by Miriam Chapman as told on the Story Partners Podcast
I almost had this absolute reality that if I were ever to speak up about anything, no one would believe me.
What I was feeling and what I was experiencing was real, and there was a power of darkness that was out to destroy me, as if it could reach out from outside and kill me.
The House of Fear
My name is Miriam. I was born in South Africa, but we moved to England when I was two and a half because my parents felt a call from God. I have always been someone who feels things intensely; I was incredibly shy and struggled to make friends. Even at that young age, moving felt like my world was falling apart.
We rented an apartment in Kent, and we didn’t know it then, but the property was owned by a Freemason who lived in the other house on the lot. I’ve always been spiritually sensitive—a trait from my family’s active spiritual history—and that house was marked by fear. I had the worst night terrors and visions. I believe the enemy targets property to gain leverage, and I was a vulnerable child in an atmosphere created by the occult practices happening right next door.
Spiritual Warfare
The fear was so real. I felt like a power of darkness was out to destroy me, like it could reach out and kill me. My parents were exhausted; they had three young girls, including a six-month-old, and then there was me, consistently waking up screaming.
Because they didn’t know about the Freemasonry, they started teaching me spiritual warfare as a three-year-old just so I could cope. My grandmother once told me she came into my room during a screaming fit and saw me rebuking something with all my strength. She couldn’t see it, but she knew I was looking at something terrifying. This shaped me. My grandmother actually runs a prayer house focused on inner healing and spiritual warfare, which is why my family even had those tools to give me.
The Constant Shadow
I had a sincere, serious faith as a child, but it was overshadowed. If we were having family Bible study at the dinner table and the sun went down, I couldn’t be present anymore. My eyes would dart from window to window, distracted by the dark outside. My parents eventually had to pull the curtains so I could concentrate.
I saw myself as weak, gullible, and pathetic. I believed that if I ever spoke up, no one would believe me. Worse, I was taught about ‘spiritual covering’—the idea that if you are obedient, you are protected. Because I was still experiencing these terrors, I concluded that I was the reason for them. I felt I wasn’t good enough, and that moral failure led to deep shame and a feeling of being completely forsaken.
“They Are Weak, But He Is Strong”
Despite the fear, I was close to Jesus. To soothe myself during nightmares, I would sing ‘Jesus loves me, this I know.’ The line ‘They are weak, but He is strong’ was my absolute antidote. It took the edge off the shame of being a powerless four-year-old confronted by real darkness. That song was a precious light that carried me through my lowest points.
Eventually, my parents realized the landlord was a Freemason and knew we had to leave. We moved to my childhood home, and while my sleep was restored, the fear of the dark followed me for a long time.
Uprooted and Alone
I felt like I couldn’t grow roots. First South Africa, then Kent, then moving from a local primary school to a Christian one. I was incredibly lonely. I used to sing a song: ‘Did you ever talk to God above, tell Him that you need a friend to love?’ I spent so much time talking to Jesus because I didn’t have anyone else.
Adding to this pain was a generational cycle of sexual abuse in my family. As a child, I was sexually abused. When you are that young, you don’t understand why you feel dirty or ‘broken,’ but your spirit realizes that something God created has been defiled. At 12, I attempted suicide. I took an overdose of medication, but woke up an hour later, terrified. I told my parents I wasn’t ready to die and needed the hospital. They kept me overnight, but I survived.
The Meaning of “Miriam“
My name, Miriam, felt like an albatross. My mom would mention in moments of frustration that it means ‘sea of bitterness’ or ‘rebellion.’ I felt like God had cemented my fate—that I was destined to be stubborn and disobedient. I didn’t feel safe letting anyone see the real me. I felt excluded from God’s positive characteristics.
By 13 or 14, I was desperate for an encounter with God, but I met only silence. I began to believe God didn’t care to speak to me. My parents even received a prophecy that there was a ‘great war for the soul’ of their second child. High school became a season of darkness. I went from a nurtured Christian primary school to an environment where I felt completely alone.
