Navigating the intersection of family and faith hasn’t been easy, especially when my beliefs no longer aligned with what I was taught. It’s a vulnerable and scary place to be. It’s a space where you find yourself questioning, wondering, and hoping for more understanding.

In sharing this part of my story, I want to hold space for those of you who might be feeling the same.

You are not alone in this.

Embracing Spirituality in My Healing

As I continued my healing journey, I did a lot of journaling. It was my way of processing everything—my pain, confusion, and grief. But despite all my journaling, I wasn't spiritual, and I wasn't religious anymore. I felt a vacancy in my heart and soul.

I stopped believing in God after a philosophy class at Cal State LA. We were discussing the work of the philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche, and my professor used religion as an example of absolutism— the idea that absolute truth exists. He contrasted that with relativity, the idea that truth can be subjective, based on individual experience. We were discussing the ethics and morals of people who argue against abortions and how some religions do not accept rape as a reason to terminate a pregnancy because of the word of god. When I realized this, it was as though everything I had known about my faith was challenged. I was raised to believe that if God said something was true, it was right. But that moment in class shook me. I thought, "But it’s not that simple. Maybe it’s not true."

That realization hit me hard, and I grieved deeply. For years, I had relied on my belief in God, and suddenly that foundation was gone.

That night, I drove to my husband’s house, feeling scared. I called him and said, “I don’t know what’s happening, but I don’t believe in God anymore. I feel guilty and scared.” I was letting go of a belief system that had been a huge part of me. It felt like a massive part of my identity was slipping away, and I wasn’t sure who I was anymore. I cried myself to sleep that night.

In hindsight, I now see that this was my first experience of a spiritual death.

I kept this to myself for a while because I wasn’t ready to share it with my family, and I didn’t have to.

I learned to keep secrets at a very young age, especially when it came to our family’s dysfunction. So when I started questioning my faith, I was too scared to share it with anyone, fearing family rejection. But eventually the truth came out in a breakthrough conversation with my mom.

Growing up, I became my mom’s confidant, I was her therapist-child. Holding space for my mom was one of the only times I felt a deep connection to her. It felt good to connect with her in this way but it wasn’t healthy for me as a child, and it certainly wasn’t healthy for my mom, but that was the dynamic we had for a long time. This changed throughout my healing journey when my mom started going to actual therapy and I began to set boundaries with her. We’re in a much better place now and I am actually grateful for this experience because I have become an amazing space holder for people. I’ve been holding space for other people’s pain my whole life.

One day, after a fight she had with my dad, I told her, “I don’t believe in the Bible anymore, Mom.” I carefully avoided saying I didn’t believe in God because I knew that would be too much for her. I explained how the Bible taught women to be subservient, and how I saw that this belief had affected her life and kept her in an abusive marriage. “That’s why you couldn’t leave Dad,” I said. “You were taught to obey him.” I told her, “Women deserve to be treated as equals.”

To my surprise, she understood. She listened, and instead of getting defensive, she said, “You’re right. I see it now.” It was empowering for both of us. I felt immense relief in my body that my mom understood where I was coming from.

Untill this day, my mom still identifies as a Christian and she respects my individual beliefs.

However, even with that breakthrough, I was still struggling. I was facing so much uncertainty about my beliefs, my family, and my place in the world. I felt lost, still dealing with depression, and still analyzing myself constantly. This self-analysis became both my survival mechanism and my prison. I was journaling, trying to figure out why I felt so stuck, why I couldn’t move forward. But no matter how much I wrote, cried, and reflected, I was still unable to shake the weight of my emptiness. Until one summer, my husband and I visited Chichenitza and I learned about my ancestors and the power of energy healing.

I began exploring energy healing. I started reading about Mexica spirituality, curanderismo, reiki, crystals, and energy work, and even took tarot classes. I was drawn to this spiritual side of healing, believing that it wasn’t just about therapy but about connecting with a deeper, universal energy. But even with all this spiritual connection, the depression didn’t lift. My body felt tired and weighed down more than ever before.

It was then that I realized—I couldn’t do this on my own anymore. I needed help, I needed a witness to my pain and healing. So, I decided to go back to therapy—not because anyone told me to, but because I needed to face my unresolved pain.