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I used to believe faith was a steady flame handed down—warmth that sheltered me from the cold winds of doubt. It was a map drawn by hands older than mine, with clear roads, familiar landmarks, and promises stitched into the sky. I carried it like armor and sanctuary, the kind you don’t question because it’s part of your bones.
But growing up is learning to step outside that light and see the shadows it cast. The edges blur. The roads fork. The promises twist in ways you never expected.
Outgrowing faith isn’t a clean break. It’s a slow peeling back, a quiet unlearning, an ache that feels like betrayal and freedom all at once. It’s realizing that what once protected you may now confine you. That your soul, hungry for something deeper, refuses to be tethered to the stories you were told.
I see now that faith is less about certainty and more about courage—the courage to face the unknown without the safety net of old truths. It’s a paradox: losing belief but not losing hope. Letting go but still walking forward.
Sometimes I mourn the faith I had, the comfort of it, the simplicity. Other times, I celebrate the space I’ve made for questions no doctrine ever answered. The version of myself that thrived in that faith is a ghost I visit—sometimes with tenderness, sometimes with a cold glance.
And maybe that’s the hardest part: loving what you once held sacred, while knowing you can no longer live inside it.
Faith isn’t a home you can outgrow—it’s a place you carry inside, even when you’ve left it behind.
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