It didn’t happen all at once.
You had been unraveling for years.

Quietly questioning.
Carefully reshaping the edges
of what you thought was sacred.

You had already started to wonder:
If love came at the cost of honesty,
was it really love?

If obedience required silence,
was it still holy?

If abuse was done in the name of god,
did that make it yours to carry?

You were scared.
Not just of being wrong —
but of losing everything you were taught to be right.

Because who were you
without belief?
Without worship?
Without a man, a pastor, a scripture
to tell you who you were?

And then came that Wednesday night.

A midweek service.
Familiar songs.
A message about how christians were being persecuted.

You sat there,
listening to a room full of people
grieve the loss of comfort —
while the world outside was begging for compassion.

No one said anything cruel.
No one had to.

You just saw it for what it was:
A kind of faith
that required too much pretending.

And in that moment,
something let go.

You stood up.
Quietly.
Without a speech.
Without a plan.

You left the sanctuary
and never went back.

Not because you stopped believing.
But because you finally believed yourself.

And this letter is for you —
for every version of you
that tried to be good enough.

To the girl
who always had the right answers.
Who was praised for maturing quickly
but never learned how to be a kid.
Who thought obedience was love
and holiness meant hiding.
Who learned to smile instead of speak.
To stay quiet instead of ask.

You were never too much.
You were just never allowed
to be whole.

To the teenager
who believed her worth
was tied to staying pure.
Who thought pride was a sin
but shame was sacred.
Who kept apologizing for her doubt
and called it faith.

You weren’t broken.
You were becoming.
And that was never a sin.

To the woman
who tried to hold it all together.
Who became who she was supposed to be —
the faithful Christian,
the quiet wife,
the good daughter.
Who led worship with her hands raised,
trying to feel god in the music
and wondering why He still felt far.

Who made herself smaller
because that’s what love was supposed to look like.
Who kept forgiving
just to keep things peaceful.
Who learned to stay
even when it cost her joy.

You didn’t leave because you gave up.
You left because you stopped calling that survival.

I am grateful
you asked hard questions
even when no one wanted to hear them.

I am grateful
you stopped lying to yourself
just to be loved.

I am grateful
you walked away
even when it cost you everything familiar.

I am grateful
you chose peace in the uncertainty
instead of comfort in the pretending.

I am proud
you believed yourself
even when no one else did.

I am proud
you made room for grief
without needing to dress it up as strength.

I am proud
you stopped chasing acceptance
and chose what was real.

And I hope
you keep choosing what’s honest
even when it’s messy.
Even when it’s quiet.
Even when it hurts.

I hope
you remember peace isn’t earned through performance.
It’s found in being true.

And I hope
you never again forget
you were already whole

~ Ana