Faith, for many, flows like a gentle river—clear, steady, always moving forward. For me, faith has been more like a stormy ocean, its tides rising and crashing without warning, sometimes dragging me under. My Catholic story is not one of constant light and unwavering devotion. It is a story born out of grief, sculpted by loss, and redeemed by unexpected grace. It is a story of a messy faith held together by an honest heart.
I didn’t walk away from the Church in a single moment. It wasn’t a dramatic exit or a conscious decision to renounce God. It was a slow unraveling, a gradual quieting of belief as life dealt me blow after blow. I turned away from the Church during one of the most vulnerable and painful seasons of my life—when I was trying to conceive and found myself enduring miscarriage after miscarriage. But my grief didn’t stop there. I was also suffering the loss of people I deeply loved—friends, mentors, family members who had shaped my world and now were no longer in it.
Each loss left a hole in my heart, and I began to feel like I was living in a world governed by randomness and cruelty, not divine love. I had grown up in the Church, taught to believe in a God who was good, merciful, and ever-present. But where was He now? Where was He when I watched people I love die too young? Where was He when I clutched my belly in hope, only to lose that hope again and again?
The heartbreak of miscarriage is difficult to describe. It's invisible to the world but catastrophic to the soul. Each time I saw two lines on a pregnancy test, I felt a cautious flicker of joy, followed almost immediately by fear. Each time, I prayed with everything in me. And each time, I was left shattered—empty womb, aching heart. I questioned everything. What kind of God would deny a woman the chance to love a child? Why were babies being given to those who abused, neglected, or abandoned them, while I, who would have given everything, was left with nothing?
Then there were the stories on the news—children abandoned, harmed, killed. These weren’t distant headlines. They felt like personal attacks. I remember lying awake at night with silent tears, choking on anger. I felt betrayed by the very faith I had once clung to. The God I once spoke to daily became someone I no longer recognized. I didn’t just stop going to church—I stopped talking to God altogether. In my silence, I thought maybe I could erase Him. But He was still there, quietly watching, waiting, letting me grieve.
For years, I carried this rage. I didn’t feel safe in my faith anymore. Going back to church felt impossible. It wasn’t just the rituals that felt meaningless—it was the entire idea of trusting in something divine. I had loved deeply, I had believed passionately, and I had been met with loss after loss. I felt abandoned.
But in the midst of this spiritual wilderness, there was someone who never gave up on me. My best friend who remained by my side. He never preached to me or tried to fix my broken theology. He didn’t throw Bible verses at my pain or suggest that I “pray more.” He simply stayed. He saw me—raw, angry, unfiltered—and loved me anyway.
It was this quiet, unwavering presence that began to shift something in me. He invited me to church several times, and I always declined. But one day, for reasons I still don’t fully understand, I said yes. Maybe I was just tired—tired of carrying the bitterness, tired of being alone in my pain. Maybe a part of me missed the familiarity of the Church—the incense, the hymns, the sanctuary that once gave me peace. Or maybe God, in His patient mercy, had been gently leading me all along.
Walking into church that day was one of the hardest things I’d ever done. I felt like an imposter, like someone who didn’t belong. I kept my head low, my heart guarded. But something about being in that space stirred an ache I had long buried. It wasn’t comfort I felt—it was confrontation. I was being confronted with everything I had lost, everything I had denied. And yet, there was also something else. Something deeper. A whisper I couldn’t ignore.
That whisper grew louder when my friend encouraged me to go to confession. I laughed at first. I hadn’t been in over ten years. I had forgotten how to say the Act of Contrition. What would I even confess? That I had shouted at God? That I had cursed Him? That I had called Him cruel? But my friend simply said, “Just be honest.”
Those words haunted me—in the best way. And so, with trembling hands and a racing heart, I entered the confessional at Our Lady of Perpetual Succour (OLPS). The priest there—Father Kenny—did not look at me with judgment or disappointment. He listened. And when I said I had forgotten how to begin, he smiled gently. I poured out everything. My losses. My anger. My silence. My abandonment of faith. And what I received in return was not condemnation. It was compassion.
Father Kenny did not try to offer easy answers. He didn’t quote Scripture or speak in riddles. He acknowledged my pain. He told me it was okay to be angry. He told me God could take it. And he welcomed me home. That moment changed everything. It was the start of something new—a return, not to the person I used to be, but to a faith that could hold both pain and promise.
In the months that followed, my faith grew in unexpected ways. I began praying again. Not polished, poetic prayers—just raw conversations. Sometimes I was still angry. Sometimes I was numb. But I was showing up. And in those quiet moments, I began to feel something I hadn’t in years: peace. Not the absence of struggle, but the presence of something greater than my grief.
I returned to Mass more consistently. I began to see the Eucharist not as a routine, but as a sacred meeting place. Scripture came alive in ways it never had before. I started journaling—writing prayers, questions, even letters to the children I had lost. Slowly, trust returned. Not blind trust, but honest trust—the kind that says, “I don’t understand, but I’m here.”
And then, something extraordinary happened: I began to give back. I started serving in small ways—helping with parish events, assisting with outreach. It felt right. It felt like healing. And now, I’m preparing for my first church mission trip. Me—the woman who once vowed never to step into a church again. I’m going, not because I have it all figured out, but because I want to share what I’ve found. I want others to know that it’s okay to fall apart, that God is still there, even in the ruins.
One of the most meaningful parts of this renewed faith journey has been the Saturdays I spend with my mum and granny. At first, taking Granny to church felt like a chore—something I “should” do. A way to force myself into the habit of Mass. But something shifted. I realized I didn’t need the push. I wanted to be there. On the Saturdays I have to miss, I feel a void—like I’ve skipped a meal my soul needed.
Those Saturday evenings have become sacred. Not just for the Mass, but for the moments before and after. Sitting in the pew beside two of the women who shaped my life. Talking. Laughing. These are memories I will carry with me forever. The Church, once a place of pain, has become a space of connection and love.
My journey back to faith hasn’t erased my past. The grief of my miscarriages, the loss of those I loved, still lives within me. But now, that grief has somewhere to go. It doesn’t sit stagnant. It moves. It breathes. It reaches upward. I believe God holds those memories with me—that He honors them, redeems them, and somehow uses them to shape the person I am becoming.
There’s a quote I once read: “Faith doesn’t mean everything will be okay. It means you’re not alone when it’s not.” That’s what I’ve come to believe. Catholicism is not about perfection. It’s not about having unshakable belief or constant joy. It’s about returning. Over and over again. It’s about bringing our whole selves—mess and all—to the altar and saying, “Here I am.”
So this is my Catholic story. A story of loss and love. Of absence and return. Of anger and healing. A story of a messy faith, held by an honest heart. I don’t claim to be the perfect Catholic. I still wrestle with questions. I still mourn. But I show up. I pray. I love. I trust. And most importantly—I believe again.
Each day, I walk a little closer to the God I once thought had abandoned me. I now know He was always there. Waiting. Watching. Loving. And that, to me, is the greatest miracle of all.
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