Treehouse: My pastors confronted me for cursing and when I opened up, they said they didn't want to know

So yeah, I still go to that church. Been going there since I was like, what, twelve? Maybe thirteen. You'd think after all those years, after all those youth groups and Sunday services and volunteering for every little thing they needed help with, that would mean something. But I guess not.

It was a couple months ago. I was in the back room, you know, the one where they keep all the sound equipment and old hymnals and whatever. I was helping set up for some event, and I dropped this heavy box on my foot. And I just... I let out a string of words. Nothing crazy, just your standard "shit" and "fuck," the kind of thing anyone would say when they're in pain.

But of course, Pastor Mike and Pastor David walked in right at that exact moment. Perfect timing, right?

They didn't say anything at first. Just gave me this look. And then they asked me to sit down in the office. I knew what was coming. The whole "we need to talk" energy was suffocating before we even got in there.

They sat me down and started going on about how profanity isn't right, how it's not becoming of someone who's been in the church as long as I have, how words matter and reflect what's in your heart. The whole speech. And I'm sitting there thinking, "You've gotta be kidding me." Like, this is what we're doing? This is the conversation we're having?

And then they started calling me out. Not just about the cursing, but like... implying I'd changed, that I wasn't the same kid they used to know. Which, yeah, obviously. I'm twenty now. I'm not thirteen anymore.

So I tried to explain it to them. I told them, look, I get it. I won't curse around here. I don't think it's right to do it in church, I understand that. But then I said—and this is where it got real—I told them that's exactly why I don't tell them about my actual life. Because if they're this worked up over me saying "shit" when I drop something on my foot, how are they gonna handle the real stuff? The messy stuff? The things I actually think about, the doubts I have, the life I'm living outside these walls?

And you know what they said? They looked at me and said, "We don't need to know about your life." Just like that. "We don't need to know about your life." Like they were doing me some kind of favor by not asking. Like they were above it or something. Over my head about the whole thing.

I just sat there. What do you even say to that? It got so awkward. We kind of just... ended it. No resolution, no understanding, just this weird, uncomfortable silence and then I left.

And the thing is, I still go. I'm there almost every Sunday. I help out when they need it. I smile, I shake hands, I sing the hymns. And yeah, I still curse. Not in front of them, obviously, but in my car, with my friends, when I'm living my actual life—the one they don't need to know about.

It's just... it's weird, you know? Being somewhere for so long and realizing they don't actually want to know you. They want the version of you that fits. And I don't know if I fit anymore. But I keep showing up anyway.

Sincerely,

The Kid They Used to Know