I Found Faith Again (And It Wasn’t Gentle).

I didn’t come back to faith with open arms. I came back limping. Dragging memories of spiritual harm, of manipulation dressed as love. Of prayers that felt like performance. Of leaders who spoke of grace but wielded shame.

I didn’t trust the language anymore.

“Saved.”

“Redeemed.”

“Chosen.”

Each word felt like a trapdoor.

But something kept tugging. Not a voice. Not a vision. Just a feeling, like a thread woven into my ribs. A quiet insistence: Return.

So I did. Not to the same pews. Not to the same rules. But to something older. Something that met me in the fog and didn’t ask me to clean up first.

Faith, this time, came like mist. Soft. Unassuming. It didn’t demand belief. It offered presence.

I still flinch sometimes. Still question. Still rewrite the verses in my own tongue. But I’ve learned that faith can be a reclamation. Not of doctrine. But of wonder. Of mystery. Of the sacred pulse that says, “You’re not alone.”

I didn’t find answers. I found a place to rest.