Episode 2

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Published on:

10th Sep 2025

S1E2 The Religion We Grew Up In: What We Took, What We Left

Every faith leaves fingerprints: some beautiful, some bruising.

In this episode, we gently unpack the complex relationship many of us have with the religion we grew up in. For those who’ve stepped away from belief, but still feel its echoes, this conversation offers space to reflect, honour, grieve, and rebuild.

We explore:

  • How religion shaped our identity, morality, and relationships
  • What we chose to carry with us after leaving and why
  • What we had to unlearn to reclaim our own sense of self
  • How to hold both reverence and rejection in the same hand
  • A humanist lens for meaning-making, purpose, and moral clarity

This isn’t about throwing everything away.

It’s about choosing with intention.

And finding new ways to live good, walk good, without guilt, fear, or dogma.

💭 Reflection Invitation

  • What parts of your upbringing still live in you?
  • What have you lovingly released?
  • How do you want to define your moral and spiritual compass now?

📖 Try the practice:

Write a “thank you and goodbye” letter to your childhood religion: what it gave, what it took, and what you’re reclaiming.

🔗 Mentioned or Referenced

  • Quote: All About Love: New Visions (2000). bell hooks. “Love is an action, never simply a feeling.”
  • The shift from divine purpose to human-centered meaning-making

🎧 Subscribe & Stay Connected

If this episode resonated, share it with someone who’s also navigating life after faith.

Send in your reflections or voice notes for future episodes, anonymously or with your name. I’d love to hear your story.

👉 Follow the podcast, leave a review, and keep walking with us.

Because the path is still good, even if it’s not the one you started on.


Transcript
Speaker:

Welcome back to Live Good.

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Walk Good.

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the podcast about living

well without religion.

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I'm Bianca, your host, inviting you

into honest human conversations about

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ethics, meaning, and joy beyond the pews.

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Whether you've left faith, are

questioning, or you're just

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curious, you're welcome here.

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Let's get into it.

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This week, we're talking about

the religion we grew up in.

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Not to tear it apart and not to

worship at its alter either, but to sit

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with it and ask what did it give us?

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What did we carry forward?

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And what did we have to leave

behind just to be able to breathe?

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For me, I still remember Sunday mornings.

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I remember the shiny, tight

shoes, well-pressed clothes, my

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own little bible that never quite

got rid of that new book smell.

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I remember my mother's voice beside me in

the pews as she sang old hymns that she

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loved, her voice filling with emotion.

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There was a lot of love in that

space and also a kind of quiet fear.

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A fear of asking too many questions,

of wanting too much, of being too much.

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And yet, I know, and I

acknowledge, that faith shaped me.

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Even now, long after I stopped

believing, I can still feel

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its fingerprints in my life.

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Some of them are beautiful

and some of them not so much.

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Today's episode is for anyone who's

walked away from religion but never quite

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stopped feeling its weight or its warmth.

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We're going to explore how it is that

we hold both things at the same time.

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How do we honor our roots

without choking on the branches?

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How do we grieve and grow at once?

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How do we walk forward without

pretending the past never happened?

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Because leaving a belief system

doesn't always mean leaving

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behind everything it gave us.

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Let's walk through it together.

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So before we talk about what we kept or

what we left, I want to take a moment

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to really look at what we were given,

because none of us started from nowhere.

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We were shaped, we inherited things.

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Let's start there.

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I grew up in Jamaica, which

is to say I grew up in church.

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Most of us did.

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Not just on Sundays though.

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Church was in the music we

heard, the language we used, the

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food we blessed before we ate.

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It was stitched into school mornings

with group devotions and prayers.

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It's tucked into every wedding, every

funeral, every holiday, every good

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morning that ended with God bless you.

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For my family, it was mostly

Anglican, so robes, incense, pews.

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I went to Sunday school as a child.

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I joined the youth group and choir.

