I'm a Practicing Witch, and My Child Fears I’m Damned

My partner and I were once devoted Catholics. We named our children after saints and had them baptized in the church. Every Sunday, regardless of the circumstances, we attended Mass. Our two younger sons began Sunday School, while our eldest completed his First Communion and Confession. It was during this time that I recognized a profound truth: I no longer identified as Catholic. In light of the church’s troubling hierarchy and abuse scandal, I knew I had to leave. I brought my husband along for the journey, unaware of how my eight-year-old son had internalized enough doctrine to believe I was destined for hell.

He kept his thoughts to himself, attending church with my mother on holidays. She, too, believed I was on the wrong path but expressed it openly. “Your kids need to go to church,” she’d insist. I would counter, “No, they don’t.” I often wanted to scream at her that maybe Confession could help those suffering abuse.

In our homeschooling, we occasionally explored Bible stories for their historical and literary value, making it clear that they weren’t necessarily factual. My youngest sons, aged seven and nine, hardly recognized a crucifix. I thought my eleven-year-old had moved past his Catholic upbringing.

I was mistaken.

I embraced paganism openly, which involves candles, good intentions, meditation, and connecting with nature. My collection of crystals and incense might look like the typical hobby of many Americans, but they hold deeper significance for me. Despite my beliefs, many might still side with my son in thinking I’m headed for hell.

Initially, my son accepted my beliefs. Trouble arose during a hike in Virginia when my younger boys wanted to understand my perspective. “Everything is interconnected,” I explained. “We can learn from the Earth’s messages and there isn’t a punishing figure in the sky. Instead, when we do wrong, we learn lessons to help us grow.”

My youngest asked, “When we come back, can we be an animal?” I replied, “Maybe sometimes.” My eldest, however, distanced himself, clearly embarrassed. The younger two bombarded me with questions about reincarnation while my eldest sulked ahead. I didn’t realize how deeply he disapproved until one day he exploded with frustration.

“Why does it matter what you believe?” he yelled, “You’re a WITCH!” and then he ran off.

Ouch, he wasn’t wrong. Though his words lacked nuance—pagans aren’t inherently witches, and I identify as both—he clearly saw my beliefs as something to mock. His crucifix still hangs by his bed, symbolizing his conviction that witches don’t belong.

I respect his Christian beliefs, just as I respect my partner’s. I tread carefully when discussing the Bible in our homeschooling, acknowledging that some people, including his father, view these narratives as truth. While I disagree with many biblical teachings, I recognize the goodness within them.

One of my children can’t even touch my selenite crystals. As for my eldest, I’ve stopped discussing my spirituality around him. The disconnect is painful; it’s hard to keep such a vital part of my identity hidden, especially when I feel he’s been raised with damaging beliefs. I wish I could reassure him: no one is going to hell, not me or him.

But I can’t.

And that’s the most sorrowful aspect of all.

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In summary, navigating the complexities of differing beliefs within my family is challenging, especially when my child views my pagan practices as unacceptable. The pain of feeling unable to share my true self with him while respecting his beliefs weighs heavy.