The Day I Realized I Had to “Save” My Dad: The Toxic Burden of Evangelism in High Control Religion
During winter break of my freshman year at Wheaton College, I was back home in San Diego staying with my family between semesters. Our house was at the end of a long, winding canyon road that eventually turned to dirt. Other than my family, a few elderly neighbors scattered across the hills, countless avocado and citrus groves, and the occasional howl of a coyote, there wasn’t much else out there.
To pass the time, and to avoid extreme boredom, I often drove the 20 minutes into town to catch up with church friends from high school, get coffee, or browse the library. I spent many hours winding along those canyon roads, lost in thought about God, faith, theology, and the future. One afternoon, as I rounded a familiar hairpin turn, I had an epiphany that was somewhat terrifying:
If my atheist dad was going to be “saved,” I was going to have to be the one to evangelize to him.
It hit me like a freight train. None of the other Christians in my family seemed concerned enough about his eternal fate — a fate that I had been taught could be sealed at any moment if he died without accepting Jesus (and a fate which was being further impressed upon me in my theology classes in college).
I felt relieved that I’d finally found the solution to what I saw as a grave problem (my dad going to hell), but panic crept in almost immediately. I didn’t want this responsibility. The thought of witnessing to my dad filled me with dread…
I was (and still am) an introvert, which made the idea of bold conversations or theological debates with anyone completely overwhelming. Evangelism was definitely NOT one of my spiritual gifts.
My dad was a difficult person to interact with. At the time, my description of him was that he was emotionally immature. Now, with the knowledge I’ve gained through education and therapy, I can recognize that he exhibited traits of narcissism. He was also often critical and angry, so talking with him felt like navigating a minefield. I often avoided it altogether.
After my epiphany in the car, I felt conflicted…
I loved my dad and didn’t want him to suffer in hell for all eternity, but I also steered clear of engaging with him because I wanted to protect myself from his criticism and reactivity. Still, I didn’t want to let God down, so I decided I had to get off the sidelines and "take one for the team.”
Over the course of the next few years, I tried witnessing to my dad through both words and actions. Occasionally, I’d muster up the courage to ask him about his beliefs and why he didn’t say “yes” to God’s invitation of unconditional love. But more often, I focused on trying to be patient and kind (even when he was not), hoping that by being a perfect and loving daughter my dad would see God’s goodness reflected in me, and in turn accept Jesus into his heart. After all, Scripture had taught me:
“By this all people will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.”
That meant that when I had every right to stand up to my dad when he was being unkind, I swallowed my feelings, worried that asserting myself would communicate defiance instead of love, which could turn him away from God. When something he said made me mad, I numbed my anger because I feared that would ruin my witness. When I made mistakes, I didn’t see them as normal learning experiences — I saw them as failures because everything I did was supposed to be a testimony for God.
Believing that someone I loved could be eternally damned — and that it was my responsibility to prevent it — was an immense emotional weight. This toxic message instilled in me a sense of hyper-responsibility for others, which (unfortunately) didn't just magically disappear when I eventually went through my own faith deconstruction and exited high control religion.
Why the Command to “Save” Others is Harmful
The reason I share this story from my own experience is because it highlights what is often a common experience in Evangelicalism - feeling responsible for whether or not those around you go to hell.
When you've been conditioned to believe that other people's eternal fate is your responsibility, it teaches you that their salvation is more important than your needs or your safety. And it teaches you that you have the power to change someone. These messages don’t just evaporate if and when you leave your faith community—they linger in subtle and pervasive ways, shaping your relationships and sense of self. Below are some of the common ways they can show up:
Boundary issues:
Many survivors of high-control religion find it difficult to differentiate between their responsibilities and the choices of others. The idea that you’re responsible for “saving” others often blurs healthy boundaries. This can lead to feeling compelled to intervene when someone makes choices that you perceive as harmful or “wrong,” even when it’s not your place to do so. The pressure to fix or guide others is rooted in the belief that you’re accountable for their outcomes—spiritually or otherwise. Learning to say, “That’s not my responsibility” can be one of the most liberating steps toward healthier relationships.
People-pleasing tendencies:
When your worth has been tied to how much you can help, serve, or sacrifice for others, it’s easy to slip into patterns of people-pleasing as an adult. High-control religious teachings often frame self-sacrifice as noble and necessary, reinforcing that any personal discomfort or boundary violation is “worth it” if it helps bring someone closer to God. This mindset can be hard to shake and may lead you to overextend yourself in relationships, prioritize others' needs over your own, and suppress your true feelings. Learning that your value isn’t contingent on how much you give to others is essential for healing.
Internalized guilt:
The burden of feeling responsible for other people's salvation creates deep-seated guilt when those efforts inevitably fall short. In high-control religion, outcomes are often framed as a reflection of your personal faith or effort. If someone rejects the message, it’s easy to internalize the blame: Did I pray enough? Was I kind enough? Did I miss an opportunity to witness? This guilt doesn't stop at religious matters—it seeps into everyday situations, creating a persistent sense of failure when things don’t go as planned. Recognizing that you are not at fault for others' choices is crucial to releasing this weight.
Healing from the Message
Healing from the toxic messaging that the choices, behavior, or spiritual journeys of others are your responsibility requires intention and support. As both a religious trauma survivor and therapist, I know how freeing it can be to unlearn these harmful beliefs. Here are some steps that can make this journey lighter:
Therapy: Working with a therapist who understands religious trauma can help disentangle guilt and responsibility. Therapy offers a space to establish healthier thought patterns and reinforce the belief that we are responsible for our own well-being — not the beliefs or happiness or well-being of others.
Reframing relationships: Viewing relationships as spaces for love and support rather than projects to manage or fix brings greater authenticity and mutual respect.
Letting go of control: Recognizing that we cannot control anyone else’s choices or behavior can be liberating.
Prioritizing authenticity, love, and mutual respect: Embracing authenticity allows for deeper, healthier connections — not just with others, but with yourself.
A Message of Hope…
If you’re a survivor of religious trauma and spiritual abuse, I want you to hear this:
You are not responsible for anyone else’s happiness, choices, or eternal fate.
I also want to remind you that healing after faith deconstruction is possible. You can rebuild your life after leaving high control religion and find joy, connection, purpose, and peace.
If you resonate with any of the above, I’m here to help. As a therapist specializing in religious trauma, I’m currently accepting new clients in California, Florida, and Missouri. Request a free consultation below, and let’s take the next step together.