I hated myself and felt completely incompetent. This blossomed into an eating disorder. People say eating disorders are about control, and for me, it simplified a life I couldn’t manage. It was easy to ‘succeed’ at losing weight; you just eat less. But it robbed me of community because so much of life happens around food. I would mentally check out or disconnect whenever food was present.
I also struggled with self-harm and suicidal ideation. I didn’t know how to process emotional hurt until I converted it into physical pain. The wall of isolation just got thicker.
My Mask
Around 15 or 16, the memories of the abuse began to surface. I felt disillusioned. I thought, ‘God, You knew I would be like this, and You let it happen.’ I believed He was real, but I didn’t think He was good. I had a deep-rooted, unconscious hatred toward men.
At university, I wore a mask. With non-Christians, I secretly believed in God; with Christians, I secretly had same-sex attraction. I was constantly scripting my behavior to make sure no one thought I was gay. I was exhausted.
A Broken Stronghold
One day in my dorm room, I had a thought that I believe was God calling me out on my apathy. I realized I was at a point where I could either choose to build God into my life or inadvertently build Him out. I didn’t know what He wanted except for me to read the Bible and go to church.
My church held a Q&A evening about the reliability of the Bible. They were uncompromising about the Word, yet incredibly loving. It became the vehicle God used to start speaking to my life again.
After that church Q&A, I went into a three-month deep dive into the Bible. It was like when Jesus appeared to Thomas and said, ‘Poke my wounds. See that I am who I say I am.’ I would ask questions—those half-prayers you think out loud while sitting on the bus—and the very next day, the Bible would answer them. It broke the stronghold that God didn’t care to speak to me.
I realized God had been silent when I was 13 because He needed to lay a foundation of identity first. If He had told me my calling then, I would have used it to try to make myself ‘worthy’ of His love. Instead, He started with who I was. This was where the healing from same-sex attraction began. One day, reading Ephesians, I was captivated by the picture of Christ and the Church. I realized then that for this beautiful picture to be clear, it needs to be a man and a woman. I didn’t want to tell any story that distracted from that. At the time, I thought, ‘Okay, I just have to abstain. That’s fine.’
Allies In The Fight
I was discipled by two young Southern Baptist missionaries. One of them, Lucas, asked about the scars on my arms. I told him matter-of-factly that I used to self-harm. To my surprise, he started tearing up right there in the restaurant. He was so moved by my pain that he could barely eat.
That was a massive turning point. Because he was a man, it touched a deep wound. It was the first time I felt a man had truly stepped into my pain and recognized how hard it was. I made a conscious decision then to start honoring the people who were actually on my side. I stopped focusing on the ‘exclusion’ and started giving weight to those who were including me.
The church I was in took the pressure off. They told me, ‘You might always have this attraction, and God might never take it away. Our goal is for you to be pure, not just straight.’ That gave me the resources to build a foundation of righteousness without feeling condemned.
I think the church is often ineffective because it makes same-sex attraction the ‘first issue’ that must be fixed. But you need spiritual tools before you can tackle something that reaches so deep into your identity. I eventually moved to Austria to be mentored by my grandmother in her healing and deliverance ministry. I realized that the enemy uses isolation to make us think our sins are unique, but most people are fighting the same ‘beasts.’ Having people sit in the dark and fight with you is everything.
The New Meaning of “Miriam”
I’ve experienced the most healing in the area of shame. I used to run from my fears, thinking that if I stopped, they would overwhelm me. But when I finally stopped and admitted my weakness, Jesus met me in that loneliness.
I remember looking through a book of names and finding a different root meaning for ‘Miriam.’ It wasn’t just ‘bitterness’; it could also mean ‘one who loves God’ or ‘one whom God loves.’ That word, “Beloved“, disarmed the narrative that God identified me by my failures. He identifies me by His love for me.
Today, I am married to a man, and I don’t struggle with same-sex attraction anymore. People often say, ‘She’s just suppressing it,’ but I feel like the resurrected Jesus showing His wounds. I am on the other side. I am not faking. God is a God who turns up. I choose to give weight to His goodness rather than my past abuse. The seeds of ‘Jesus Loves Me’ that I sang at six years old grew into a reality at 19. He is present, He is listening, and He is powerful enough to break through for anyone.
