Church Hurt Didn’t Get the Final Word.
The older I get, the more I realize that healing rarely arrives the way we imagine it will.
Sometimes it does not come through apologies.
Sometimes it does not come through closure.
Sometimes it comes through consistency. Through grace. Through people simply showing up.
And sometimes, the very place where your heart was bruised becomes the same place where God teaches it how to breathe again.
I know “church hurt” has become one of those phrases people either whisper with shame or shout with frustration. But if I am honest, I have lived through it more than once. Not in some dramatic, headline-worthy way. Not through scandal or spectacle. Just through the painful reality that churches are filled with human beings trying to serve a perfect God while still carrying imperfect hearts.
The first time happened years ago in New York.
Back then, I was young in my faith, passionate, eager, and willing to give God absolutely everything. I loved serving. I loved being in the house of God. I loved feeling useful to the Kingdom. When I accepted a church position, I even took a pay cut from my corporate job because I genuinely believed I was walking fully in purpose.
And honestly? I still believe my heart was pure.
So when that season ended and I was released, it hurt deeply. Not just because of the loss itself, but because when your identity becomes intertwined with serving, transitions can feel personal even when they are not intended to be.
But somewhere along the way, I had been taught something that anchored me:
my healing would never come from running from God’s house.
So I came back anyway.
Not to lead.
Not to prove anything.
Not to reclaim a title.
I came back to sit on the pew and heal.
And eventually, I served again.
Years later, after moving to another state but remaining planted within the same ministry foundation through World Changers, I found myself experiencing a different kind of heartbreak. This time, I was preparing to give birth to my daughter Ella. My life looked different now. I was not just a leader or administrator anymore. I was a wife. A mother. A woman trying to navigate the beautiful chaos of raising children, including two boys who had entered our lives through foster care and adoption.
My availability had changed. My priorities had shifted.
Trying to be responsible, I prepared coverage plans for my maternity leave and adjusted my level of service accordingly. During that transition, leadership changes were made by my local pastors.
And while I understood it… while I truly believed my family needed my focus during that season… it still hurt.
Because transitions still sting even when they make sense.
So once again, I stepped back.
Then COVID came.
And honestly? Survival mode came with it.
At one point, I found myself raising three children under seven years old, including a newborn. Autism evaluations. ADHD. Therapies. School transitions. Behavioral challenges. Sleepless nights. Sensory struggles. Emotional exhaustion. Work. Marriage. Ministry from a distance.
Life was lifing. Heavy.
And for several years, leadership was no longer the center of my world. My family was.
But here is the part of the story that still makes me emotional when I think about it:
When my son was struggling in school and being pushed out of spaces that did not know how to support him properly, my church stepped in and became part of the solution.
Not with empty words.
Not with shallow clichés.
With action.
My church family helped provide transportation support for my child in one of their SUVs and lovingly helped care for both him and Ella after school during one of the hardest seasons of our lives. They made room for us. They loved us practically.
And I will never forget the joy of watching Ella attend summer camp and participate in a field trip independently for the very first time without either Oji or me needing to accompany her. For many families, that may seem small. For ours, it felt monumental. It felt like trust. It felt like community. It felt like exhaling after holding our breath for years.
And somewhere in the middle of all that practical love, God quietly healed parts of my heart I did not even realize were still wounded.
That is why I cannot fully subscribe to the narrative that says, “The church hurt me, so I left forever.”
Because while people in church may hurt you, people in church may also help heal you.
Both things can be true.
The same institution connected to painful memories can also become sacred ground for restoration. The same community where misunderstandings happened can also become the place where grace shows up unexpectedly.
And now, after about six years away from active leadership, I find myself being called to serve again.
But I am returning different.
Older.
Softer.
Wiser.
Less eager to prove myself.
More willing to listen.
I realize now that I cannot return with the posture of someone who thinks they already know everything simply because they served before.
Because I am not new… but I am new.
So much has changed. Ministry has changed. People have changed. Systems have changed. And honestly? I have changed too.
Motherhood changed me.
Grief changed me.
Special needs parenting changed me.
Marriage changed me.
Surviving changed me.
The woman returning to leadership now is not the same woman who once led from pure zeal and adrenaline. This version of me understands boundaries. She understands grace. She understands that hidden seasons are not punishment. Sometimes they are preparation.
And perhaps most importantly, she understands that humility is holy.
So now, instead of walking into rooms trying to prove my value, I find myself asking questions. Learning. Observing. Rebuilding relationships. Remaining teachable.
Not because I am insecure.
But because wisdom knows when to sit quietly and learn the rhythm of a new season.
Church hurt did not get the final word in my life.
Healing did.
And maybe that healing did not come packaged the way I once expected. Maybe it did not arrive through dramatic reconciliation moments or perfectly tied-up endings.
Maybe it came through an SUV pulling up to help my child get where he needed to go.
Maybe it came through afterschool care that gave my family room to breathe.
Maybe it came through a summer camp field trip that reminded us our daughter could safely spread her wings.
Maybe it came through being embraced during hard years instead of forgotten in them.
Maybe it came through discovering that even wounded people can still become vessels God uses to love others well.
I do not know who needs to hear this, but here it is anyway:
Do not let pain make you believe that God has abandoned His people entirely.
People are imperfect. Churches are imperfect. Leadership is imperfect.
But God is still able to heal through community if we are willing to receive it.
And sometimes the greatest testimony is not that you left.
Sometimes the greatest testimony is that you returned different.
© 2026, Lela Fagan. All rights reserved.
