Part Three: So We Left – And Here’s What Happened Next

(Names have been lightly redacted to protect privacy. And by "redacted," I mean changed just enough to fool absolutely no one who knows us. You’re welcome.)

At the end of Part Two, our family had just crossed the invisible but irreversible threshold from PIMO (physically in, mentally out) to fully POMO (physically out, mentally out). It was a strange kind of relief—quiet, sobering, and full of unspoken grief. We had stopped attending meetings, stepped away from the performance, and began allowing ourselves to breathe.

But as we would soon discover, stepping away didn’t mean freedom—or connection. We weren’t left alone in the way we wanted to be, with space for authentic friendships and honest living. Instead, we were watched, judged, and eventually pursued—not with care, but with protocols.

1. Signals and Silence (December 2023 – February 2024)

My wife had just started a new job at a nonprofit, and part of her role involved handling social media. She often cross-posted from her work account to her personal page, which usually went unnoticed — until one day, it didn’t.

It was mid-December, and her posts included a heartwarming event where the organization distributed free Christmas trees to families in need. Her tone was enthusiastic, praising the generosity and community spirit behind it. She also shared a couple of photos from her company’s Christmas dinner, where — unsurprisingly — someone dressed up as Santa Claus made an appearance.

Now, here's the thing: lots of Jehovah’s Witnesses attend their company Christmas dinners without issue. No one bats an eye. But for some reason, this time, it hit a nerve — probably because the posts were public and coming from a sister who was well liked and respected in the congregation. We’d been seen as a steady presence in the congregation for years, so anything that even hinted at stepping out of line seemed to stand out more than it might have for others.

And here’s the irony: when I was still fully in, I had always been extremely strict about not attending these types of functions. I didn’t care if it was labeled an “end-of-year appreciation” or scheduled for a random Thursday. If it was called a Christmas dinner, well — if it quacks like a duck… Gift exchanges, holiday music, company raffles — it didn’t matter. I could never understand how others just shrugged it off and showed up. I avoided them entirely, out of conscience.

That’s what made the reaction all the more frustrating.

That’s when I got the call.

It was Rich, an elder and longtime friend. His tone was heavy:

"Oliver, this won’t be a nice call. There have been reports that Fadela is celebrating Christmas, and we need to come over and see you."

I was stunned. I hadn’t even seen the posts — I do use social media, but I wasn’t following that particular account. Honestly, I rarely look at my family’s posts — I see them every day, so it’s not where my attention usually goes. So I asked for time to check the facts before continuing the conversation.

After talking to my wife, it became clear this was all a misunderstanding — at least from our perspective. The posts weren’t a celebration of Christmas; they were reposts of her workplace content, shared in a professional context. Still, to avoid drama, she deleted them. I followed up with Rich via text.

The exchange stayed polite, if awkward. I tried to explain the situation, and Rich responded with concern — mixed with that classic tone of elder-speak that wraps spiritual authority in friendship. The part that really stuck with me, though, was when I mentioned that this could’ve been resolved easily with a simple conversation, as outlined in Matthew 18:15. Rich’s reply?

“I’ll let you research why MT 18 doesn’t apply here… should be fun…”

A few weeks later, I decided to connect to a Zoom meeting for the first time in two or three months. It was a midweek meeting, and I had this weird gut feeling they’d say something related to us during the local needs part. And wow, was I right.

The local needs talk was delivered by none other than Rich. It turned out to be a full-blown rant against apostates, complete with a slide on screen showing a sister at work refusing a Christmas gift from a colleague.

We had the honor of receiving what would turn out to be the final “marking talk” ever given in our congregation.

Why final? Because, just a few months later, the August 2024 Watchtower announced a change in policy: public "marking" talks in front of the congregation would be discontinued. Instead, marking would now be a matter of personal conscience — individuals could decide for themselves whether to limit association with someone based on their conduct. But for us, that new approach arrived far too late. The damage had already been done by a marking talk delivered in front of the entire congregation. And while such talks never name names directly, the congregation’s gossip mill ensures that everyone knows exactly who is being referred to. That public humiliation left a scar.