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As I got older, I went to confirmation

classes so that I could finally

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take communion with the grownups.

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But the deeper current isn't really

about the denomination because

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regardless of which one you grew up in.

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It was about expectation.

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It was about what was normal.

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God was the default.

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Faith was assumed and belief

was pretty much just baked in.

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Luckily for me, I didn't grow up in

what you'd call a fire and brimstone

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home, but there was still a quiet

pressure, a pressure to be good.

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Follow the rules.

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Don't ask too many questions.

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There were stories you

weren't supposed to ask about.

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There were things you weren't

supposed to say, loud desires

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you're not supposed to have.

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And yet, I find when I look back,

there were parts that felt like home.

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There was rhythm in the ritual.

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There was something grounding

in the hymns and the silence.

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And the sense of being part of

something older than you, something

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bigger than you church was community.

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There are still people in my wider network

who I have just always known from church.

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Church was where you learned

how to be seen, and sometimes

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where you learned how to hide.

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But honestly for a lot of us growing

up in the Caribbean, religion wasn't

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just belief, it was structure.

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It shaped your weak, your values,

your boundaries told you who you were

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and who you weren't allowed to be.

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And now as I encounter and I speak to

more and more people who have stepped

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away from traditional religion.

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Whether gently or with anger, I realize

there's a complexity that we all carry.

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Some of us remember the joy.

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Some still flinch at the shame, and

some of us are still untangling.

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What parts of it came from

love and what came from fear?

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So I invite you, maybe take a moment right

now and think back to what you grew up in.

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What faith or framework shaped your

early sense of right and wrong?

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Was it a sense of comfort,

a source of control?

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Did it help you feel held or

did it make you feel small?

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There really is no right answer.

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This is just a chance to notice

what's still with you, which parts

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still echo and what still stings.

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We're not here to judge your upbringing

or your family, or your past self, but

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the aim is for you to see it clearly,

name it, and make space for it without

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letting it take up the whole room.

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Because before we talk about what

we kept or what we left behind, we

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have to name what we were handed.

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Not just the beliefs, but the

silences, the rituals and the rules.

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Not just a God we were told to

follow, but the fear that we

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were taught to carry with us.

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We inherit more than just the faith.

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We inherit the frameworks, the ways

of seeing ourselves, the ways of

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belonging, or not ways of measuring our

worth or bodies or questions or joy.

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And until we can name

it, it still owns us.

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It still lives in a background

shaping how we walk through the world.

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So this isn't just about looking back,

it's about tracing those outlines of

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what shaped us so we can decide with care

what still deserves a place in our lives.

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Of course, our story doesn't

go straight to the ending with

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walking away because this is not

just about rejection of that past.

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It's also about remembering the

parts that stayed with us, because

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sometimes even after the belief

fades, something beautiful remains.

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So let's talk about

what we carried forward.

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Here's the thing that surprised me.

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When I first started drifting from

church, I thought I had to let go of

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everything, all or nothing, in or out.

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And for a while that's how it felt.

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Like I was walking away from a

house I had lived in my whole life,

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turning my back on every room, even

the ones where the light came in.

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But over time I realized something softer.

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I hadn't left everything behind.

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Some things followed me out.

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Some things I chose to carry.

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Like rhythm.

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Church gave me rhythm, not the rhythm

of clapping and dancing because my

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church, the Anglican Church of 30

years ago was not a clapping and

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dancing kind of church, God forbid,

but there was a rhythm to the routine.

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Sunday mornings as a marker, quiet

pauses for prayer during service,

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the marking of time through rituals.

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And even now, though I stopped

attending church decades ago, I find

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comfort in rhythm and structure.

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The idea of pausing, of

naming, of returning.

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I've just changed the container

and my rituals are different

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now, but they still hold me.

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And what about morality?

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That's where I started with

the first episode, but just

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touching on it a little more.

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People often assume that if

you don't believe in God, you

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don't believe in goodness.

