Long before grief became a permanent resident in my life, faith had been one of the few things that made the world feel understandable.
Growing up in Michigan, attending church wasn't merely something my family did on Sundays—it was woven into the fabric of our lives. The church was where prayers were shared and difficult times were endured together. It was where I learned about hope, forgiveness, and the belief that even during life's darkest moments, there was a purpose greater than what we could see.
As a child, I never questioned it.
Faith felt as natural as breathing.
When my family relocated to Florida, however, things began to change. My mother slowly distanced herself from church and organized religion. Life became busier, more complicated, and filled with responsibilities that seemed to take precedence over everything else.
Despite that, I never completely abandoned my beliefs.
I wasn't the type of person who preached to others or tried to convince people to share my worldview. I understood that faith was deeply personal. Everyone carried their own experiences, their own doubts, and their own relationship with God.
I rarely spoke openly about being a Christian.
Not because I was embarrassed.
Not because I lacked conviction.
But because I understood that belief cannot be forced.
It must be chosen.
For years, my faith remained a quiet part of me—something I carried privately rather than something I displayed publicly.
Then my mother died.
And suddenly, everything I thought I knew about God became much harder to understand.
---
In the weeks following her death, people often approached me with good intentions.
They would place a hand on my shoulder and offer comforting words.
"She's in a better place."
"She's watching over you."
"She's with God now."
I know they meant well.
I truly do.
But grief has a way of making even the kindest words feel hollow.
No matter how many times people assured me that my mother was at peace, it didn't change the reality that I could no longer hear her voice.
It didn't change the fact that I couldn't call her when I needed advice.
It didn't change the emptiness that followed me everywhere.
Most importantly, it didn't bring her back.
For months, I clung desperately to the hope that she was somewhere beyond this world.
I imagined her in heaven.
I imagined her smiling.
I imagined her finally free from pain.
Those thoughts brought me temporary comfort.
But comfort and healing are not the same thing.
One afternoon, the reality of her absence struck me with a force I wasn't prepared for.
I was sitting alone when the thought entered my mind:
She's really gone.
Not at work.
Not visiting family.
Not coming home tomorrow.
Gone.
Forever.
The realization hit me like a tidal wave.
I collapsed into tears.
The kind of tears that leave your chest aching.
The kind that makes it difficult to breathe.
The kind that seems to come from somewhere deeper than sadness.
In that moment, I wasn't simply grieving my mother.
I was grieving every future moment I would never get to share with her.
Every birthday.
Every graduation.
Every milestone.
Every ordinary day, I would have called her just to hear her voice.
The weight of it was unbearable.
And for the first time in my life, I found myself angry with God.
---
Questions began to consume my thoughts.
Questions nobody seemed capable of answering.
If God were loving, why did He allow this to happen?
If He were all-powerful, why couldn't He save her?
Why create people only to take them away?
Why allow children to lose their parents?
Why allow families to be shattered?
Night after night, I wrestled with those questions.
I prayed constantly.
I prayed for strength.
I prayed for healing.
I prayed for my health.
I prayed for peace.
I prayed for a reason.
Some nights, I begged.
Other nights, I argued.
Eventually, exhaustion replaced hope.
Prayer stopped feeling like comfort and started feeling like a conversation with silence.
The more I prayed, the more abandoned I felt.
And so, little by little, I stopped.
I stopped praying.
I stopped attending church.
I stopped opening my Bible.
Part of me felt guilty.
Another part of me felt betrayed.
How could I worship a God who had allowed the most important person in my life to die?
How could I trust a plan that felt so cruel?
I wasn't abandoning faith entirely.
I was wounded by it.
There is a difference.
Even today, I still struggle with those questions.
I still wrestle with grief.
I still wonder why my mother had to die.
But somewhere beneath all the anger, confusion, and heartbreak, a small fragment of hope remains.
Maybe there is a reason.
Maybe there is a purpose I cannot yet understand.
Maybe one day the questions that haunt me will finally make sense.
Until then, I continue searching.
---
Recently, my aunt invited me to attend church with her.
At first, I wasn't sure I wanted to go.
Part of me feared reopening wounds I had spent years trying to ignore.
But eventually, I agreed.
That Sunday morning, I found myself sitting in a familiar pew surrounded by prayers and scripture.
Everything felt strangely familiar.
Like returning to a childhood home that no longer belonged to you.
Then the pastor began to pray.
And suddenly, all the emotions I had been suppressing came rushing to the surface.
I couldn't stop crying.
Tears streamed down my face as years of grief poured out of me.
The pain of losing my mother.
The loneliness.
The rejection.
The uncertainty.
The fear.
Everything.
For so long, I had carried those burdens alone.
For so long, I had convinced myself that I needed to be strong.
But sitting there, surrounded by quiet voices and bowed heads, I realized how exhausted I was.
I wasn't crying because I lacked faith.
I was crying because I was tired.
Tired of hurting.
Tired of pretending.
