“To be true to yourself in a society that is perpetually trying to transform you into something different is the ultimate achievement.” ~Ralph Waldo Emerson
Raised as the fifth of seven siblings in a disciplined religious household, belief played a crucial role in every facet of my existence. From an early age, I understood the importance of following rules, seeking validation, keeping harmony, and aspiring to be a good person.
My religious upbringing caused me to surrender my own power. The church appeared to possess all the solutions, authority, and even the notion of forgiveness itself. Rather than nurture my authentic self, I chased external validation, which severed my connection with the inner part of me meant to steer my life.
For a long period, I believed that being good meant conforming instead of showing compassion. I was instructed that goodness was synonymous with adherence rather than genuine connection or concern for others. This left me estranged from my body, intuition, and appreciation for life’s sacredness.
Challenging this was not a rebellious act; it marked the beginning of taking ownership of my relationship with myself and my truths.
For many years, I adhered to societal expectations. I was actively engaged in church, wed at a young age, and became a parent, constructing a life that appeared perfect.
Yet, after my divorce in 2013, the pillars I relied upon began to collapse. I presumed my family would be a source of solace, but I encountered detachment and subtle disapproval instead. This highlighted the vulnerability of certain relationships and the ease with which love could be withdrawn when I no longer conformed to expectations.
It was then that I comprehended the profound impact religion had on how love was offered and withheld.
I exerted significant effort to fit in, persuading myself I could still belong by adhering to rules and remaining subdued. However, the act of pretending only pushed me further away from my true self.
In 2018, everything shattered. A painful familial dispute led to an unexpected level of rejection. Dear ones distanced themselves from me and my child. The very place I believed I could depend on became the source of my most significant anguish. The loss was total.
In the months that followed, I endured profound sorrow and despair, unlike anything I had encountered before. Days blended together, and I felt numb, as if the world had lost its vibrancy. I wasn’t merely sorrowful; I felt utterly adrift.
I did not realize at the time that I was undergoing what some might label a dark night of the soul, which would endure for nearly seven years.
While depression was a component, there was a deeper issue at play. I was not just emotionally unwell but spiritually unwell. The faith that once imbued my life with purpose had faded, leaving me without a substitute. I found myself lost in a life that appeared fine externally yet felt empty internally.
This underscores the significance of spiritual health. Spiritual wellness transcends religion or “woo” and revolves around a profound connection with yourself, others, and the world. It is what infuses life with depth and significance. When that connection is strong, you feel anchored and alive.
Disconnecting from meaning results in losing touch with oneself. We begin to evaluate our worth based on productivity and our identity through the reflections of others. Life becomes something to be tolerated instead of something to be fully experienced.
For many years, I attempted to rectify myself in ways I had been taught—praying fervently, achieving more, practicing gratitude, and pushing through challenges. However, these efforts only took me further away from my true self, as much of it was performative.
Ultimately, I had to let go to endure. I ceased striving to be who I was and began to inquire about who I am now. I explored every avenue—therapy, yoga, journaling, meditation, walking, building community, and even psychedelics. None provided instant solutions, but collectively, they fostered healing. Slowly, I crafted a spirituality that belonged to me.
I discovered I could still have faith in something greater without allowing others to dictate its definition. I found reverence in mundane aspects such as breathing, my body, and the kindness of strangers. I didn’t require a church to feel a connection to the sacred.
This realization didn’t come with a dramatic revelation but through small, authentic moments: preparing meals for my child, breathing through anxiety, and embracing grief.