Not all control looks like a cage. Sometimes, it looks like concern.
Sometimes, it sounds like
- “Are you sure that’s really God’s plan?”
- “Have you prayed about it enough?”
- “I’m just worried you’re being led astray.”
- “Do you think that’s really the wisest choice for your spiritual growth?”
And just like that, you’re pulled into a conversation that looks like care but feels like judgement, except you can’t name it as judgement, because everyone involved insists it’s “love.”
The quiet power of spiritual coercion
We tend to think of control as obvious. As someone barking rules or forbidding certain behaviours, but in high-control religious systems, coercion rarely comes wearing a name tag. It doesn’t need to.
Instead, it’s wrapped in spiritual language, things like guidance, discipleship, mentorship, accountability, “speaking the truth in love.” The words sound safe. But the undertone? Fear. Shame. Conditional belonging.
It’s one thing to be told “You can’t do that.” It’s another to be asked “Would that really honour God?”, knowing that the “wrong” answer might mean gossip, discipline, shame, or being quietly pushed out of community life.
This is the hallmark of religious coercion: it shapes your internal world so deeply that you start controlling yourself on behalf of the system. No one has to forbid you from doing something when you’ve already internalised the fear of divine disappointment or community disapproval.
It’s efficient. It’s subtle. And it’s incredibly damaging.
How fear hides under the language of love
One of the most effective forms of coercion in faith spaces is fear disguised as care. It sounds gentle, but the message underneath is anything but:
- “I’m just worried about your spiritual walk.” → You’re slipping away from God, and that’s dangerous.
- “I’m saying this because I love you.” → You’re disappointing me and everyone who matters here.
- “We’re accountable to one another.” → Your choices are subject to our approval.
It’s easy to dismiss this as mere “overzealousness,” but the emotional impact can be profound. When your sense of safety and belonging is tied to spiritual purity, every decision feels loaded with eternal consequences.
You’re not just choosing what to wear, who to date, what music to listen to, or what boundaries to set. You’re choosing between being loved and being abandoned. Between salvation and hell. Between inclusion and exile.
That’s not “concern.” That’s psychological warfare.
The internalisation of control
The most haunting thing about coercive control disguised as care is that it doesn’t just change how you behave, it changes how you think.
People often leave high-control religious environments but still find themselves filtering every thought through that internalised “spiritual conscience.” You might hear echoes of your old pastor or leader in your head, whispering,
- “Would God be pleased with this?”
- “Are you being prideful?”
- “Maybe you’re just deceived.”
Even years later, that voice can sit like a ghost in your nervous system. It can show up as indecision (“Am I making the wrong choice?”), guilt (“I’m selfish for setting that boundary”), or even physical anxiety (“I feel sick saying no”).
And it makes sense, because for years, saying no meant punishment. Thinking for yourself meant rebellion, and rebellion meant eternal suffering.
That’s not spiritual growth. I’s fear-based conditioning.
The cost of confusing control with care
People who’ve experienced this kind of manipulation often struggle with deep layers of shame and self-doubt long after they’ve left.
- They second-guess their instincts.
- They feel guilty for wanting autonomy.
- They confuse freedom with selfishness.
And because the control was framed as “love,” it becomes almost impossible to see the harm clearly. You end up gaslighting yourself and thinking, “They were only trying to help me. Maybe I was the problem.”
But love doesn’t make you small. Love doesn’t monitor your every move under the banner of “accountability and it doesn’t require you to agree, obey, or perform in order to be safe. What you experienced wasn’t care, it was control wearing the mask of care. And naming that is often the first step in healing from it.
Why this form of coercion is so effective
Fear-based control thrives in religious systems because it’s reinforced by both community and theology.
When the people around you believe that obedience equals holiness, disagreement automatically becomes dangerous, and questioning leadership is framed as questioning God, silence becomes a survival strategy.
The whole system is designed to make you participate in your own control.
You confess, apologise, and self-correct; not because anyone forces you to, but because you’ve been taught that any deviation puts your soul at risk.
It’s an incredibly effective mechanism of control because it bypasses resistance. There’s no need for overt punishment when the fear of divine rejection is punishment enough.
The emotional toll
Living under constant “spiritual concern” takes a toll on your body as much as your mind.
- You might feel a chronic sense of anxiety, always waiting to be “found out.”
- You might overanalyse every choice, every thought, every feeling.
- You might apologise too much or avoid saying what you really think altogether.
It’s not because you’re weak or overly sensitive, it’s because your nervous system was trained to associate difference with danger.
When someone frames their control as care, it puts you in a double bind: If you push back, you’re “rebellious”, but if you comply, you lose yourself.
That’s the genius (and the cruelty) of it all.
What healing and recovery looks like
Healing from this kind of coercion isn’t about simply rejecting the system. It’s about unlearning the reflex to question your own goodness.
It’s about learning to trust your own internal signals again, your “no,” your “I’m not sure,” your “that doesn’t feel right.” And recognising that love doesn’t need to be policed, that safety isn’t something you earn by performing the right kind of humility.
And yes, it’s about rage, too. Because when you finally see that the “care” you received was conditional on your compliance, something inside you burns. And that anger is valid. It’s not bitterness, it’s clarity.
You were never the problem. The system that called control “love” was.
Naming the fear for what it is
The hardest part is acknowledging how effective this control really is, even for intelligent, kind, grounded people. Because, it’s not a matter of weakness or gullibility. It’s the result of a system that intentionally blurs the line between fear and faith, love and loyalty.
When the same people who love you also teach you to fear them, it’s not a relationship, it’s captivity.
And when that captivity is spiritualised, it becomes almost untouchable. Because now, the fear isn’t just of losing community, it’s of losing eternity.
That’s what makes it so dangerous. You can’t heal what you can’t name, and you can’t name it if you’ve been told that to even question it means you’re “hard-hearted” or “backsliding.”
So here’s the truth, plain and simple:
- If love requires fear, it isn’t love.
- If “care” demands compliance, it isn’t care.
- If “accountability” means losing yourself, it isn’t accountability.
It’s control.
And the impact is real; fractured self-trust, lingering shame, nervous system dysregulation, relational confusion. This isn’t spiritual immaturity, it’s trauma.
What now?
If any of this feels uncomfortably familiar, you’re not imagining it. You’re not dramatic or ungrateful or “walking away from God.” You are recognising that what was sold to you as care was actually control and that’s one of the bravest things you can do.
It’s easy to spot the kind of control that’s loud, aggressive, and obvious. It’s much harder to name the kind that sounds like love.
But once you do, once you see it clearly that’s where freedom begins. You can find more of my words, that hopefully help you find yours over on my Substack ‘The Post Church Files’.
Reach out if you would like to engage and unpack this in therapy, I am currently taking new clients.