Still, I tried to do some quiet damage control. I sent a message to a few friends, gently asking them not to believe rumours and to come to us directly if they had any questions. It was a way of saying: please don’t forget who we are. Please don’t let the gossip define us. But in a culture of silence, even that felt like speaking into a void.

The change in doctrine came months later and wasn't about our case specifically. But it was a reminder: things can change, but those harmed along the way are rarely acknowledged. What we experienced was real, and it hurt. Whether the elders meant to or not, their actions pushed us out. Quietly. Systematically. No clarification. No apology. Just another shift in policy, while we remained on the outside, picking up the pieces.

2. Distant Gestures and Growing Distance (March 2024)

After the storm of December and the quieter stretch that followed in January and February, March arrived with a different kind of tension. The overt messages may have slowed down, but the organization hadn’t forgotten us — and neither had the congregation. Beneath the surface, things were still very much in motion.

On March 16, Fadela and I took a trip to New York City to meet with the Liberati group — an incredible network of ex-JWs, free-thinkers, and kind souls from all walks of life. It was our first time ever meeting ex-Jehovah’s Witnesses in person. At that point, we were losing almost all of our JW friends. The shift had already begun — messages had stopped, conversations gone quiet. What were we supposed to do? Just stay there in the void with no one? As an inactive JW, when your entire social circle starts fading away or outright shunning you, what exactly are you meant to do? Are you supposed to live friendless, in exile, just because you stopped showing up to meetings? Are Catholics better friends? Mormons? Muslims? Atheists? Being friends with 'worldly people' — gasp! — might sound like a horror story from the platform. But despite never attending a single Watchtower study, so many of them still know how to show basic kindness and loyalty.

Reaching out and connecting with ex-JWs gave me something familiar to hold onto. For someone like me — introverted, cautious — that shared background meant everything. These were people who understood the language, the rhythms, the quiet grief of waking up. It was, in a strange way, a comfort zone.

We met the group for a tour of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Years earlier, we had done a JW-led tour of the MET and genuinely loved it. But this time, the experience was something else entirely. Our guide — himself a former Bethelite who used to lead those very JW tours — took us through the same halls but told the full story. He pointed out artifacts and historical details that JW tours had always glossed over or deliberately skipped because they didn’t fit the narrative. It was eye-opening, thoughtful, and far more intellectually honest than anything we’d ever been shown before.

We ended the day gathered around a long restaurant table, laughing, eating, and sharing stories with this wonderfully diverse group of ex-Witnesses. There was no awkwardness, no pretence. Just people being human together. For the first time in a long time, we felt like we belonged somewhere again.

While we were in New York, Fadela was also texting with her longtime friend Amber — someone who had been like family to us. Amber is the wife of Nico, who I still consider my closest friend among Jehovah’s Witnesses. We had spent nearly every weekend together for years, usually with our kids, often cooking and sharing meals, soaking in the hot tub, laughing late into the night. We even vacationed together every summer. It was the kind of friendship you don’t expect to lose. Fadela wanted to reach out and gently offer some clarity about why we had stepped away. But the only thing Amber could focus on was a photo of Fadela’s new nose piercing. That was enough for her to conclude that Fadela had “changed.” No further dialogue. Just that.

Fadela still hoped to talk to her in person once we were back, but the next weekend was the Memorial — held on March 24, 2024. For the first time, we didn’t attend.

Our absence shocked the congregation. Some of our closer friends reportedly held out hope that we’d walk in at the last moment, make everything right again, as if this had all just been a misunderstanding. But I wasn’t going to support their numbers anymore. I had to make a clear statement — and not going was it.

From the little I heard afterward, tears were shed. The mood in our old congregation was somber in the weeks that followed. Even so, when Fadela continued trying to reach out to Amber afterward — just to explain, not to argue — she was met with silence. Eventually, Amber sent a message making it clear that, as far as she was concerned, our friendship was over and done.

