I have been going through a lot. Not in the casual, everyday sense, but in the full-on mental breakdown sense—the ugly crying in the middle of the night to my partner, the friend nursing me back to health, the “cannot be left alone” kind of going through a lot. In the midst of that, I jokingly made a comment: that my current life experiences are almost enough to make me revert to organized religion.
But even as I said it, I knew that comment itself contained the very reason I have problems with organized religion. So many people turn to their belief systems in times of hardship only. And yet, that reliance has always felt conditional, inconsistent—like a crutch pulled out only when the world feels unbearable.
I grew up Roman Catholic, as did most of my family. Catholicism is a world of its own, but when we moved to South Africa and entered a “church hopping” phase, I quickly became confused and unimpressed. Who exactly were we praising here? Something always felt off about what I was witnessing.
As I began learning about other religions, my worldview expanded. But it also grew more complicated. In New York, for instance, my family suddenly began attending Jehovah’s Witness services. That denomination genuinely felt like an entirely different religion altogether—they even had their own bible. I was so unhappy there that I treated the whole experience like a science lab report: I took notes, made hypotheses, and had a control variable. It was something to dissect because I couldn’t connect. While that may have been the beginning of the end of my religious commitment, it was really upon returning to Botswana that I began to feel the full weight of the “ick”—the hypocrisy of devout people who spoke of love and mercy but acted otherwise.
I am not saying Christians do not make mistakes. But what I encountered was a jarring dissonance, a day-and-night contrast between the ideals preached and the reality lived. So I began to identify as spiritual, not religious. The undoing had already begun when I first learned about the church’s cruelty in the 1500s—the Lutherans, the Protestants. I will never forget that lesson; it was horrible. Around the same time, my own life was unraveling in ways that made me feel abandoned. God, it seemed, had not listened my entire life. To this day, I am still waiting on a miracle.
For a long time, my atheist stance came from a place of hurt and anger. But as I reflected on the teachings I grew up with, I found myself more connected to beliefs that felt spiritual rather than rigidly organized. Because the church, I realized, was never just a religious institution—it was also political, cultural, and social.
Then I read The Shack, and suddenly, something clicked. Regardless of whether that book is objectively “good,” it changed the trajectory of sixteen-year-old me’s relationship with God. (God being God, Allah, Spirit, Universe, Higher Power—however one chooses to name the divine.) It made me realize that I didn’t need to be in a specific place to feel connection. That connection is personal and sacred, and it doesn’t need to be anyone else’s business.
Edit: my partner and I are talking as I’m writing so I found myself having more to say. He was talking about the root of spirituality and religion being love and the wrongness that exists within these things is the lack of love. Truthfully, the romantic relationship I have right now often feels spiritual. As does the existence and love of my daughter. My close friendships. I could honestly just cry. I’m surrounded by real and true love. I think as a mother, experiencing what a mother is capable of, even just making life. It changes your life and perspective about what’s possible and what exists.
Whatever you believe in will always be what you need, so long as you feel that connection—whether you conceive of the divine as man, woman, or entity. Spirituality is not something that can be logically explained; it requires a suspension of rigid thought. Not everything, I have come to accept, can be explained that way.
But even as my spirituality deepened privately, I became more guarded about speaking of it publicly. A few days ago, I did one of those anonymous Q&As that pop up on social media. Expecting lighthearted questions, I was surprised when one asked: What are your spiritual beliefs?
I answered, but soon after I began giving vague responses. Not because I am ashamed or uncertain, but because I am tired. Too often, that question does not invite curiosity—it invites confrontation.
The truth is, I used to be more open about my beliefs. I was never preaching or trying to convince anyone of anything. I just spoke honestly about what grounded me, what made sense, what gave me peace. But I began to notice a pattern: the more I shared, the more I became a target—not for dialogue, but for conversion.
And I mean that literally. People took my openness as a challenge, an opportunity to impose their convictions. Suddenly, I wasn’t being heard—I was being recruited.
One conversation still lingers. About a year ago, someone asked (again) about my spiritual views. We had already spoken about it many times, but I was reaching the point of exasperation. I mentioned energies, and suddenly I was told it was either I am “for” or “against” God. I remember thinking: How did we even get here?
This is not about moral superiority or claiming to be above discourse. It is simply about recognizing that not everyone engages with genuine respect. Some people aren’t listening to understand; they are listening to correct. And there is a very specific kind of exhaustion that comes from constantly having to defend something as personal, evolving, and deeply rooted as faith.
So, I closed that door.
Because I value my peace. Because my spirituality does not need to be public to be valid. Because I am allowed to nurture it privately, without explanation. Not everything sacred must be shared. There is a misconception that silence equals uncertainty. But sometimes, silence is simply a boundary. Sometimes it is wisdom; and sometimes, it is self-preservation.
While I remain open to learning and growth from those who approach in good faith (pun not intended), I have also learned to recognize when that is not the case. My relationship with religion has been complicated, fractured, even painful. My spirituality, however, remains mine.
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