and brave enough to walk away when love isn’t love at all.