The Trigger You Never See Coming

How religious guilt can disguise itself as generosity and why self-worth must be reclaimed daily.

Trigger Warning: Religious Trauma

Triggers don’t always announce themselves. Sometimes, they’re not loud or visible. Sometimes, they aren’t seen at all, they’re felt.

Today, I was triggered. And I couldn’t quite untangle the knot it left in my chest.

Maybe I still haven’t. But I want to try to unravel what happened, where I was mentally, where I am now, and maybe get a glimpse of where I’m headed.

There’s a new consignment store in our hamlet, one I adore. The owner and I are connected through social media and she’s always gushed over my style. On my first visit, we got talking, and she encouraged me to bring in some of my pieces to consign. I was thrilled. “Absolutely”, I said.

It never occurred to me that simply dropping off some clothes would end with me shaking in my vehicle, trying to breathe through the weight of guilt and panic.

These were beautiful clothes, well-loved, full of memories but no longer fitting. I inspected every single piece, folded them carefully, and delivered them in a bin.

As the owner sorted through them, her face lit up. Laughter and conversation flowed easily between us.

“I’m keeping it all to sell!” she beamed.

I was overjoyed. Truly. I hope each piece finds someone who loves it, someone who gives it new life and new memories.

But when I left, after signing the contract and walking out the door, something cracked.

I sat in my car and trembled.

What in the ever-loving fuck is wrong with me?

Deep breaths, Bre. Deep breaths.

That old familiar adrenaline flooded me, the same kind I felt walking into the cult leader’s office, the sensation that I was being watched, judged.

Did I do something wrong?

Why do I feel so ashamed?

I messaged my boyfriend.

And as the day unfolded, clarity slowly arrived:

It was guilt. Overwhelming, irrational, indoctrinated guilt.

Because I didn’t donate the clothes.

Because I chose to consign them.

Because doing so means that if they sell, I’ll earn 40%.

Even though we need the money.

Even though I’m raising five children on my own.

Even though these clothes are worth something.

I was raised to believe that someone always has it worse than me, and that to put myself first is selfish.

And despite the owner being kind, supportive, and knowing my situation… a part of me still asked: Did she keep them all out of pity?

Even though I KNOW my clothes are stylish, in pristine shape, and contribute to her business and sustainability.

The truth is, putting myself first makes me uncomfortable. Deeply uncomfortable.

Even now, after all the progress I’ve made.

But I’m trying.

I hope my clothes find new homes. I hope their new owners tag the store so I can see how they’ve styled their “new-to-them” looks.

And I need to remind myself of this:

I am not a billionaire hoarding wealth.

I am not withholding from the world.

I am a single mother of five, doing everything I can to stay on my feet.

Religious trauma doesn’t always hit you in the church pews.

Sometimes, it shows up on a quiet Wednesday, while supporting a woman-owned business, trying to make ends meet, and daring to prioritize yourself.

Indoctrination is a beast.

And if I’m not actively fighting it, it tries to swallow me whole.

But I’m still here. Still choosing myself. One small, shaky act at a time.