Lost in the Light: Reclaiming My Spirit Beyond the Walls of Religion

I wasn’t raised in a very Catholic household, but growing up in Mexico, Catholicism was everywhere. It was woven into the fabric of everyday life, from holidays to community events to the ways people interacted. Even though my family didn’t strictly follow religious practices, the culture made it impossible to escape. It shaped expectations, language, and traditions, silently dictating what was considered right or wrong, moral or immoral. Even without attending mass every Sunday, Catholicism lingered in the air, like an unspoken agreement we were all expected to honor.

Yet even as a child, I felt something was missing. There was always this quiet, nagging sense that the connection I was supposed to feel, the one everyone else seemed to understand, just wasn’t there for me. I tried to align myself with the beliefs and rituals surrounding me, going through the motions, hoping the sense of belonging would follow. But deep inside, I knew something didn’t fit. There was a whisper in me, faint but persistent, saying there has to be more than this. I couldn’t put my finger on it back then, but I knew that whatever I was searching for wasn’t to be found in what I had been given.

Then, in the 90s, I moved to the United States and lived with an American family who embodied the ideals of Sunday Church and the Word of God. I observed them closely, first as an outsider trying to make sense of their world and then as someone disillusioned by what I saw. Their daily actions, words, and behavior didn’t align with the prayers they recited so faithfully every Sunday. There was kindness, yes, but also contradiction, judgment where love was preached, exclusion where acceptance was promised. It became clear that the faith they proclaimed didn’t extend to how they treated each other. That was the last time I ever set foot in a church. I might be many things, but I knew I couldn’t be a hypocrite.

A few days ago, my husband and I watched Resurrection with Ellen Burstyn, and it stirred those old feelings, bringing them back to the surface. The film made me reflect deeply on how organized religion, with all its promises of faith and salvation, can often leave people disconnected from their own spirit. There is a line in the film, spoken by Edna’s grandmother, that struck me profoundly: “If we could just love each other as much as we say we love Him.”

That one sentence captures so much of what I had struggled with. Organized religion, at its core, is meant to teach love, compassion, and connection, yet in practice, it often prioritizes rules, expectations, and fear over those values. It is easier to follow rituals than to embody love in its purest form, messy, unstructured, and unpredictable. Stepping outside of what is familiar feels risky. And love, the kind that transforms and heals, demands vulnerability. It requires us to let go of control, and that is precisely what many fear most.

This disconnect is why I eventually chose to walk away. I wasn’t rebelling, I was seeking. I needed to create space to listen to my own spirit, to trust in the divine without needing someone else’s validation or permission. I found that God wasn’t waiting for me in a church pew. He was everywhere, in the wind stirring the trees, in the rhythm of the ocean waves, and in the quiet moments under the night sky when everything else fell away. I found Him in the broken, in the homeless, and in the spaces where words fail, and only presence remains.

The song I wrote, Lost in the Light, captures this journey. It tells the story of my evolution from carrying the weight of cultural expectations to discovering freedom in trusting the unknown. The lyrics explore the tension between what I was taught to believe and what I came to understand through my own experiences. It’s not about knowing all the answers; it’s about having the courage to sit with the questions. “I find myself in every why,” the song says, because it’s in the process of questioning that I began to uncover my truth.

The more I reflect on my journey, the more I realize that miracles, those sudden, unexpected bursts of grace, scare people not because they lack faith, but because they disrupt the sense of control we cling to. A miracle asks us to surrender, to step into the unknown without guarantees. It invites us to open ourselves to transformation, which often means dismantling the neat frameworks we’ve built around our lives and confronting truths we’d rather avoid.

This is why I often say that if God were to show up on Earth today, His own Church would crucify Him again. It’s a bold statement, but it feels true to me. We are so attached to what we think faith should look like that we often miss the real thing when it appears; wild, untamed, and beyond our control.

Leaving organized religion didn’t mean I lost faith; it meant I found it. It taught me to trust the twists and turns of life, even when I couldn’t see where the road would lead. I’ve learned that love doesn’t need words or validation, it exists in silence, in the spaces out of sight, and in the mystery that surrounds us all.

I’ve stopped trying to control the journey. Instead, I’m learning to live in the tension, in the place where light and shadow meet. It isn’t always comfortable, but it’s where I’ve come alive. Being “lost in the light” isn’t about having everything figured out, it’s about finding my fire, my fight, and my faith in the unfolding mystery.

Every day, I remind myself to stay open to the miracles, even when they shake the ground beneath me. Because that is where true freedom lies, not in certainty, but in the courage to embrace the unknown. And in that space, I know, I am exactly where I am meant to be.

☥