Grief changed everything I believed. About people. About love. About faith.

But lately, I’ve found myself asking a question I thought I had already figured out: What does it actually mean to be a Christian?

Not in the way we label ourselves. Not in the way we check a box or show up on Sunday mornings. But in the way we live. In the way we treat people when it would be easier not to. Because right now, I’m watching something unfold in my personal life that doesn’t match the version of Christianity I thought I understood.

My girlfriend is in the middle of a custody battle. It’s messy and painful in all the ways you would expect, but what’s been hardest to process isn’t just the legal fight—it’s the way it’s being fought.

She offered her child’s father and his wife a half dozen different 50/50 arrangements that gave them parts of what they were asking for. They said they would think about it. And then they served her papers. They are using her epilepsy against her and making accusations about my children that simply aren’t true. They have implied that being around us—because we are a same-sex couple—is somehow harmful.

And these are people who go to church every Sunday. People who would call themselves Christians without hesitation.

But this doesn’t feel like Christianity. At least not to me.

I was taught that Christianity meant loving your neighbor. Even when it’s inconvenient. Even when you disagree. Even when it would be easier to win than to be kind.

And yet, I watch weekly text messages filled with hate and condescension come in from the father and stepmother. And all I keep thinking is that if this is what Christianity looks like, then I don’t know that I want to be associated with it.

Faith & Falling Apart

The truth is, my relationship with faith has never been simple.

When Emily and I started dating, faith wasn’t really a part of my life anymore. I had grown up Catholic, but somewhere along the way, I became jaded. Questions weren’t welcomed—they were shut down. And as someone who is both a woman and queer, I struggled to reconcile myself with a system that didn’t always seem to have space for me.

So I left it behind… or at least, I thought I did.

A few months into our relationship, Emily & I visited her family and attended church with them in the same church she had grown up in. In the middle of the service, she looked over at me and said, “I think we should start going to church.”

It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t a long conversation. It was just… something she felt.

And I said okay.

Looking back, what stayed with me wasn’t just the decision—it was the way she experienced it. There was something about her faith that felt certain, but not rigid. Grounded, but not judgmental. It wasn’t about rules or fear or getting into heaven. It was about people.

She lived her faith in a way I had never really seen before.

She would pull over on the side of the road to help a stranger. She would show up for people without hesitation. She made choices that didn’t always make sense on paper, but made perfect sense if you believed that loving people was the point.

And the more I watched her live her faith, I realized how much I had been missing.

But then, Emily died. And everything I thought I understood about faith fell apart.

In the hours before she died, I remember pacing a hospital waiting room, running back and forth to the bathroom because I was physically sick. I was crying, praying, begging. Please don’t let her die. Anything but that.

I meant it. I would have taken anything else.But she died anyway.

There’s a kind of silence that follows a moment like that. Not the peaceful kind. The kind that makes you question everything.

I remember thinking, maybe all of this is bullshit. There’s no point. Clearly God is hateful. 

Because how does someone like her—someone who loved so fully, who showed up for people so completely—just… disappear?

And yet, just a few days later, I found myself again in a state of confusion. 

The Sunday after Emily died, I went back to church. I almost didn’t. It felt strange to go somewhere that had become ours without her. But I went. And the moment I walked in, I started crying.

People kept coming up to me—hugging me, checking on me, sitting with me. One of the pastors let me hide in their office when it became too overwhelming. Someone took me out to lunch so I wouldn’t have to be alone.

It wasn’t anything dramatic. No lightning bolt, no clear explanation for why she was gone.

But it was something.

It was care. It was presence. It was people showing up for me in a way that felt… sacred.

And for the first time, I started to understand that maybe faith wasn’t about having answers.

Maybe it was about what happens after everything falls apart.

Fire Under My Feet

Despite my revelation that Sunday, my life didn’t make much sense for months after that.

Grief consumed me. My mental health struggled. My finances were a mess. I went through job changes, relationship ups and downs—nothing felt stable.

Until one day, slowly, things started to shift.

Not all at once. Not in some dramatic, movie-like way. But in small moments.

An unexpected bill getting covered. New friendships formed. A sense that maybe—just maybe—I didn’t have to force everything to work out.

And I started paying attention to that.

Instead of speaking during prayer time, I started trying to listen. I didn’t list what I wanted, but instead tried to discover what I was being called toward. I started letting go a little more. Trusting a little more.

And over time, things started to click. Not perfectly. Not without struggle. But differently.

I could handle hard moments without spiraling. I could sit with uncertainty without panicking. I could say, “This is what I can control, and this is what I can’t,” and actually believe that things would work out. I felt a fire inside myself that would never be put out. A reason for going on. Motivation and contentment.

I’m working my butt off, but all the bills are covered, and there’s usually enough left over for a few fun activities with the kids or a nice date night with Raelyn. I can spend a day alone without feeling lost. There’s the potential for a promotion at work. I’m sleeping through the night without panic attacks or trouble breathing. 

By all accounts, life is good.

Practice What You Preach

Unfortunately, I think the fact that life is going so well is why this current season feels so disorienting.

I thought I had finally found my footing, and I believe (or believed) my faith was a major part of why that shift happened.

But now, I’m watching people use Christianity as a weapon. I’m watching love get replaced with judgment. Compassion replaced with control. Faith reduced to a label instead of a way of living.

And it makes me question everything all over again.

Am I doing the right thing? Am I misunderstanding what this is supposed to be? Do I even want to be part of something that looks like this?

But here’s what I keep coming back to: Emily never used her faith to hurt people… she used it to help them. She didn’t need to announce it, defend it, or prove it. You could see it in the way she lived.

And maybe that’s the difference.

Maybe faith was never meant to be something we claim. Maybe it’s something we practice. Something we wrestle with. Something we question. Something we get wrong and try again. Something that shows up not in what we say we believe, but in how we treat people when it’s hardest to love them.

The Faith I Choose to Stay

I don’t have everything figured out. There are still days when I wake up angry. Days I’m not sure what I believe. Days when my prayers sound more like frustration than faith.

But maybe that’s part of it too.

Maybe real faith isn’t the absence of doubt. Maybe it’s choosing to stay—even when you’re not sure. Choosing to love—even when other people don’t. Choosing to live in a way that reflects what you hope is true, even when the world around you makes it hard to believe.

Grief didn’t just break my heart; it changed what I believe.

And while I’m still figuring out what faith means, I know the version of it I believe in now looks a lot more like the way Emily lived.