To this day, I’m barely in touch with Nico. I miss my friend. I’m sure he has a hard time understanding what happened to me, caught between what his religion tells him is right and the reality of a friendship that no longer seems to work. It’s difficult when you’re conditioned to only love certain people in a certain way. His role as a Ministerial Servant makes things even more complicated — he’s under pressure, and Amber doesn’t want us around. But I know that’s not really her fault — she’s reacting the way she was conditioned to. Honestly, I would have reacted the same way not that long ago. Cutting off friends who weren’t “spiritual enough” was something I did, too. I still can’t quite believe I was like that. Nico even reminds me of that sometimes. I just wish he could understand what happens to your mind — your whole way of thinking — once you see behind the curtain, once you discover the truth about the truth. So, no more weekends. No more spontaneous visits. Still, I’ll always be there for him if he ever needs me.

And somewhere in the middle of all this — quietly, without a stage — I started to understand what real loss looked like.

3. Cracks and Conversations (April–June 2024)

During this time, I also began opening up more — to my brother, who I’ve always been closer to than anyone else in my family, and to my mother. I care about them both deeply and wanted them to hear, directly from me, where I stood. I had careful, private conversations with people I trusted: Elias, the young, energetic elder with a seemingly ever-present smile and a polished 'career elder' vibe that always felt a bit too rehearsed; Rich, who had once been one of our favourite elders — genuinely kind, until something in him seemed to harden during the pandemic; Nico, my best friend and vacation buddy, though by now our connection was mostly distant and fragile; and David, whose wife Kara had been like family to us since her teen years. Her mother was like a grandmother to our boys, and their two girls felt like cousins to our kids. Each of these conversations carried a mix of caution, honesty, and hope that maybe, just maybe, someone would understand.

David had reassured me more than once that our friendship was strong, and that nothing I said would offend him. In mid-June, while we were sharing a couple of beers on his patio, he finally asked the question that had been lingering for months: “So… what’s going on with you guys?”

It felt like permission. So I opened up — honestly, if still carefully. I didn’t want to shake his faith. I didn’t go into the deeper layers of what I had come to see. But I told him what I could, what I felt he could handle. Just one example: I asked him, “So why do you have a beard now? Because the guys in Warwick told you that you can now? That’s a textbook example of following human leaders — doesn’t the Bible warn against that?” I don’t think that sat well with him. It’s hard to weasel out of something so plainly true.

It was a good conversation — or so I thought.

Not long after, I found out David had gone to speak with a young elder named Ryan — Rich’s son. Polished, eager, and groomed for advancement, he was what I call a 'baby elder,' a textbook product of Watchtower nepotism. It was hard not to feel betrayed, even if part of me knew David had probably felt overwhelmed and unsure of what to do. His wife Kara later tried to defend his actions, saying he had been shaken by our conversation and simply sought out the elders for support. But from my perspective, it was a breach of trust. I had been open and careful, trying not to say anything that might damage anyone’s faith. I just wanted to be honest with a friend. I had told David plainly that I didn’t want to push him or lead him into any crisis of conscience. But in the end, he still passed it on. That hurt more than I expected.

And with that, the wheels began to turn.

Shortly after, while we were on a road trip to visit my mother, I received a message from Ryan saying he needed to speak with me. He mentioned it was about a "sensitive matter," and my wife and I spent much of the drive speculating what it could be this time. Another post they didn’t like? Some other minor infraction? But deep down, I had a sinking feeling that maybe it had something to do with my recent conversation with David. I let him know we were on vacation and that I’d be available afterward. During that visit, I took the opportunity to sit down with my mom and speak with her openly and honestly — face to face — about what I believed and why. I could see the sadness in her eyes as I spoke, and I knew it hurt her, but she didn’t push back. She listened. And I think, despite everything, she understood that I was being sincere. That I wasn’t rebelling — I was just trying to live with integrity. For someone as sentimental as my mom, I was surprised how well she handled it. Even now, I feel like we have a better connection than we’ve had in years, even if I know that connection hangs by a thread that could snap at any moment.

