There are pieces of my past I used to keep buried so deep, I almost convinced myself they didn’t exist. But pain has a funny way of echoing — especially when it’s never been truly acknowledged. For me, that pain has a name: Wapping Community Church.
When I was younger, I sought belonging, truth, and stability. I thought I found that in the youth group at Wapping. Instead, I walked into an emotional battlefield I didn’t even know I had enlisted in. The Youth Minister and I never saw eye to eye — he wielded authority with a smile, but the undertones of manipulation and emotional control cut deep. I was young. I was immature. And I now realize I lacked the tools to recognize or respond to the red flags flapping right in front of me.
It’s hard to admit, but I carry regret — deep regret — for ever stepping foot into that youth group. I replay moments in my mind, moments that shaped my self-worth, my trust in people, and even my faith. I’ve spent years trying to figure out what was real and what was just spiritual theater meant to silence people like me. The most painful part? The church body and leadership never saw it. Or maybe they never wanted to. Their eyes were closed, and their hands were clean — as far as they were concerned.
There were lies. There was emotional manipulation. There was a kind of trauma that festers quietly, especially when it’s dressed up in scripture and sealed with a Sunday smile. But through all of it, I held on. Barely.
Music became my lifeline.
It didn’t happen overnight. At first, I’d hum mindlessly, scribbling lines down in journals that nobody would ever read. But slowly, melodies started to match the rhythm of my heartbeat — sometimes broken, sometimes angry, sometimes hopeful. Writing music gave me something Wapping never could: the power to tell my truth. Loudly. Freely. Without fear of being dismissed or prayed over like a problem to be fixed.
Each lyric I write is a layer peeled back. Each beat is a breath I wasn’t allowed to take back then. When I sit with my headphones on, crafting sounds that mirror the storms inside me, I’m finally allowed to feel — without judgment, without correction, without someone telling me it’s not “godly” to be angry or hurt.
Music gives my trauma shape — and in giving it shape, I can finally move around it instead of feeling suffocated by it. I no longer have to pretend those years didn’t matter or that they didn’t leave scars. They did. But now, those scars have rhythm. They have verses. They have soul.
And here’s the truth I’ve finally accepted: I can’t change what happened at Wapping. I can’t undo the ignorance of their leadership or the silence of their community. But I can choose what I do with the pain. I can turn it into art. I can turn it into healing. I can turn it into a song that someone else might hear and say, “Me too.”