I Am Sorry...

A Confession and a Commitment

I need to say this plainly, without defensiveness or explanation. It’s been years since I’ve participated in harmful theology, but…

I am sorry.

I'm sorry that at times my voice contributed to your shame.
I'm sorry that at times my words taught you to fear God instead of trust Love.
I'm sorry that I taught you to bury parts of yourself in order to belong.
I'm sorry that my words became one of the reasons your faith turned into a wound instead of a refuge.

I was not trying to harm you.
But intention does not erase impact.

I taught what I learned. I repeated what was handed to me as truth, often without the freedom to examine it fully. I regurgitated doctrines I myself had questions about; questions that were met not with curiosity, but with condemnation. When I asked for clarification, I was told my doubts were dangerous, my questions rebellious, my need for understanding a sign of weak faith.

So I learned to silence myself.
And then, tragically, I taught others to do the same.

I participated in a theology that valued certainty over compassion, obedience over honesty, and control over care. I passed along language that sounded sacred but carried shame. I upheld systems where belonging required self-erasure, and where faith was measured by how well you could suppress your humanity.

For that, I am deeply sorry.

This apology is not performative. It is not a plea for absolution. It is an acknowledgment that harm was done and accountability matters. Repentance, if it means anything at all, must be more than words. It must look like change.

As my Substack continues to demonstrate: I have chosen a different way forward.

This time, I have chosen faith rooted in gentleness rather than fear.
Faith that honors wholeness instead of demanding fragmentation.
Faith that expands love instead of policing it.
Faith that welcomes questions instead of punishing them.

I am unlearning what I once taught. I am listening where I once lectured. I am refusing to use God-language to shrink people or sanctify their suffering.

If my voice once helped cause harm, I am committed to using it now for healing.
If my theology once closed doors, I am committed to opening them wider.

This is my apology.

And this is my commitment: to never again mistake fear for faith, control for holiness, or harm for truth.

Thank you for walking with me through the chapters of this unlearning. You have watched me name the shadows, but it was vital to officially name, own, and apologize for my part.

I may have been symbolically "blacklisted" by the systems that demanded my silence, but I am choosing to find what is truly saintly in the wreckage. And that begins with radical accountability.

Thank you for holding space for my growth, for reading Blacklisted Saint, and for being part of a community that chooses healing over harm.

Blacklisted Saint