Friday, August 28, 2026

I lost my path to faith when I lost Mom. Her faith meant everything to her, and instead of letting that bring me closer to God, I got angry. I couldn’t understand how someone so good, who believed so deeply, could suffer the way she did. So I ran from it. I knew I should go back to church, but I fought it because I was hurt and angry and scared of what walking through those doors might bring back up.

There were some incredibly dark days after losing her. Days when I didn’t necessarily want to die, but I didn’t want to be here either. Suicide was never an option for me. I believe in Heaven, and I was never going to take even the smallest chance of doing something that could keep me from seeing my mom again. But that didn’t mean I wanted to participate in life. I isolated. Some weekends I barely left my bed except to take care of the dogs. I’d sleep because sleeping was easier than feeling. Then Monday would come, I’d get up, go to work, and somehow function. Mornings were always the worst.

And somewhere underneath all of that, I’ve always known I need to find my way back to God. Not just because faith mattered to Mom, but because I think I need to discover what faith means to me now. Maybe finding the right church and rebuilding that connection will make me feel closer to her. Maybe it will help me heal parts of myself I’ve been trying to survive without touching.

I know I need to go.

I’m just scared.