After we returned, I called Ryan back. I was nervous — frustrated too — but I knew I didn’t want to hide. He told me the body of elders had formed a judicial committee based on allegations of "divisive" or even "apostate" speech. I asked who had accused me. No straight answers came — just vague references to people I had spoken to. I reminded him that I had only talked to a few people: Rich, who is also his father, Elias, David, and some elders who had reached out to me. And knowing how things tend to circulate between elders, especially family, it wasn’t hard to guess how the conversations may have spread.

I had been open. I had nothing to hide. And I made it clear that I wasn’t going to submit myself — or my family — to this process.

I told Ryan plainly: “It might shock you, but I don’t believe any of this anymore.”

I also told him that if their actions led to me losing contact with my family — if they forced a label on me that resulted in shunning — there would be consequences. Legal, if necessary. Not because I was trying to be aggressive, but because I had to protect what remained of my life.

In that moment, I didn’t see Ryan as evil — just naive. A baby elder trying to follow the script. And I don’t hold anything against him or Rich personally. They both work in caring professions — Ryan as a nurse in a care home, Rich as a paint salesman with a warm smile — but when it comes to organizational authority, good intentions aren’t enough. These men held no real spiritual power over me, yet they were wielding a system capable of destroying relationships, cutting me off from people I love, and assigning me a label that would follow me forever.

Disfellowshipped. Disassociated. Removed. Inactive. Spiritually weak. Bad association. It doesn’t matter what term they use. The organization weaponizes labels to control the herd — to tell others who to fear, who to avoid, who might be a wolf.

But I’m not playing those games. I’m the same person. And that’s exactly what I told my mother — that whatever label they decide to affix to me doesn’t change who I am. I’m still her son. I’m still Oliver. And anyone who really knows me knows that too.

If the elders want to take steps that tear apart families, they need to be accountable for that. They need to understand what they’re doing. Because this isn’t just about doctrine. It’s about people.

4. The Follow-Up Call (Late July 2024)

A few weeks after that first call with Ryan, he called me back — this time with Jonas, another elder, on the line. That’s how it’s done. Two elders on the call means it’s official. Procedural. Not personal. It means they can record everything mentally, use anything you say, and you can’t say you weren’t warned.

But this time, there was no ambush. Ryan informed me that the body of elders had met again and had decided to dissolve the judicial committee. No action would be taken against me. I suppose I should’ve felt relief — but all I felt was a bitter sort of exhaustion.

He went on to suggest, in that ever-careful Watchtower tone, that I might want to avoid talking about my “feelings” or “doubts” with anyone but elders. Because, you know, some had felt my comments were “derogatory” toward the organization. I pushed back. I asked again — who exactly had accused me? He wouldn’t say.

I reminded him: I had only talked to a handful of people. Some elders. A friend. And only when they insisted. I never went looking to plant seeds of doubt in anyone’s mind. I wasn’t starting a rebellion — I was just answering honest questions, honestly.

I even brought up the conversation with David, which I was now almost certain had triggered this whole investigation. I had sat down with him as a friend, as someone who had promised me I could speak freely. And yet here we were.

I told Ryan that what was really frustrating wasn’t just the accusations — it was that this entire process happened in the dark. That confidential things I had shared with elders were now clearly circulating outside the elder body. That gossip had spread — not about rumours, but about things only three elders could have known. And that gossip had made its way to a sister who wasn’t even an elder’s wife.

His response? Polite dismissal. Acknowledgment of my feelings, but not the facts. Because in this system, “confidentiality” is flexible — and the harm it causes is always someone else’s problem.

He said I had “a lot on my mind,” and offered to meet again face-to-face. But I told him the truth: it wouldn’t change anything. I didn’t need a meeting. I needed people who actually cared when it mattered. Not after the damage had already been done.

I reminded him once again: my conscience is what led me here. And no matter how they frame it, I will not apologize for being honest.

If this system demands silence to be loved, then the problem isn’t me.

5. Where We Are Now

Since then, we've just been trying to live our free lives. Our family is doing well. If there are problems, we deal with them — just like anyone else. Teenagers go through phases. Marriages go through phases. That happens to Jehovah's Witnesses the same way it happens to so-called 'worldly' people.

