When Truth Gets Twisted

Introduction

The year was 2018.

I had just been offered the internship of my dreams—a clinical position at a large, well-known, affluent church in Nashville, Tennessee. I was stepping into the role of a marriage and family therapist intern, a title that carried both honor and emotional weight.

I had worked hard to get here—not just academically, but spiritually and emotionally. I had wrestled through shame, wondering if my past—mistakes I made nearly a decade earlier—would forever disqualify me from helping others find their way out of dark places. Shame whispered that I didn’t belong in the healing profession. But the man who hired me, the lead counselor of the church—we’ll call him Tim—saw me. The real me. He saw the work I had done to heal, to grow, and to rise. And he invited me to represent the church as an intern.

And I was so excited.

I had walked through trauma, emotional neglect, and complex pain, and I’d made it out alive—with the scars and the wisdom to show for it. I’d found my way to graduate school because I didn’t just want to heal—I wanted to help others find their way out, too. In the therapy world, we call it being a wounded healer—someone who has walked through fire and now holds the water.

Helping hurting women wasn’t just a dream for me—it was a calling.
As a teenager, I had once walked the aisle of my small church during an altar call—something we did back in the '80s when we wanted to publicly declare we were “going into full-time Christian service.” The pastor held the microphone, announced my decision, and the congregation applauded. That moment stayed with me.

Now, 25–30 years later, after being emotionally beat up by both circumstances outside my control and mistakes I take full responsibility for, I finally felt like I was stepping into that call. Being chosen by Tim to begin my internship under his leadership was more than a professional win—it felt sacred. I was ready. And I was full of joy about getting to sit with women, hold space for their stories, and offer the hope I had fought so hard to find for myself.

I had told only two people about the opportunity. Just two. And that detail matters more than I could have known at the time.Looking back, it’s almost laughable—how confident I was that it was safe to share with them. But smear campaigns rarely start with strangers, do they? No… they usually start with someone who once smiled at you and said, “I’m so proud of you.”

On my very first day, Tim met me at the church café to welcome me and begin the onboarding process. But something was off. His demeanor was kind, but heavy. We walked to a private room. He closed the door gently behind us.

Then came the sentence that shattered me.

“This isn’t happening.”

I stared at him. “What isn’t happening?” I asked, confused.

“This. Your internship. It isn’t happening. I’m so sorry.”

He explained that someone within the church—someone who had heard I was starting—decided I didn’t belong there. They rallied a few others and began making phone calls to the pastor of the church, insisting that I was dangerous, unfit, someone who should be kept far away from their congregation.

And just like that, a smear campaign was launched against me.

People who remembered me only from the lowest point in my life—people who had no idea how far I had come—were now dictating my future with lies, fear, and old narratives. Not one of them had spoken to me. Not one had seen the years of healing, the education, the work, the sweat, the tears.

I asked Tim if I could meet with the pastor. I wanted to tell my story. To offer transparency. To allow him to look me in the eye.

“He doesn’t want to meet you,” Tim said. “He doesn’t want to hear your story. He just wants the drama gone. So, I’m sorry… this isn’t going to happen here for you.”

And that was it.
Fired on the first day.
Not for anything I had done—
But for who someone else said I was.

This is the reality of a smear campaign.

It doesn’t matter how much truth you carry.
It doesn’t matter how far you’ve come.
When a person is committed to tearing you down, they will find a crowd, paint a distorted version of you, and spread it like gospel.

And often… they win.
At least temporarily.

But here's what I’ve learned:

A smear campaign only works if you let it define you.
It thrives on your emotional reaction.
It grows in the soil of your self-doubt.
And it loses its power the moment you stop defending yourself, and start reclaiming your story.

This book is not about revenge.
It’s about recovery.
It’s not about exposing the smearer—it’s about exposing the lies that steal your power.

If you’ve been the target of a smear campaign, I wrote this for you.
And if you’re reading this in the thick of it, still bleeding from the sting of betrayal, let me say this clearly:

You are not who they say you are.

Let’s talk about how to prove the fool wrong.