Tired of carrying grief that seemed endless.
---
The very next morning, I went to school.
And unknowingly, another loss was waiting for me.
Her name was Hailey.
For years, Hailey had been my closest friend.
She wasn't just someone I sat with during class.
She was family.
My relatives knew her.
My family loved her.
She knew my secrets, my fears, and the parts of me I rarely showed anyone else.
We spent summers together.
We talked almost every day.
We shared inside jokes and memories that felt permanent.
For a long time, I genuinely believed she would be part of my life forever.
I was wrong.
---
One of the darkest moments of my life came when I reached out to Harley during a severe depressive episode.
I was overwhelmed.
Broken.
Desperate.
The thoughts in my head had become dangerous.
For the first time, I admitted how badly I was struggling.
I sent her a message.
Then I waited.
And waited.
And waited.
The message was read.
But there was no response.
Hours passed.
Then more hours.
Nothing.
The silence felt devastating.
Not because she owed me an immediate answer.
But because I had trusted her with the darkest part of myself.
And suddenly, I felt completely alone.
Abandoned.
Invisible.
The next day, I gathered enough courage to ask the question I had been dreading.
"Are we still friends?"
When she finally responded, her answer shattered me.
She didn't want to be friends anymore.
She didn't like me.
Just like that, years of friendship ended.
No explanation that made sense.
No closure.
No opportunity to fix things.
Just an ending.
For months, I blamed myself.
Maybe I was too much.
Too emotional.
Too damaged.
Too difficult to love.
I replayed every conversation repeatedly, searching for some mistake I could correct.
But eventually, I realized something painful.
Not every loss is your fault.
Sometimes people leave.
Sometimes friendships end.
And sometimes there is no satisfying explanation.
---
A year later, I thought I had finally moved forward.
Then history repeated itself.
I met three classmates in my Spanish class.
At first, everything felt easy.
We laughed together.
Talked between assignments.
Shared stories.
For four months, I genuinely believed I had found another group of friends.
Then I noticed a shift.
Their responses became shorter.
Their enthusiasm disappeared.
Conversations felt forced.
Whenever I approached them, something felt different.
My anxiety immediately sounded every alarm.
Was I imagining things?
Was I overthinking?
Or was I losing them too?
Eventually, I sent a message.
I tried to be honest.
I tried to be vulnerable.
And their response confirmed my fears.
They didn't want to be my friends anymore.
Worse, they accused me of saying things I had never said.
Words were twisted.
Misunderstandings became accusations.
And suddenly, I found myself standing in the ruins of another friendship.
---
That afternoon, I sat alone in my Spanish teacher's classroom.
The room was quiet.
The walls blurred together.
I stared at the floor, wondering what was wrong with me.
Why did this keep happening?
Why did every friendship seem destined to collapse?
Why was I always the one left behind?
For years, I had carried trauma, grief, medical struggles, anxiety, and depression.
To cope, I transformed my pain into humor.
I made jokes.
I used sarcasm.
I laughed when I wanted to cry.
Because if people saw how badly I was hurting, I feared they would leave.
Ironically, they left anyway.
---
Eventually, I sent one final message.
"I was changing myself for you guys," I wrote. "Trying to fit in. Trying to be what I thought you wanted."
The response came quickly.
"You never should have changed."
And they were right.
I never should have.
But when you've spent years feeling unwanted, acceptance can become an obsession.
You start believing that if you change enough, people will stay.
If you're funnier, they'll stay.
If you're quieter, they'll stay.
If you're prettier, they'll stay.
If you're less emotional, they'll stay.
But people who only accept a version of you that isn't real were never truly accepting you to begin with.
That was one of the hardest lessons I have ever learned.
---
For years, I struggled to look people in the eye.
I worried constantly about being judged.
I second-guessed every conversation.
Every joke.
Every text message.
I carried wounds left by people who mocked my weight, ridiculed my appearance, and even made cruel comments about my mother's death.
Those experiences taught me to expect rejection.
Eventually, I made a promise to myself.
No more attachments.
No more vulnerability.
No more heartbreak.
If every friendship ended in pain, then maybe it was safer not to try at all.
But life has a strange way of proving us wrong.
Over time, I reconnected with some of the people I thought I had lost forever.
Not every relationship was beyond repair.
Not every ending remained an ending.
And through those experiences, I learned something important:
I cannot control who chooses to stay.
I cannot force people to love me.
I cannot convince someone to value my friendship.
What I can control is whether I continue chasing people who have already decided to leave.
For years, I believed friendship was something I had to earn.
Now I understand something different.
The people who truly belong in your life don't require you to abandon yourself to keep them there.
Real friendship isn't built on desperation.
It's built on mutual choice.
And for the first time in my life, I'm learning that I am allowed to choose, too.
If someone wants to stay, they will.
And if they choose to leave, I will let them go.
Not because it doesn't hurt.
But because I finally understand that my worth is not determined by who walks away.