My partner and I were once devout Catholics. We chose traditional Catholic names for our children and ensured they received baptisms in the church. Sundays were dedicated to attending mass, without fail. Our middle and youngest sons began Sunday School, while our eldest participated fully, making his First Communion and First Confession. It was during this time that I had a revelation: I no longer identified as Catholic. The church’s hierarchy and the scandal surrounding abuse simply turned me off. I brought my husband along on this journey of realization, but I didn’t consider the impact on our then-eight-year-old, who had absorbed enough doctrine to think I was doomed to hell.
He kept his thoughts to himself. He would join my mother for church on Christmas and Easter—she believed I was going to hell too and made no secret of it. “Your kids need to go to church,” she’d insist. “They don’t,” I’d respond, wanting to scream that it was more important for them to be safe than to confess to a priest about any abuse, as I had done when I was a child.
At home, we read Bible stories primarily for their historical and literary significance, making sure to clarify that not everything was to be taken literally. My youngest two sons, now ages seven and nine, hardly recognized what a crucifix was. I was confident my eleven-year-old had moved beyond his Catholic upbringing.
I was mistaken.
I embraced paganism openly. My practice involved candles, good intentions, meditation, and a deep connection with nature. Sure, I have a substantial collection of crystals and an abundance of incense—perhaps too many candles for some tastes. Most people might agree with my eleven-year-old that I’m on the path to damnation.
At first, he seemed accepting of my beliefs. However, during a hike in Virginia, he began to express his confusion about what I believed. “Everything is connected,” I explained. “Nature communicates with us, and there’s no punishing figure in the sky. When we make mistakes, we learn; we aren’t punished. Those lessons might be tough, but they help us improve when we return.”
“When we come back?” my youngest asked.
“Yes, when we die, we don’t just disappear. We become someone else.”
“Can we be animals?” my nature-loving middle son inquired.
“Perhaps sometimes,” I replied, uncertain.
My eldest, however, distanced himself, clearly embarrassed. The younger two were filled with questions about reincarnation, and I shared stories about a friend who remembers bits of past lives. My oldest sulked until we reunited with his father, the conversation fading away. I sensed he was struggling with my beliefs, but I didn’t realize the extent of his feelings until one day he exploded.
In a typical preteen outburst, he yelled, “Why does it matter what you say? You’re a WITCH!” before storming off.
Well, he wasn’t entirely wrong. While he may have simplified my identity—pagans aren’t necessarily witches, and I identify as both—he was clearly ridiculing my beliefs. He still kept a crucifix by his bed, a symbol of his faith that stood in stark contrast to my spiritual path. I respect his Christianity, just as I respect my husband’s beliefs. Although I don’t share their faith, I’ve become more cautious in discussing the Bible during our homeschooling sessions. “Some people believe these stories are true,” I explain. “Your dad does. While I disagree with many aspects, I also see value in some teachings.”
One of my children can’t even hold a piece of selenite, while my eldest has become averse to my beliefs. It pains me to feel unable to share something so personally significant with my child, especially knowing he has been influenced by what I consider a harmful doctrine. I want to tell him, “Sweetheart, no one is going to hell. Not me, and certainly not you.”
But I can’t.
That’s the most heartbreaking part.
For more engaging content, check out this related blog post. If you’re exploring family-building options, this is an excellent resource to consider.