My husband and I were once devout Catholics. We named our children after saints, baptized them within the Church, and attended Mass every Sunday without fail. Our middle and youngest sons had begun Sunday School, while our eldest made it all the way to his First Communion and Confession. Then, a realization struck me: I am not Catholic. The Church’s troubling hierarchy and the abuse crisis led me to step away from those beliefs. My husband joined me in this journey, but I hadn’t considered how my then-eight-year-old would grapple with this shift — he had absorbed enough doctrine to genuinely believe I was destined for hell.
He kept this to himself, attending church with my mother on major holidays. She, too, thought I was on the wrong path, often insisting, “Your kids need to go to church.” I would reply, “No, they don’t.” Part of me wanted to shout that if they could confess to a priest about the abuse they suffered, they would be told they were forgiven and sent on their way, just like I was at seven.
We occasionally explored Bible stories during school for their historical and literary significance, emphasizing that they weren’t necessarily factual in the way some might claim. My youngest two, aged seven and nine, hardly recognized a crucifix. I mistakenly thought my eleven-year-old had moved past his Catholic roots.
I openly embraced paganism, which mainly involves candles, good intentions, meditation, and connecting with nature — lots of energy work and respect for the Earth. Sure, I have a large crystal collection and an abundance of incense and candles. While many might find that typical, my candles are thoughtfully sourced, not mall-bought. Most people would likely agree with my eleven-year-old that I’m destined for hell. Nevertheless, I pressed on.
For a time, he seemed fine with my beliefs. Trouble surfaced during a family hike in Virginia when my younger sons sought to understand my spirituality. “Everything is connected,” I explained. “We can learn from the Earth if we pay attention. There’s no punishing deity; when we do wrong, we learn lessons rather than facing punishment. Those lessons might be tough, but they help us grow into better people.”
“When we come back?” my youngest inquired.
“Yes, when we die, we don’t just disappear. We become someone else.”
“Can we come back as animals?” my animal-loving middle son asked.
“Maybe sometimes,” I replied uncertainly.
My eldest walked ahead, clearly embarrassed by our conversation. The younger two asked numerous questions about reincarnation, inspired by a friend of theirs who claimed to remember bits of past lives. My eldest sulked until we reunited with their father and the subject shifted. I sensed his discomfort but didn’t realize the extent of his feelings until much later.
While my youngest son enthusiastically accompanied me to The Witch Store™ and the middle son remained inquisitive, my eldest eventually had a meltdown one day. We likely asked him to stop playing Roblox, but what he screamed will always resonate with me: “Why does it matter what you say? You’re a WITCH!” He stormed off.
Well, he wasn’t entirely wrong. He lacked some nuance (pagans aren’t necessarily witches, but I identify with both). His reaction implied my beliefs were something to be mocked, enough to be used as an insult. He still keeps a crucifix beside his bed, holding onto the notion that witches are condemned. I’m going to hell.
I respect his Christian perspective, just as I do my husband’s. While I don’t personally believe, I tread carefully when discussing the Bible during homeschooling. “Some people hold these stories as truth,” I explain. “Daddy does. There’s much in the Bible I disagree with, and while I’m not a Christian, I see value in some of its teachings.”
One child can’t even hold a piece of selenite, given our family’s history with crystals. As for my eldest, I’ve chosen to keep my spiritual beliefs to myself around him. Roll your eyes if you must; I understand the judgments that likely come with my path. Yet, it’s disheartening to feel unable to share something so deeply meaningful, especially when I believe he’s been influenced by a harmful doctrine (for which I take responsibility). I want to embrace him and reassure him: “No one is going to hell. Not you, and certainly not me.”
But I can’t.
That is the most painful part of all.
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Summary
A mother reflects on her journey from Catholicism to paganism, revealing the challenges she faces in sharing her beliefs with her children, especially her eldest son who struggles with the idea of her spiritual path. The article discusses family dynamics, the impact of religious upbringing, and the difficulty of reconciling differing beliefs within the family.
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