Raised Like Ribbon

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Chapter One: In the Name of Truth

I was raised in a belief system that called itself “The Truth.” It had other names too—The Way, The Friends, The Black Socks. But to those within it, it needed no title. To question it was to question God. It wasn’t a church with a steeple or a name on a sign. It was a network, secretive and severe, shaped by William Irvine in the late 19th century.  There were no pastors, deacons, church boards or commmittees.   There were no church buildings.  

Teaching and Doctrine came in pairs, men and women, staying in the homes of members, offering salvation in living rooms and barns, dressed plainly, speaking softly, quoting scripture. Their gospel was one of strict obedience: no television, no makeup, no jewelry, no musical instruments. Women wore long hair in buns and long skirts. Men led. Women submitted. Children watched. And no one talked.

It wasn’t just spiritual—it was systemic. The lines between reverence and fear blurred early. The threat of hell wasn’t a metaphor. It was the undercurrent of every sermon and drilled into every child's head - Failure to follow the truth was to go straight to hell. Every rule had eternal consequences. Every misstep invited damnation. And silence was the ultimate virtue.

Within this tight-laced world, the stories of mistreatment were not uncommon—but they were unspeakable. Whispers about “the workers” circulated, quickly shushed. Girls who cried too much were called liars. Boys who disobeyed were shamed publicly. Allegations were buried beneath scriptures, wrapped in a bow of false forgiveness. Dateline and 48 Hours have only recently scratched the surface. But those of us who lived it—who were raised like ribbon—know the truth.

The Friends is widely recognized in contemporary journalism and cult studies as a high-control religious group exhibiting numerous cult-like behaviors: isolation, fear-based teaching, suppression of critical thought, and complete submission to authority. One of the most defining aspects of the group was its physical invisibility—there were no church buildings, no official signage, no denominational name. Meetings were held in members' homes, in rural community halls, even in borrowed schoolrooms. Wednesday nights and Sunday mornings were reserved for worship.

In addition to the weekly meetings, there were Union Meetings, Special Meetings, and the large-scale Conventions—multi-day gatherings where hundreds of “Friends” assembled in tents or barns to listen to extended sermons, sing hymns, and engage in prayer. Special Meetings and Conventions were led entirely by the workers, who traveled in pairs without a home, a job, or family of their own—believed to be living examples of early discipleship.

Each smaller gathering involved singing from a specific hymnal (with no musical accompaniment), prayers, and testimonies based on a scripture passage selected for the week. These testimonies were usually personal and framed within the boundaries of total submission and gratitude for the narrow path.

Social life existed solely within the community of the Friends. Friendships with outsiders were discouraged, even condemned. Children were taught to separate themselves from “the world,” warned about worldly influences and attachments. Dating outside the group was unacceptable, and marriages were expected to take place only between believers. This cultural insulation created a thick wall of silence and suspicion, where the outside world was feared, and the inside world was gospel.

There was no room for rebellion, no space for curiosity. Questions were considered a form of spiritual pride. Doubt was sin. Faith meant swallowing every rule, every restriction, and thanking God for the privilege.

I was tied up in it.

Chapter Two: Raised Like Ribbon

Ribbons are supposed to be pretty. Decorative. Delicate. But they can also be tight. Restrictive. A way to bind things in place, neat and tidy, no matter what’s inside.

That’s how I was raised—like ribbon. Pulled tight into a belief system I didn’t choose. Wound around traditions meant to constrain. Tied up in expectations that left no room to breathe.

I slept on the floor of my parents’ bedroom until I was fourteen. Not because we were poor (we were) or because there wasn’t space. But because I was terrified—of my older brothers, their friends, my cousins. If my mother made me sleep in the living room, I’d take the cushions off the old dark brown couch made from a scratchy, itchy material that clung to your skin and left behind invisible welts of memory. I hated that couch. But it felt safer than sleeping in the open. I would make a little bed on the pull-out section, then line up the two cushions in front of it, like a barrier. I thought it made me invisible. But all it really did was draw attention to the fact that I wasn’t sleeping in my parents room.

I was trying to protect myself by disappearing.

The farmhouse we lived in was over a hundred years old—creaky, worn down, filled with shadows and secrets. My brothers had a giant old stereo upstairs. Somehow, they convinced my parents to let them keep it, even though secular music was frowned upon. When they were gone, I would sneak up there and lie on the floor next to it. I didn’t know what I was listening to—only that it felt like freedom. Music became an escape that never stopped calling me.

But not every trip upstairs ended in music. One afternoon, my brother invited me up to listen to his new eight-track tapes. Specifically, The Steve Miller Band - When I entered, the door was closed behind me and blocked. What followed was confusing and frightening—an invasion of space and trust I didn’t understand at the time. My mother called up the stairs, sensing something wasn’t right. A hand over my mouth stopped me from calling out, but I listened hopefully to her steps creaking upward on the stairs. Surely she would make me come out and my brother would be punished, right?    Wrong.  When she tried the door and it wouldn’t open, she turned and walked away. Crushing my little soul, I was alone.  She never tried to help, I feel she knew what was happening. Later, she sat me down with a Bible and lectured me on modesty, quoting Psalm 119:11. As if I had caused it. As if my my mere presence or silence was to blame.

The system I was born into didn’t prepare me for safety. It taught me silence was strength, and suffering was sanctified. I was never told I deserved to be protected. Only that I needed to be obedient.

I climbed everything as a child. Trees, outbuildings, even the house itself. I’d scramble to the roof of the garage or perch on the beams inside the barn, sometimes crawling up the side of the old silo just to find a perch where no one could reach me. I carried a book tucked into my shirt and read for hours while the wind pressed around me. Up high, away from the hands and the hush, I felt untouchable. Elevated. Safe. It wasn’t just adventure—it was escape. It was survival. I was always climbing up and away, looking for air, looking for stillness. I didn’t have the words for trauma yet, but my body already knew how to flee.

I carried that silence for years. It made me vulnerable. It made me pliable. It made me crazy. It made me a perfect target.

But eventually, the ribbon frayed.

And I started to untie.