I lost my faith one winter. It was something I had been contemplating for years, never fully understanding why I had blindly followed in the first place. It wasn’t as hard as I had anticipated, but I tend towards worst case scenarios.
I remember walking into the sterile waiting room after having accidentally arrived 45 min early. After nervously flipping through motherhood magazines, I walked into the sterile office, my heart beating a bit too quickly, and my stomach feeling like I’d eaten an entire loaf of bread that failed to rise. My frame was small, so I felt cold even in modest temperatures. I sat in a chair that allowed me to curl in my preferred fetal position which generally aided in keeping me warm.
I waited longer than appropriate to see the professional, but as she walked in, I felt bucolic. A 60 year old woman with nicely styled gray hair, a bit plump, but dressed quite well for her build. What neither of us realized is that she would help me lose my faith that day.
I wasn’t her first or last, she had clearly been around the block a few times in her practice. I took solace in the way she comfortably sat in her chair, as though she choose the wrong profession and should have been a therapist. The fetal position I was poised in spoke volumes about my state.
I remember speaking quickly because she listened so quietly. I gave away all my secrets without realizing I was providing her with ammunition to charge me as guilt.
It’s funny how articulating your thoughts is all that is necessary for change to occur.
January of 2014, I lost my faith.


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