As I walked into my Nana’s catcholic church, I noted that it was too warm. I run cold, but it was so sticky I wanted to crawl out of my skin. We walked through a corridor that felt haunted for no particular reason, and into the room where they had mass. It was all so alien.

Even as a child, I remember being invited to the Christian after school club by my friends, and immediately thinking to myself, “ew. No.” I was old enough to know better than to say that though, and always politely declined. I wasn’t sure what it was that made me feel uncomfortable back then. It’s not that I particularly felt like a sinner or a bad person, and the times I had been to church, people had always been nice and welcoming.

When I was a freshman in high school, my best friend dated a guy who was really into Taoism. I didn’t know what that was, but what he told me sounded so mystical, and it made sense. I learned about mindfulness and meditation and looking within for answers. I realized that I was looking for eternal truths, not for a ticket into heaven. I wanted answers, not security. I didn’t want the fuzzy and warm ignorance that was organized religion.

My Nana and I sat down on a hard wooden pew close to the middle of the room. I never did understand why religions seemed so preoccupied with uncomfortable things. Why was it more holy to sit on wood than to sit on a couch? Why weren’t there rainbow churches filled with beautiful things that remind you how awesome life is? Like I get it, religious art is in churches, but why don’t churches have like rooms full of nature paintings, or elaborate gardens? Why did they all have to look the same?

I realized a long time ago that a lot of people find comfort in fitting into the “norm.” Conformity was a security blankie for them, but for me is was too constructive. It made me feel claustrophobic. Why limit my ability to connect with the divine to a silly book written by a bunch of very mortal and imperfect dead white guys? I liked the idea of learning about what lots of different people believed, without judgement, and then taking a look at the patterns and similarities.

I didn’t get why my Nana would ask me to come here and then tell me not to participate in communion. Who is it for if not for those that need saving? Not that I needed saving, but I’m pretty sure she thought I did. The whole experience made me uncomfortable, and frankly, a bit bitter towards the church. Why wasn’t this wonderful god more loving? Why was he so cruel to his creations? I refused communion like she told me to. I never belonged here anyway.