Why Religious Harm Isn’t Always Recognized as Trauma
- Chris Tompkins
- Jan 31
- 4 min read
Practical questions for identifying religious harm in therapy.
KEY POINTS
Clients often describe shame and anxiety rather than religious messages as the source of their distress.
Simple assessment questions help surface early influences affecting current patterns in relationships.
Non-affirming religious environments are linked with higher levels of internalized shame in LGBTQ adults.
Not long ago, a family member sent me a message linking my sexual orientation to painful events in our family history and describing my identity as spiritually disordered and in need of correction. The message expressed genuine concern and included declarations of love and care, while urging repentance and presenting salvation as contingent on changing who I am.
She wrote, “I pray that you will be released of the lie from the enemy that you were gay. I love you, and I want you to enter the gates of Heaven free and clear.”
Messages like this are not uncommon for those of us raised in religious families. Many of us carry this logic into adulthood, even after leaving religion behind. We don't always call it religious trauma, though. We talk about shame, fear, self-doubt, or unworthiness. We wonder why we can't shake the feeling that something about us is fundamentally wrong.
Religious Harm
The terms religious trauma, religious abuse, adverse religious experiences, and religious harm are often used interchangeably. In my experience, religious harm often makes the conversation more accessible early on and allows clients to stay connected to their own experience without feeling labeled.
Religious harm happens when religious beliefs, practices, or structures damage a person's sense of safety or autonomy and negatively affect their physical, social, emotional, relational, or psychological well-being. It doesn't require extreme or visibly abusive environments. It often lives in everyday conversations, family dynamics, and spiritual language, like the message I received, that sounds loving on the surface while communicating that a person’s identity or desire cannot be trusted and is sinful, deviant, or the result of something such as sexual abuse, spiritual deception, or the devil.
One of the deepest wounds LGBTQ people carry is being taught from a very early age that a higher power is against us. The belief doesn't disappear when we leave religious spaces. It remains in our collective psyche, influencing how we see ourselves and relate to one another.
For the past four years, much of my work around my book Raising LGBTQ Allies has involved conversations with families, parents, and religious communities about how to heal homophobia within ourselves and prevent it from being passed on to future generations. Before writing the book, I began to see that if I wanted to be more effective in my advocacy, I needed to turn toward the blind spots in my own life, the places still carrying trauma and shame, because we can’t take anyone further than we’ve gone ourselves.
Reflecting on Early Religious Experiences
In my therapy practice, I don't ask clients to decide whether something counts as trauma. I invite reflection on how early religious experiences connect to the symptoms they bring into therapy. I ask questions like:
In any religious setting, have you ever felt judged, singled out, or pressured to be someone you weren’t?
Have you ever gone along with a belief or rule you didn't agree with because you were afraid of conflict, punishment, or losing connection with people you cared about?
Has a religious leader or authority figure ever dismissed something that felt harmful to you or encouraged you to stay in a situation that didn’t feel safe?
Do certain religious words, places, people, or symbols make your body tense, anxious, angry, or shut down?
Are there religious memories that come up quickly or feel hard to shake once they’re activated?
Did you ever learn from religion that you shouldn't trust your body, your feelings, your sexuality, or your own sense of what's right for you?
As clients begin to understand how early anti-LGBTQ religious messages continue to influence their lives, the work becomes less defensive and shame-driven. They start trusting themselves more and making choices from who they are now rather than who they were taught to be.
Many also find room to reconnect with spirituality or a relationship with a higher power that feels personal. This has been true in my own life as well. I’ve experienced religious harm, and I’ve carried forward parts of my religious upbringing that still matter to me, including resilience, practices like prayer, faith, and a connection beyond myself.
What I've learned, both personally and professionally, is that healing religious harm doesn’t require rejecting everything from a religious past. Many people find they can keep what still feels true while releasing the messages that caused harm. After I received the message from my family member, I allowed myself to feel the initial shock and pain. I called a close friend to express my anger, confusion, and grief. I brought it up with my own therapist. Because of the work I've done in my own life, I had built relationships and practices that affirmed rather than condemned me.
The message still hurt. But I had somewhere to turn besides shame. When we do the work to separate what we want to keep from what we need to release, we can make choices from our own values instead of from the fear we inherited through anti-LGBTQ religious ideology. We can receive messages like the one I got and recognize them as reflections of the sender's unhealed beliefs, not the truth about who we are.
Featured as an Essential Read on:
Chris Tompkins is a gay male therapist in West Hollywood (Los Angeles) who specializes in working with adult gay men, individuals and couples. He supports clients navigating identity, relationships, religious trauma, addiction, and self-esteem. To learn more, explore therapeutic services or schedule a free consultation.
Comments