My name is April, and this is my journey, my unravelling, my becoming.
I was born into a world of Sunday sermons and amens, where the gospel hymns were as familiar to me as lullabies. My mother likes to say I was in church the Sunday after I was born, as if the sanctuary knew my name before I did. Church wasn’t just a building; it was my universe, with its stars being the eyes of the congregation, each one expecting me to shine back in Christian faith.
When I was twelve, I was baptized. The water was cool, the choir’s song was warm, but my heart? It was somewhere in between, caught in a limbo I couldn’t yet name. They said baptism was a seal of belief, but it felt more like a question mark that kept surfacing, no matter how deep I tried to bury it.
High school years spun around me in a whirlwind of conservative values, set within the walls of a Christian private school. “Conservative” was a label handed to me, one that I wore before even knowing what it truly meant. I parroted views that were never mine to begin with, the echoes of expectations. But then, in the quiet corners of the internet, I found whispers of different ideas, and they planted seeds of doubt that started to take root within me.
The real change came in July 2018, when I was sent to a Christian therapeutic boarding school, a world away from everything I knew. There, in the most unexpected of places, I was introduced to a kaleidoscope of worldviews that shattered my monochrome vision of faith. Mindfulness, meditation, and the serene teachings of Buddhism breathed into me a new kind of life. For the first time, I felt a peace that was mine, not borrowed or imposed.
Coming home was like trying to fit the ocean back into a bottle. My family quickly snuffed out any mention of my newfound practices, insisting we stick to our Christian roots. The freedom I’d tasted was replaced with a familiar confinement, and the dissonance within me grew louder.
Eventually, the need for authenticity pushed me out of the nest. I moved out, yearning to chase the tranquility I’d found in Tibetan Buddhism. But it wasn’t simple; the trauma of a past that clung too tightly made every step towards faith feel like a mile. When my mother discovered my shift in belief, it was as though a chasm split beneath our feet, her words sharp as they reminded me, “Only Christians can be good people.”
Now, each day is a page in a story that’s still being written. I’m learning that goodness isn’t tied to a creed, that love is not confined to one chapter in a book, and that my worth isn’t predicated on conformity. My mother says we’re living in the end times, the chapters of Revelation coming to life before our eyes. But for me, revelation isn’t about prophecies of doom; it’s about the truths I uncover within, the chapters of my own life unfolding in ways I never imagined.
In sharing my story, I find solace. I am not alone in this; I’m part of a community where our stories intertwine, where our questions are met with nods of understanding, not shakes of judgment. I am part of a chorus of voices finding their authentic selves, and together, our harmony rises, painting the sky with the hues of our combined experiences.
This is my revelation, my path to the authentic self.