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But for many of us, religion was just the

first place that we encountered values.

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Not the only place, not even the

clearest place, but it planted

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the early seeds for things like

kindness, responsibility, compassion.

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As we grew, we got to question

the soil that those seeds were in.

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We got to replant them

somewhere healthier, but the

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values, they're still blooming.

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I also carried forward the music.

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There are still hymns and gospel songs

that I sing or hum along with because

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I feel so much when I hear them.

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Not because I believe in the words

anymore, but because they remind me of

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a time when I felt held, they remind

me of the voices raised in harmony,

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of something transcendent, beyond

dogma, beyond doctrine of just awe.

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And for me, there's also something

about reverence, about stillness.

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Church taught me how to be quiet

with myself and with others.

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To be honest, it gave me a sense

that some things are sacred, not

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because somebody told me they are,

but because I feel it in my bones.

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Nowadays, some people might find it a

little sacrilegious, but I find that

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sacredness at the beach, floating

in the sea, watching the sky change.

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I've taken the reverence,

but I left the rules.

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Another thing that I've taken is

prayer, or at least something like it.

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Not petitioning a deity, but just

pausing to speak intention, to ask

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questions, to sit with silence.

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These days I'm more likely to journal.

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I whisper truths to myself in the dark.

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Is it prayer?

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Probably not in a traditional sense,

but it's definitely a kind of communion.

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And I keep saying, maybe that's enough.

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Leaving religion didn't mean I

abandoned everything I got from it.

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It meant I got to sift through

what it gave me and choose.

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Now I can choose to carry

forward what still fits and

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bless the rest for what it was.

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So I want to ask you now,

what did you take with you?

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What ideas or memories still

hold warmth in your chest?

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What is your version of sacred?

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What do you honor now, not because you

were told to, but because it feels right?

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Because walking away

doesn't mean forgetting.

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And rejecting the whole house

doesn't mean you can't take

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your favorite chair with you.

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Of course, not everything

made the journey.

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Some things we have to leave behind to

breathe because religion didn't only

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give me rhythm or community or memory, it

also gave me messages I had to unlearn.

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That's where it gets hard.

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So let's talk about what didn't survive.

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There was a lot of quiet shame woven

into the framework I grew up with.

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There was shame around doubt,

around desire, and especially sex.

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It wasn't always spoken about

outright, but you felt it.

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You could feel it in the way people

looked at you when you asked the

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wrong questions or wore the wrong

clothes or liked the wrong people.

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There was a fear-based kind

of goodness expected of us.

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Not goodness rooted in love

or understanding, but goodness

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driven by the fear of punishment.

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Be good or else.

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I was a curious kid and I asked a

lot of questions, but eventually

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I learned which ones not to ask.

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And I think many of us who grew up

in religious environments carried

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that fear that curiosity might cost

us belonging or worse, or soul.

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I chose to leave that behind, but the

shame is a tough one for many people.

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Then we have the binaries, the black

and white thinking that colored

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everything that endless either or.

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It's right or wrong.

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You're saved or damned.

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A believer or backslider.

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Everything and everyone

is either good or bad.

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You were either holy or you were lost.

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There was no room for the

messy middle in between.

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No space for uncertainty, for

nuance, no space for asking what

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if I'm still figuring it out?

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It was just a cliff edge and a push.

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You were either all in or all out.

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You were taught to choose.

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Even if that meant choosing

against parts of yourself.

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Like many, I learned early how

to split myself into acceptable

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fragments, to tuck away the parts

that were too loud, too curious,

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too different, to perform certainty

even when I was quietly unraveling.

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And the thing about binaries is they make

you afraid of gray, afraid of change,

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of holding two things as true at once.

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You start to see complexity as weakness.

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You believe that doubt is failure, that

if something doesn't fit completely,

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it has to be thrown away entirely.

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But life doesn't really work like that.

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People don't work like that.

