The year was 1999, a Monday night in the basement of the Shockey home, where about 20 youth and young adults gathered to listen to one of our youth leaders, Kari, give a small group teaching.

In my lifetime, I have attended thousands of small-group conversations throughout my pastoral career. Yet this memory stands out clearly – I can tell you exactly where I was seated and how focused I was on her demonstration.

She stood behind a small folding table with a paper plate and a tube of toothpaste.

She spoke about the Power of Words.

As she squeezed the tube and the toothpaste spilled out onto the plate, her demeanor changed. She tried frantically to push the toothpaste back into the tube, but each attempt only made a bigger mess.

If you’ve ever tried to put toothpaste back into its tube, you know it’s impossible.

And in that moment, she gave us a lifelong visual: you cannot take back the words you say.

I recently took a personality assessment with Behavioral Elements, and I wasn’t surprised to see I tested as the Water element. Water is described as deeply connected, relationship-driven, and happiest supporting others. And well being more submissive than I should be. That resonates with me.

I also recognize that some of what showed up in that assessment likely reflects my response to the trauma I’ve experienced over the past year.

It’s hard to express what’s happening inside, especially when you have to use words like “trauma.” The latest accusation – the words he spoke about me – changed things permanently. He may never fully understand the power of those words.

Those words changed our friendship, my feelings toward him, and any possibility of returning to what once existed. The toothpaste analogy fits perfectly – some words can’t be taken back.

I choose my words carefully because I understand their impact.

Even so, confrontation remains incredibly difficult for me.

The knocks on the hotel door confirmed I was done for the night. My emotional tank was empty, my patience hanging by a thread.

“The bar is closed – let’s figure out where to go next,” the men said.

After asking them to keep their voices down for the family next door, I finally drew a line:

“That’s it – the night is over. You – wait in the lobby. She’ll come take you home. You two – inside now. Change clothes and leave. You three – go. Tonight is done. I’m not entertaining any more conversation.”

Then I shut the door.

Over the past twelve years, my ability to confront has grown – somewhat.

I can write an email, a text, or a blog and pour all my clarity into it. I try to embody effective, non-violent communication. But in one-on-one conversations, I rarely show up the way I rehearse.

I let people in too easily. My empathy often overrides my boundaries.

That night, I was firm. I was proud of myself. And I thought maybe I could do this.

But the thought of speaking with “he who shall not be named” (a designation in his “community” that had been given to him years before I arrived on the scene) makes me shut down completely.

I feel like a hypocrite.

I spent nearly a year healing, letting go of anger tied to embarrassment, guilt, and misunderstanding. I thought I was ready. I thought I could eventually sit at a table and have a meaningful conversation.

But the last sixty-eight days have undone that.

As an introvert, I live in my head – constantly rehearsing past and future conversations.

I wanted to show up with grace and emotional intelligence. I wanted to be steady and fair. But now that the gaps in the situation have been filled, I can’t imagine sitting at the table.

Showing up to the table is what I believe in. What I live!
But I can’t do it right now.

I’m willing to share my truth – my past, my choices, the abuse, the documentation, the reality of what I lived through.

But I cannot sit and listen to lies.

I’ve already read through more than 100 pages of distortions and manipulation. I can’t reconcile new accusations that don’t align with reality. I can’t understand being accused of cruelty I personally endured.

Even when I try to see things from his perspective – recognizing the decades of emotional damage he has endured – there are words that cannot be taken back.

This is beyond my capacity.

I’m educated. I’m emotionally aware. I’m a professional listener. I value connection deeply. But I am out of my depth.

The impact of what he said about me will never fully leave my mind.

This needs professional intervention, not just my emotional labor.

The toothpaste story remains with me.

I’m aware that if I engage right now, my anger could surface in a way that leads me to say something irreversible.

Trauma isn’t one wound; it’s many wounds layered together. And right now, I cannot find a safe point of entry into this conversation.

For the past year, people have told me to walk away permanently. I resisted. I believed everyone deserves a chance – especially from me.

But right now, I can’t.

Maybe years from now, I’ll be able to sit across from him without feeling overwhelmed by anger or betrayal. Maybe someday.

But not now.

Boundaries protect me.
And in this case, they also protect him.

Know your limits my friends – don’t say what you cannot take back. 

With all my love, xoxo J