About Nick

I was raised in a pastor’s home and had a great childhood, for the most part. We moved a lot, but I gained a wide range of experiences and got to see many beautiful places. Like many kids, I had my struggles and insecurities, but overall, life was good. I wouldn’t change much about my upbringing.

When I was around 8 or 9 years old, I was spending the afternoon at my friend’s house after church. He lived with his grandparents, and they all attended our church. That afternoon, his grandmother forced me to be exposed to and engage in things that I should never have been part of. I left their house a different boy that day.

From that point forward, I always felt shame. I knew what happened was wrong, but like any young person, I was curious and drawn to it. I was raised in a home with a strong sense of right and wrong. While that day wasn’t my fault, I began to believe that because I was drawn to it, something must be wrong with me. I should have gone to my parents, but like many families back then, we just didn’t talk about those kinds of things.

I can’t remember a time in my life when I didn’t wrestle with anger. I now see that was the result of years of shame and hiding. As the years passed, I wrestled with the belief that something was fundamentally wrong with me. I didn’t want anyone to know what happened because I was ashamed. While I always struggled with lust to some extent, I managed to keep it in check, put on a smile, and move forward. Because we moved frequently, it was easy not to develop deep, accountable relationships. I learned to hide really well. Not letting people in or being vulnerable became second nature. I always kept people at arm’s length.

In 1999, I married the love of my life, and we started a family. We were involved in ministry and did life together. She was, and still is—apart from God—the best thing that has ever happened to me. While living in Augusta, GA, we had two beautiful children of our own and many more in our youth group. The years passed, and we eventually planted a church. We were passionate about it and poured everything we had into it.

While I wrestled with my shame, I minimized and suppressed it for many years. I focused on family, work, ministry, and serving others. But the whole time, I never fully gave myself over to the Lord—or to anyone else. I didn’t want anyone to know I was broken inside. I focused on everything except the healing I so desperately needed.

A few years into our church plant, I was working two jobs and constantly traveling. I would be gone all week for work, come home to spend time with my family, preach on Sunday, attend some meetings, and then get back on a plane. I found myself physically, mentally, emotionally, and spiritually empty. As I said earlier, the enemy is patient.

During that time, I found myself in situations where I was exposed to things I didn’t want to see—and I felt like that scared 8-year-old boy again. My reaction was one of anger and raw emotion. I couldn’t believe that all these years later, I was still so weak. I thought I was stronger than that. The shame grew, and I began to struggle even more in my head and heart.

Fast forward to 2019. I had continued to struggle with shame but tried to stay focused on the good things God was doing. Our church was growing rapidly, but the busier I got, the more I struggled. While I hate to admit it, I found myself studying to preach more than studying to know God. I was just getting by—and I let my guard down.

That year, I was working on a new texting line for the church. I downloaded an app and was assigned a new number. One day, I received a text from a woman that was meant for the person who had the number before me. I didn’t reply right away, but I also didn’t delete the message. Eventually, I responded—and we began to chat. Though I never met this woman, she introduced me to a world I didn’t know existed. The broken curiosity I had always struggled with became sin, and I didn’t put up much of a fight.

Over the next few weeks, I began exploring sites I had been made aware of. What started as curiosity turned into a pattern of engaging in sexual sin. I was tired, broken, and struggling. The next few years were a cycle of ups and downs. I would act out, then respond with conviction. I didn’t want to live in sin, but I also found familiarity in the brokenness. I’d give in, then promise myself I’d never go back. But deep down, I wasn’t surrendering my pain to Jesus or fully letting go.

Many times, I wanted to come clean. I wanted to tell someone, but I feared it would destroy everything I loved. At the same time, I was living in selfish self-medication, unsure how to stop. My attempts to confess were half-hearted. I was blinded by pride and sin. I was lost.

In the fall of 2022, our church was growing, our lives were in transition, and my mother passed away after a battle with cancer. Her death shook me deeply, and instead of being vulnerable, I hit the gas—and my life spiraled out of control. I was hiding from everyone, and the space between episodes of acting out became almost nonexistent. On the outside, everything looked fine, but I was unraveling in every way. The crash was coming—and it was necessary.

Eventually, my wife discovered my texting app and confronted me. At first, I was only partially honest. After hiding for so long, it was hard to tell the full truth in “caught mode.” Everything was a blur. I thought I could still control the outcome, but I couldn’t. I wanted change, but I had to learn how to open up, tell the truth, and be vulnerable. The hiding was over. The truth was out. My wife was devastated, my family was hurting, my church was in shock—and I was the cause.