And you know what? People outside this religion have solutions, too. No, it's not Satan's system wreaking havoc — it’s just life. It’s people. It’s human.

We're a family that sticks together and loves each other, and we’re just trying to be the best versions of ourselves. To be there for each other. To be there for our sons. To be there for our friends — even those who’ve cut us off, or who’ve decided to keep us at a distance. If they ever need us, we’ll be here.

It's still hard not being able to openly talk to someone like my brother, who’s an elder. We still exchange memes and text about new music we've discovered — safe, surface-level stuff. But it’s not enough. He doesn’t call. We don’t really talk. My sister-in-law even blocked me on Facebook. This used to be the person I was closest to besides my wife, and now it’s just a shell of a relationship — one that only survives because I tread carefully, avoiding anything real. And sometimes I slip up — sometimes I feel frustrated and share something that may be uncomfortable to him. I hope he understands. It’s not because I want to hurt anyone or damage anything. I’m just trying to be my true self. I wish I could share more than just memes and music. I wish I could share what I’ve discovered — beyond playlists and punchlines.

I wish we could talk freely. Even if we don’t agree. Even if it gets messy.

I've tried to respect the boundaries. I don’t message my friends or family with criticisms of the organization. But it’s hard. It’s hard to be true to yourself when you know things that could be life-changing — yet you keep them to yourself to avoid pushing the relationship off a cliff.

So I keep trying, gently. And in the meantime, I’ve found my outlet: in October 2023, I created an X (formerly Twitter) account. By December, I started posting my own thoughts and research — anonymously, under a pseudonym. That’s still how I run the account. But more recently, I decided to come out openly with my story by launching this blog. It’s not meant to hide who I am — I’ve shared it publicly, including with my JW friends on Facebook. And ever since doing that, I’ve also started posting relevant things on Facebook — things that might make people think. It's up to them what they choose to engage with. But I truly appreciate those who are curious and brave enough to read what I share without fear, without instantly labeling me an "evil apostate" and hitting unfollow or block because they don’t know how to deal with facts. That’s part of why I went from anonymous to sharing my story openly — right here on my blog.

Because yes — by the way it treats people — the organization creates its own so-called 'apostates.'

Why should we be punished for believing differently? For thinking differently? For speaking our truth?

That reminds me of a certain concept I read somewhere… “thoughtcrime,” was it?

Anyway, it’s not normal that we're not allowed to talk about our experiences without facing severe consequences. That pressure to stay silent — it doesn’t work. In fact, it makes me want to speak louder.

People need to know.

And a word to the elders, especially those I still care about personally: I appreciate you as individuals. But there will be consequences if you take this any further. That doesn’t mean you can’t reach out. You know where I live. You have my number.

If you ever want to knock on my door or send a message just to check in — as a friend — I’ll always welcome that.

But if you show up two-by-two in elder mode, iPads or briefcases in hand, well… that’s a whole different story. That’s not friendship. That’s Watchtower business. And while I probably would answer the door, it would come with a warning: think carefully before taking action that could do real harm. This isn’t about shutting people out — it’s about drawing a line between genuine care and religious enforcement disguised as concern.

As I finish writing this piece, I just got off the phone with a good JW friend — someone humble, kind, and always a pleasure to talk to. Our conversation reminded me that some connections are still possible, even across the divide. I wish I could have that kind of relationship with more of my former friends. It gave me hope. Even after everything, I still believe that mutual respect, kindness, and real friendship shouldn’t require doctrinal alignment. And maybe, just maybe, there’s still room for that kind of connection.

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This brings my waking-up story more or less to a close — at least the part about how we got from fully in to fully out. But this isn’t the end. From here, I plan to keep speaking up, sharing what I’ve learned, and bringing awareness to the things that so many of us were never allowed to question. This blog will explore not just my story, but the bigger picture — the contradictions, the doctrines, the culture, and yes, the truth about “the truth.” I may also share a few bonus reflections about my so-called “spiritual heritage” — what shaped me, what nearly broke me, and what I’m still unlearning. If you’ve made it this far, thank you for reading. There’s more to come.