When does submission go too far?

"They have dogs for that," I whispered to my mother as I leaned across the pew. She laughed, then told me to be quiet and listen to the sermon. But I was listening—had been for the past 15 years my family had attended legalistic churches. And as a new college student, hearing this message on submission that suggested wives simply nod and silently agree to their husband's decisions—no matter how unwise or ill advised—I knew I'd listened for the last time.

My pastor warned me I'd leave the independent fundamental churches of my childhood when I chose to attend a "liberal" Christian college. But changing congregations wasn't the only "backsliding" he foresaw. He feared if I were to begin thinking for myself—especially about Scripture—I'd abandon the entire list of extra-biblical rules these churches enforced.

I told myself I was essentially unlikable and helplessly flawed.

Maybe it was the time I walked into the kindergarten playhouse, excited about joining the tea party with the other five-year-old girls, and I was abruptly, unexpectedly shoved out and not allowed back in.

Maybe it was the time I was the only kid on my street not invited to a neighbor girl's birthday gala … and I found out.

Or maybe it was the time my best friend, Becky, decided she was tired of me and chose Gwen as her new BFF—and the two of them sauntered down the street in front of my house so I'd get the message. To this day, I still remember peering out that window, sobbing.

Why admitting that is actually a great display of strength

Linda is retiring next month and moving out of state. I'm happy for her, but sad for me. Over the past 11 years, this wise Christian woman walked me through family frustrations, work woes, bad breakups, and bouts of depression. She supported me, challenged me, frustrated me, and prayed with me.

And at the end of each time together, I wrote her a check. Because Linda is my counselor.

I started seeing Linda more than a decade ago to help me sort through a serious dating relationship. The guy was ready to talk marriage; I wasn't so sure. My head told me, Don't pass up this great guy, but my heart felt no peace about moving forward. After months of exhausting everyone around me with agonizing questions—"How did you know you wanted to marry your spouse?" and "Which should you follow: your head or your heart?"—one kind friend finally suggested I might find it helpful to meet with a Christian counselor.

I remembered with startling clarity how I hated (and still do!) my thighs.

About a year ago, I plumbed the depths of an old cedar chest to retrieve my wedding gown. Shaking the wrinkles from its ivory skirt, I playfully asked my 20something daughter if she'd like to try it on (wishing she'd exclaim, "Mom, it's still so beautiful! Can I wear it when I get married?"—to no avail). Being a good sport, Emily agreed to this game of dress-up imposed on her by her mother.

Before long, the game started to resemble a scene from Gone with the Wind. But instead of Southern belle Scarlett O'Hara sucking in her breath so her waist could be laced up by whale-bone stays, my slender daughter had to suck in her breath in order to be laced in by fabric and zipper. Stunned, I realized my Emily—who I'd often worried was too preoccupied with staying skinny while she was in high school—was struggling to fit into this aging confection of tulle and satin!

Eying me with fresh awareness, Emily blurted out, "Mom, I can't believe you fit into this!"