The elders of my church were notified immediately, and an investigation began. As my wife went through every text, the full reality set in. The next day, we sat our kids down and told them. The heartbreak I caused was indescribable. I was supposed to protect my family, and I had betrayed them. I was completely broken.

At one point, I was having a complete breakdown. My reality came crashing in, and I didn’t see any way to fix it. I sat in my living room, crying, and turned to the only thing I could think of: opening my Bible and asking God to speak. It opened to Psalm 20:1: “May the Lord answer you in the day of trouble! May the name of the God of Jacob protect you.” I dismissed it and said, through my tears, “Nice try, God.”

I walked into my bedroom, got my pistol, and jumped in my truck. I was crying so hard I could barely breathe. I drove to the lake near our home and sat under a tree. I was overwhelmed. “How did I get here?” “My life is over.” I put the pistol in my mouth. Strangely, I began to wonder what my grandkids might look like. Then I moved the gun under my chin and put my finger on the trigger. In that moment, I heard God say, “I’m not done with you yet.” I don’t know if it was audible—but I felt it.

I laid the gun down, and a peace came over me. I stopped crying and made a decision: I would not hand my family more pain. I would get up, face the consequences, and trust Jesus. I couldn’t fix it—but He could. I went home. He answered me “in the day of trouble.”

There were things I couldn’t quit

Damage I just couldn’t fix

I couldn’t do it on my own

But Jesus did

— My Life is Proof by Stephen McWhirter

The next Sunday, I watched my church’s livestream as they put me on leave while everything was investigated. My wife, kids, and I cried, but we knew it was necessary. That night, Todd—a church member whose family had walked a similar path—called me. He had one message: “You are loved.” In that moment, I felt anything but loved.

The following Tuesday, I sat in my living room and repented to our elders. During that meeting, I asked my wife to pray freedom and deliverance over me. As she did, it felt like warm honey was poured over me. My body grew heavy and relaxed. I had never experienced peace like that. For the first time I could remember, I wasn’t angry. I truly believe God delivered and healed me that night.

Even so, healing didn’t mean there weren’t consequences. I had dishonored God, betrayed my wife, let down my kids, and hurt my church. We are still walking through the pain, consequences, and healing.

My wife was advised by a friend, Cindy, to wait one year before making any major decisions, including divorce. She followed that advice, and I found a PDF on redemptive separation. We followed its guidance, and I moved in with my dad, who lives on our property. That time with my dad was a gift—I needed him. He got in the dirt with me.

For the next month, I was mostly alone. I’d see the kids in the evening, and my dad and I would talk when they weren’t around. Todd and Cindy visited every Tuesday night—tissues were always needed. I spent time in the garden with worship music, crying more in that month than I ever had in my life.

My wife was processing trauma and shock, and we were all just trying to stay afloat. We leaned on prayer and the few people who chose to walk through the dirt with us.

A month after the discovery, I attended a sexual addiction workshop in Minneapolis. It was life-altering. I began learning about sobriety, family of origin issues, and how to silence shame. I left that workshop a different man. Todd and I met every Tuesday and worked through my mess. His friendship changed my life.

My wife and I also began attending recovery meetings. I experienced the power of community—realizing that we’re all broken and need a Savior. Vulnerability and honesty in a safe space are essential for true healing.

In June, I began attending a new church. My wife joined me later, and we shared our story with the pastor and his wife. We feared rejection but were met with love, grace, and accountability. Our family began attending, and our church became a place of healing. I was eventually baptized by my pastor—with my wife beside me. God was making all things new.

In the months that followed, we worked through every hard conversation imaginable. We saw counselors and mentors, read countless books, served our church, embraced awkwardness, and committed to accountability. We wrote full disclosure, impact, and restitution letters. We repented, made amends, and clung to God’s process. We chose the hard road—and we believed in miracles.

Years later, we still feel the pain. The consequences were—and are—real. But God never stopped working. He began writing a new story. Out of the ashes, a new purpose emerged. Farah and I developed a heart for individuals and churches walking through the pain of sexual sin and betrayal trauma. We want to be guides toward healing and freedom.

God has brought us a long way, and we know:

He isn’t done yet.