There’s a particular vulnerability that comes with unraveling the faith of your childhood. I can still feel the weight of my conservative Christian upbringing, the rigid certainty about biblical literalism, the well-meaning but suffocating doctrine of colorblindness, the unyielding stance on sexuality, and the rules that felt confusing and contradictory. These weren’t just beliefs; they were a foundation that my parents desperately tried instilling in me. They tried molding me into what they genuinely thought was in my best interest. They thought they were leading me on a path to salvation.
But I didn’t see what they saw. I couldn’t get behind their rigid ideology. As young as eight years old, I found myself wrestling with an impossible contradiction: how could a God of infinite love be so hateful? The math didn’t add up, nor did my heart’s desperate calculations.
As I grew into adulthood, I pushed away this version of God, and I did what many do when confronted with spiritual cognitive dissonance: I ran. I pursued the corporate ladder. I parented my children, tried to be a perfect spouse, and chased impossible dreams. I built a life of careful metrics and measurable successes. But something kept pulling me back – not to the church, but to ministry, to service, to something I couldn’t quite name. I tried to ignore that persistent ache in my soul, that whisper of something more.
Then came that morning run at 37 – a moment that shattered my carefully constructed reality. The energy that hit me wasn’t subtle; it knocked me onto a nearby rock with the force of truth that I had been denying. I saw my father, who had died when I was two, speaking to me with crystal clarity: Wake up. Do the work. Let go of your walls. You’re needed.
The shock wasn’t just in his presence; it was in the memories it unlocked. Suddenly, I was that child again, sitting in a church pew and feeling music move through me like light through stained glass. My mother’s words echoed across time: “That’s what God feels like.” She was right, but it took me decades to understand. God isn’t in the rules or the restrictions. God is in the overflow, in the moments when our hearts crack open and spill light everywhere.
The past decade has been a spiritual odyssey through world religions, with a special focus on the ancient wisdom of Daoism, an excavation into the depths of Christianity’s heart, and, most importantly, into the uncharted territories of my own soul. What I’ve found there is both simpler and more demanding than anything I was taught as a child: the path forward is love. Not the Hallmark card version, but the kind that requires tremendous courage, the kind that looks fear in the face and chooses compassion anyway.
This isn’t some soft spiritual bypass. This is love that stands its ground even when hatred pushes back. It means seeing the Divinity in everyone, even those who’ve hurt you deeply. It means maintaining your center when the ground beneath you collapses.
In these fractured times, this path feels both more difficult and more necessary than ever. Whenever I doubt, I remember my father’s spirit visit and the other visions I’ve had since that day. I remember the childhood ecstasy of sacred music and all the quiet revelations that have guided me since. Love isn’t just the way forward; it’s the way through.
If you’re reading this and feeling overwhelmed by everything going on right now, you are not alone. There is no easy answer. But there is a step, perhaps the hardest but most essential: turn to love and offer it inward. Give yourself the same compassion that you know the world needs. That’s where healing and transformation begin—within you. Start small, be gentle, and remember you are enough. Only after you are full of love for yourself can it spill out to help transform the world.