I grew up in Las Vegas, and my mom took me to church a few times a year. She even enrolled me in Sunday school and a Christian high school. But the stories, skits, and sermons never turned into a relationship with God. I didn’t know that was possible—or that he would ever love someone like me.
When I was 8, my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer. My parents tried to hide it, but I could tell something was wrong—the endless doctor visits, her beautiful black hair falling out, her decision to step away from a job she loved. I prayed to this God everyone talked about, bargaining with him: If you make her better, I’ll be the best daughter ever. I’ll get straight A’s. I’ll never talk back. But she didn’t get better. Watching her fade away, I wondered if God was real and, if he was, why he let our family crumble.
When everyone’s attention turned to my mother’s illness, I felt lost in the shadows. I looked to my peers for love and connection I couldn’t find at home. That search led me into the grip of anorexia and bulimia. I’d starve myself, binge, then purge—over and over. Eventually, my aunt and my dad admitted me into an inpatient program. My heart rate dropped so low that I had to be fed through a tube. I’ll never forget the feeling of that tube being shoved down my throat.
While I was still at the facility, my dad walked in one day to tell me that Mom was gone. Something inside me shut off. I didn’t cry. I just felt numb. That was the day my world went silent.
After I lost my mom, I craved escape. My best friend invited me to a party one night. “Sure,” I said. My dad worked nights at a casino, so from 8 p.m. to 4 a.m., I was on my own.
That first party wasn’t what I expected. There were older strangers, along with weed, cocaine, and acid. That’s where I tried OxyContin for the first time. A friend showed me how to smoke it to feel the full effect.
By 18, I was addicted to black tar heroin. Somehow, I still graduated from high school. After a string of car wrecks and violent outbursts, my family realized I needed help. I went to college, hoping that burying myself in books and goals would fix everything. But you can’t outrun demons. I carried every wound, every trauma, right into that next chapter.
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In college, I had moments of sobriety. But every clean streak ended in a relapse worse than the last. It was during one of my sober stretches that I met Katy. She was a senior like me. Katy was smart, mysterious, and a writer for the campus feminist column. She was also addicted to opiates. Looking back, I see how the Enemy set that up. Katy sat down next to me in the library one night as I was studying. She couldn’t stay awake, and I ended up helping her get home. Later, I looked her up on Facebook. Her bio said she was an exotic dancer at a club called the Spice House.
I had grown up in Las Vegas, but I’d never been inside a strip club. My only knowledge of that world came from music videos—the money, the lights, the girls who appeared powerful and adored. They look happy, I thought. That’s what I want. I just want to feel like I matter. So one night, I decided to check it out. I told myself it was just for research, but the moment I got a taste of fast money, I was hooked. Stripping became a gateway to darker forms of exploitation. I started responding to ads promising $1,000 a night. Some were for escort services. Others were covert trafficking schemes. One boundary after another fell until I didn’t recognize myself.
I remember spending a night in a cheap motel room and looking at my reflection in the mirror. I saw a hollow shell of a woman staring back at me. A thought pierced through the haze. What if you die this way? If heaven and hell are real, I wondered, where would my soul go? I decided to take a bath. As the tub filled, I remembered that I had just taken several hits of heroin. Then another thought hit me: Remember how Whitney Houston died? She drowned in the bathtub. It was as if God had whispered, If you don’t change, this is where you’re headed. That night, I had a spiritual awakening. My soul woke up before my body.
A week later, I dragged myself back to the strip club. I went into the locker room, lit up my foil, and took a few puffs. Suddenly, laughter filled the room—not fake, empty laughter but sounds of real joy. It sliced through the darkness like a beam of light in a cave. I peeked around the corner and saw a few older women walking in with bright smiles and plates of warm food.
They sat with the dancers, talking with them like friends. I realized they’d been there before, but I’d never noticed them. They were talking about Jesus. And it wasn’t the judgmental “turn or burn” Christianity I’d heard shouted through megaphones on the Vegas strip. These women came to tell us that we were loved—that God had a plan, even for girls like me. Something shifted. For the first time in years, I felt seen. I felt valued. I felt hope. Those women didn’t wait for me to find my way into a church. They brought church to me. That night, I wrote on one of their prayer cards, “God, help me.”
Those Christian women planted precious seeds that night, but it took time for them to grow. I spent several more years in addiction and abuse.
Eventually, my dad called with an ultimatum. He said I needed to go to rehab or he would have to step back from being in my life. “I can’t watch you kill yourself,” he told me. “We already lost your mom.”
Something in me finally shifted. I agreed to enter a 30-day treatment program in Florida. There, with a clear mind for the first time in years, I started to picture my life without drugs. What could it look like?
Even though it was a secular rehab program, the staff offered to take us to church on Sundays if we wanted to go. I went every time, and I could sense God tugging at my heart. After the program, I moved into a sober living home in Covina, California. I started going to meetings again and even got accepted into law school.
But I wasn’t free yet. I slipped back once more—this time working for a manipulative escort agent. He was cunning and controlling, and when the shame hit, I couldn’t numb it anymore.
One night, I dropped to my knees in my bedroom and cried out, “God, I know what I’m doing is wrong. Jesus, I know you’re real. Please forgive me.” I felt his presence flood the room. It felt like heat, peace, love, forgiveness. The gospel finally made sense: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us (Rom. 5:8). Even when I was dancing in clubs or getting high, Jesus loved me. He never stopped pursuing me.
I called my agent from a grocery store parking lot and said, “I’m done.” Then I blocked his number. That day, I finally chose freedom. After that, God began rebuilding my life piece by piece. He sent godly women my way—like one I met at an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting who introduced herself not as an alcoholic but as “a child of God.” She invited me to Bible studies and coffee.
Another woman invited me to church, where I nervously walked up to the altar and gave my heart fully to Jesus. I was baptized and joined a discipleship class. After a sermon on purity, I broke down at the altar, repenting and surrendering everything to God. In that moment, God removed my desire to use drugs—and my desire to exploit my body in any way.
Today, I’m free from heroin. I’m married to a man of God, I’m a mother of three and a law school graduate, and I work in the anti-trafficking field. I still go to the strip club, but this time, I’m the one sharing the gospel of Jesus Christ. Over the years, we’ve reached hundreds of women, and many have given their lives to Jesus.
My life is not without trials. In 2020, I was diagnosed with cancer. Recently, I learned that it’s back. I’m battling breast cancer and brain cancer, which has caused temporary partial blindness. But as I walk through treatment again, I’m not alone. My faith is my anchor. The Word of God is my medicine. Romans 5:3–5 says, “We also glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured out into our hearts through the Holy Spirit.”
I hold on to that truth every day. The same God who reached me in a strip club dressing room is still with me now. He hasn’t failed me yet, and he never will.
Paige Lohman is a digital content creator and founder of Girl Redeemed. She lives in California with her husband and three children.
