I am Namae, a 22 year old, single mother. I was raised Roman Catholic—rosary in hand before I could even read, learning prayers for the dead before I understood what death meant. I thought faith was a performance, a way to win my grandparents’ approval. So I joined every ministry, became a catechist, even taught children to pray. The church called me a role model; my family called me their pride.
When Belief Becomes Exhaustion
Over time, belief turned into exhaustion. The more I prayed, the emptier it felt—like I was whispering into a void that refused to whisper back. I kept waiting for comfort, a sign, a flicker of something divine to reassure me that my devotion mattered. But the more I tried to feel God, the less He seemed to exist in the spaces between my thoughts. Each sermon began to sound rehearsed, each ritual mechanical.
Whispers of Doubt
I found myself watching people more than praying with them—wondering if they truly felt something I couldn’t, or if everyone was simply pretending not to notice the silence. That thought alone kept me awake at night. I wanted to believe so badly, but belief started to feel like a lie I told myself just to keep peace at home. Questions began whispering through my head:
If there’s one God, why so many religions? Why worship what we make with our hands?
When I finally asked, the answers I got were layered in authority, not understanding. I was told faith wasn’t for questioning, that doubt was a temptation. I should just trust the Church, obey, and pray harder. They said curiosity was the devil’s tool, and that wisdom comes only from obedience.
The Crack in Certainty
I remember feeling small in that moment, like a child being scolded for looking too closely at a mystery meant to stay hidden. Instead of finding peace in their certainty, I felt caged by it—forced to choose between being faithful and being honest. Every answer they gave sounded rehearsed, borrowed, like a script repeated too many times to still mean anything.
Because the Pope said so.
And suddenly, something in me cracked. When I got my first tattoo, my grandmother slapped me. Her hands trembled as if the ink itself were blasphemy, as if art on skin could unmake my soul. I stood there, silent, watching tears gather in her eyes—not because of what I’d done, but because I no longer feared what she feared.
When Love Turned Into a Leash
That’s when I realized faith had stopped being love and had turned into a leash. The people who once called me “blessed” now looked at me like a stranger, and I felt the sharp loneliness of no longer belonging to the world that raised me. That moment wasn’t rebellion; it was release. I wasn’t angry—I was finally indifferent. She said:
Why did you put dirt on the temple of God?
Then she cried. But what I felt wasn’t guilt. It was detachment. Judgment from the people I’d once prayed beside made me realize that my faith had become fear—fear of being wrong, fear of being myself.
Between Faith and Freedom
Now, I live quietly as an atheist. Free, but still hiding. My family doesn’t know. My friends still think I’m the church girl shouting hallelujah. I’m not ready to tell them, because I know how deep their disappointment will cut. Keeping this secret feels like living between worlds—one built on faith, the other on peace. I’ve found my truth, but not yet the courage to share it. Maybe one day. For now, this confession will have to do.
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