A Conversation Across Time

Former 'Willows' stand in the dim light of memory—each in a different chapter of their life. They speak across the years, facing one another in a circle of knowing.

Willow (2023):
I sit at the livestream desk, my finger hovering over the ‘content warning’ button that I’d created for just this occasion… Children should not be taking in what he is sharing. But I can’t press it. Austin will blow his top. I feel fragile. Confused. Broken. I’m not sure what’s next in this moment.
We’re at the edge now.
The master’s mask is slipping.

Willow (2012): (wearing the weight of motherhood and financial collapse)
It wasn’t just exhaustion. It was oppression.
He made us elders—the first ones—and then handed us a $2.8 million burden, backed by our home. Our future.
Our daughter had just been born. I was bleeding and barely sleeping.
And when I slowed down, even for a breath, he grew cold.
He told me I was no longer useful. That “this baby” was a distraction from his vision.
We tried to tell him we were falling apart.
He turned it back on us. Told us we weren’t strong enough to carry God’s mantle.
Said we were here to protect him.
Not question him.
And we believed it. Because we loved the people. His family was our family. The church was our life.
But I was dying inside.

Willow (2009):
I remember noticing ‘the building’. The soft golden light sparkling off the cross in the centre of our city. It was meant to be
I wrote the campaigns. Shot the promos. Told the story.
“Look what God is doing!”
The million-dollar ‘gift’ came from the shadows.
The pressure on us to sign as guarantors.
The secrecy.
The silence.
I watched people empty their savings accounts and give up their house deposits.
We weren’t just building a church—we were feeding a machine.
And all the while, he played the hero.
We were just the stagehands behind his spotlight.

Willow (2004):
The Disneyland Vision.
That’s what hooked me.
Marketplace ministry. Prophetic influence.
He said we’d transform the city. That we were chosen. He told us he trusted us to protect his family and to join his inner circle.
I sat in my music classroom that had become the church auditorium and wept—because I thought I’d found my home.
He encouraged me to give everything to his vision. So I did.
Photography, music, video, design—I gave it all.
For free.
Because he said I was sowing into eternity.
Because I wanted to matter.
Because I didn’t see the strings being tied around my wrists.

Willow (2023):
You were brave.
All of you.
You gave your heart, your talent—your home.
You poured out your art until there was nothing left to give.
And when the cracks began to show,
when the questions rose like whispers in your chest,
he didn’t hold you.
He broke you.

I remember 2010.
Standing before that bank manager with trembling hands,
believing it was faith,
obedience,
submission.
But it wasn’t.
It was coercion, wrapped in scripture and sealed with fear.

In 2012, when we begged him—
not for position, not for power—
just for understanding, for space to breathe,
he shut the door on our pain.
Turned our trauma into rebellion.
And so, we built a wall to survive.
And still… we stayed.

And then—2023.
The AGM.
Members asked questions.
Soft ones, polite ones.
But there were no answers. Just smoke and mirrors.
And I knew.

This wasn’t a church.
It was an illusion.
A kingdom of shadows,
built on silence,
held up by fear,
designed to serve only one man.

Willow (2012):
But we loved them. We loved the church. We loved him.
That’s the part I can’t let go of.
The people in the pews weren’t evil.
We were just loyal. And loyalty, without truth, becomes a leash.

Willow (2009):
I still remember the night we prayed through the dark.
Not because we wanted to—
but because we were expected to.

The fasts that stretched for days.
The summons to gather before dawn,
winter breath hanging in the air,
pressing in with weary voices.

We prayed.
We shouted.
We sang through cracked throats.
Tongues on repeat like a battle cry,
because silence felt like disobedience.

It wasn’t devotion.
It was duty.

If we hesitated,
if we faltered—
we were called out.
Corrected.
Reprimanded.

The staff were expected.
The leaders—demanded.

And when it was over?
There was no gratitude.
Only red pen.
Only notes on what we could’ve done better.

Willow (2004):
He said we were chosen.
Called. Anointed.
Set apart for something extraordinary.

But the truth?
We weren’t chosen.
We were useful.

And I—
I was captivated.
Utterly in awe of his vision—
so bold, so different,
so impossibly grand.

I wanted it to be real.
I needed it to be real.
Because what he painted felt like purpose.
Like destiny.

But looking back…
it wasn’t calling.
It was conscription.
And we were the currency.

Willow (2023):
We’re not victims anymore.
We’re witnesses.
And we are telling our story now.
Not his.

Willow (2025):
I need you to hear me.
All of you.
The girl with stars in her eyes.
The mother with nothing left to give.
The leader drowning under the weight of someone else’s empire.
You were brave.
But I need to tell you—
what comes next is going to hurt.

Speaking the truth…
it won’t feel like freedom at first.
It will feel like grief.
Like betrayal.
Like standing in the middle of the wreckage of everything you once called home.

People you love will turn away.
Some will go silent.
Some will twist your words.
And some—
will pretend they never saw you at all.

The ones you defended.
The ones you wept beside.
The ones you stayed for.
They won’t stay for you.

And I’m sorry.
I wish I could protect you from that.
But truth doesn’t come wrapped in safety.
It comes raw.
Bleeding.
Uninvited.

It will drag on.
Longer than you expect.
There will be days when healing feels impossible.
Nights when the cost feels too high.
You’ll want to go back.
You’ll wish you could un-know what you know.

But hold on.
Please, hold on.

Because something beautiful is coming.
Not quickly.
Not cleanly.
But real.
Slow, steady healing that doesn’t demand your silence.
Peace that isn’t conditional.
And a voice—
your voice—
restored.

The truth will dismantle the life you thought was holy.
But in its place,
you’ll build something honest.
Unshakable.
Rooted not in performance, but in presence.

So keep going.
Even when it aches.
Even when your hands shake as you write,
as you speak,
as you remember.

Because this truth?
It’s worth the sacrifice.
You are worth the sacrifice.

And on the other side of the burning,
there is freedom.
Not the kind they promised.
The kind you never knew existed.

You’re not alone.
Not anymore.