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Once upon a time, my partner and I were devout Catholics. We provided our children with traditional Catholic names, ensured they received baptisms, and attended mass every Sunday without fail. Our younger sons began Sunday School, while our eldest prepared for his First Communion and First Confession. It was during this phase that I had a revelation: I no longer identified as Catholic. The church’s hierarchy and the scandals surrounding it were too much for me. I brought my husband along on this journey but failed to consider how my eight-year-old son had absorbed enough of the church’s teachings to genuinely believe I was on a one-way ticket to hell.
He kept his thoughts to himself, occasionally joining my mother at church during Christmas and Easter—she shared the same belief about my eternal fate but was more vocal about it. “Your kids need to go to church,” she would insist. My response was always, “No, they don’t.” I often wanted to shout that perhaps they could confess to the priest about being abused and be told they were forgiven, just like I had at seven.
In our homeschooling, we read Bible stories for their historical and literary value, clarifying that they shouldn’t be taken literally. My youngest sons, ages seven and nine, barely recognized a crucifix. I had thought my eleven-year-old had moved past his Catholic roots, but I was mistaken.
I embraced paganism openly, which primarily involved using candles, meditation, and connecting with nature. My collection of crystals and incense might fit the stereotype, but I assure you my candles are not from a mall. Many in America would likely agree with my son that I’m bound for hell.
For a while, he seemed accepting of my beliefs. The first signs of discontent emerged during a family hike in Virginia when my younger sons sought to understand my spirituality. As I explained my views on interconnectedness and lessons learned through life’s challenges, my eldest distanced himself, striding ahead with an air of embarrassment. While my younger sons asked about reincarnation and expressed curiosity about a friend’s memories of past lives, my eldest fell silent, simmering with resentment.
His outburst came one afternoon after a typical parental request—probably to stop playing Roblox. “Why’s it matter what you say?” he yelled, his anger palpable. “You’re a WITCH!” With that, he stormed off. It stung to hear him use my spiritual path as an insult, indicating that he viewed my beliefs as something to be ridiculed. He still keeps a crucifix by his bed, and I can’t help but feel the weight of those words: I’m going to hell.
I respect his Christian views, just as I do my husband’s. Although I don’t share their beliefs, I tread carefully during discussions about the Bible, acknowledging that some people, including Dad, hold those narratives as truth. There are positive messages in the Bible, even if I don’t align with its teachings.
One of my children won’t even touch a piece of selenite, while I’ve chosen to avoid discussions about my beliefs in front of my eldest. It’s painful not to share something so dear to me with him, especially knowing he’s been raised within a doctrine I view as harmful. I wish I could reassure him that none of us are going to hell but I know I can’t.
That’s the hardest part of all.