Baptized in Their Expectations

I stepped into cold water and out of myself

Baptized in Their Expectations

I was wearing a skirt,
a modest blouse that clung once it got wet, not white
and my hair was twisted up in a tight bun like holiness started with bobby pins.

The baptism tank was cold.
The lights were too bright.
And I had practiced my answers like a script,
over and over again:
Yes, I believe God sent a prophet.
Yes, I believe in the Word of the Hour.
Yes, I dedicate the rest of my life to it.

I didn’t say “yes” because I understood.
I said it because I didn’t want to fail.
I said it because I wanted to be baptized at the same time as my friends.
Because doing it together felt safer than doing it alone.

Before you could even get to the tank,
you had to sit down with your parents and ask.
Not ask God, ask your mom and dad.
You had to explain why you felt “ready.”
Then you had to ask a deacon.
Like you were applying for salvation.
Like faith was a job interview and the elders were HR.

And if they said yes - they let you in
you got the ticket.
You got to take communion.
You got the wine for his blood, the wafer for his body, and the foot washing.
If not, you stood on the sidelines,
watching everyone else pray over toe jam
while you kept your hands in your lap,
waiting.

You couldn’t be too young.
Couldn’t be too old.
You had to be just right.
Malleable.
Impressionable.
Shaped and still shapable.

And once you were baptized?
Oh, it didn’t stop there.

The gaze turned sharper.
Your life became a stage.
Every word, every move, every inch of fabric on your body - watched.
Measured.
Judged.

Was your skirt long enough?
Did your blouse expose a taste of your breasts -
when you were to be carrying yourself like a girl who had made a vow?

It wasn’t about faith.
It was about performance.

Holiness wasn’t something you carried inside you.
It was something they had to see on the outside.
Something you had to prove, again and again.
Until you forgot what you ever believed to begin with.

I spent years trying to be that girl.
The good one.
The obedient one.
The invisible one.

And then one day I wasn’t anymore.

Because here’s the truth:
I’m done asking permission to exist -
erasing to be liked
unfamiliar with the sound of my voice - in the disguise of safety

Religion dressed itself up as salvation,
but underneath it was control.
And I’m done letting anyone else hold the leash.

You don’t have to like it.
You don’t have to read it.
You can unsubscribe, unfollow, look away.

I’m not here to be palatable.

I’m here to write what still burns.
To speak what was never safe to say.