Why I Make Music About Church Hurt (And Why It Heals)

I didn't start making music because I wanted to be an artist.

I started because I was drowning and needed a lifeboat.

There's a season after church hurt where nothing helps. Sermons make you flinch. Bible studies feel loaded. Prayer feels like screaming into a void. Counseling helps, but the sessions end. Friends listen, but they can't fully understand. Books give you frameworks, but frameworks don't hold you at 3 AM.

Music held me at 3 AM.

How It Started

It started with a journal entry that wouldn't stay prose. The words kept arranging themselves into rhythm. Into verse and chorus. Into something that wanted to be sung, not read.

I didn't have a studio. I didn't have a plan. I had pain and a laptop and an AI tool that could turn my words into something that sounded like the inside of my chest.

The first song I made — I won't even tell you the name because it wasn't good — made me cry. Not because it was beautiful. Because it was honest. For the first time, the thing I was feeling had a shape. It had a melody. It existed outside of me.

That's when I understood: music doesn't just express pain. It externalizes it. It takes the thing that's crushing you from the inside and gives it a form you can look at, sit with, and eventually, release.

Why Church Hurt Needs Its Own Music

There are a million worship songs about victory and blessing. There are gospel albums about triumph and joy. And those are great — for people who are in that season.

But what about the rest of us?

What about the person sitting in the parking lot on Sunday morning, crying because they want to go in but they can't? What about the woman who flinches every time someone raises their hands in worship because it triggers memories she can't control? What about the man who stopped praying because every time he closes his eyes, he hears his old leader's voice instead of God's?

Where's the music for them?

That's the gap. That's why I make what I make.

Songs like "I Forgive You, Pastor" aren't worship songs. They're survival songs. They're for the person who needs to know they're not the only one. They're for the person who needs to hear their own story reflected back to them in melody.

Some songs are about the nights when the memories won't let go. Others are about the moment you realize that what happened to you doesn't get to determine who you become. As Paul wrote, "We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed" (2 Corinthians 4:8-9).

These songs aren't trying to fix you. They're trying to sit with you. And sometimes, sitting with someone is the most healing thing in the world.

The Science Behind It

This isn't just me being poetic. There's actual science behind why music heals.

Music activates the limbic system — the emotional center of your brain. It triggers dopamine release. It can reduce cortisol (the stress hormone). It accesses memories and emotions that talk therapy sometimes can't reach.

There's a reason certain songs make you cry even when you're fine. Music bypasses your logical brain and goes straight to the place where your feelings live.

For church hurt survivors, this is especially powerful. Because so much of spiritual abuse targets your logical mind — "you're wrong for questioning," "your feelings aren't reliable," "trust the leader, not yourself." Your thinking brain got hijacked. But your emotional brain? That's still yours. And music speaks directly to it.

Why AI Music Isn't What You Think

I use AI tools to create my music. I'm transparent about that. And I know some people hear "AI music" and assume it's soulless — just prompts and algorithms.

But here's the truth: the AI doesn't write the songs. I do.

Every lyric comes from my journal. Every concept comes from my experience. Every song exists because I sat down, dug into my pain, and put words to it. The AI gives me a voice — literally — but the soul behind every word is mine.

I say this because I think it matters. The music industry might debate AI's role in art. But for me, AI gave a voice to someone who didn't have one. It let someone who can't sing make songs that make people cry. That's not soulless. That's a miracle.

If You're Hurting Right Now

Put on headphones. Not as a distraction. As a companion.

Find a song that understands. Not a song that tells you how to feel — a song that reflects how you already feel. A song that says, "Yeah, I've been there too."

Start with the Servant Zero catalog. Every song in there was written by someone who's been exactly where you are. And if nothing else, I hope you walk away knowing one thing:

You're not alone. Someone put their pain into a beat and a melody so that you'd know that.

Related reading: "How to Rebuild Your Faith After Church Hurt" and "Can You Get PTSD From Church?"