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When I finally started stepping

away from those binaries, I

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didn't just lose a belief system.

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I had to relearn how to see the world,

how to hold tension without panicking,

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how to trust myself without needing

a label for every single thing.

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Honestly, letting go of black and

white thinking didn't make me confused.

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It really made me more whole.

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But that clarity comes with a cost because

once I started stepping outside of those

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lines, I saw just how much of myself

and others I'd been taught to silence.

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One of the hardest things

to unlearn was the idea that

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being loved meant being small.

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That acceptance was conditional and

being accepted meant being silent.

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You had to shrink to fit inside

the circle, and you had to

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flatten yourself just to be held.

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There was a mold, and if you didn't

fit it, the message was clear.

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You are the problem, you're the

deviation, you're the danger.

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And so for many people, especially

those that are queer or questioning

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or complicated in any way or just a

little other, that messaging cuts deep.

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The so-called love could sting

because it was love with an asterisk.

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Love that said, we accept you as

long as you don't act like yourself.

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And that's something that's

very real here in Jamaica.

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It's improving, but it's still a problem.

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I had to consciously step away

from frameworks that excluded

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people I love, from doctrines that

made certain bodies identities

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or relationships feel like a sin.

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They turned sacred love into something

shameful and continue to see the beautiful

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complexity that is humanity as a threat.

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And the thing is, it wasn't always loud.

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It wasn't always fire and brimstone.

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Sometimes that harm came

dressed in kindness.

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The exclusion was delivered with a smile,

a gentle tone, a verse and a prayer.

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But polite rejection is still rejection.

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And once I could name that, I could

begin to loosen the grip that those

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messages had on my thoughts, my

mindset, how I saw myself in the world.

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Because so much of what we had to

leave behind wasn't just doctrine.

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It was the damage those doctrines did

quietly, consistently over time, the

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way they shaped how we saw ourselves,

what we believed we deserved, what we

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even thought we had to endure to be

worthy of love or belonging or grace.

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And naming that can be uncomfortable.

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Especially when the harm was

wrapped in familiarity or in love.

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But we can't heal what we can't name.

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For some people it's fair to

call this religious trauma.

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It is not always dramatic or visible.

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It's not always headline grabbing.

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Sometimes it's just a slow erosion of

self-worth, that deep fear of being wrong,

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feeling a lifelong tension between who you

are and who you were told you should be.

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And when you start pulling

away from those teachings.

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It may not feel like

liberation right away.

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It can feel like grief, like exile,

like you're losing the language

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you used to make sense of yourself.

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For me, letting go did mean

wandering for a while without a map.

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I had to face the world without a

script and try to learn to trust

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my own compass again, but that's

the work, that's the journey.

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So if you're someone who's still in that

in-between space, still figuring out

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what you believe, still brushing off the

dust of doctrines that don't fit anymore.

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I just want to say, you're

not alone, you're not broken.

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So take a breath and ask yourself,

what did you have to leave behind?

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What beliefs no longer feel true, even

if once upon a time they felt sacred?

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What parts of your old

faith made you shrink?

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Not to rehash the pain, but just to

witness yourself and name what no

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longer belongs in your hands, because

that's when you can begin to rebuild

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something honest, something whole.

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Now, the easy story would be

I left and I'm better for it.

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And in many ways that's true.

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But the fuller story, the

more human one is messier.

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Because letting go of religion

doesn't always mean walking away

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from everyone who still believes or

from every tradition or every memory

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that still stirs something in you.

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There are people that I love who

still go to church every Sunday.

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Some of them are my family,

some of them are my friends.

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They're not villains in my story.

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They're part of it, and

sometimes that means biting my

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tongue or softening my edges.

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Sometimes it means showing up to a

service, not outta faith, but out of love.

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And that's okay because the reason

I left and haven't gone back

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wasn't to become someone harder.

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It was to become someone truer.

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But that tension is real.

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I've felt it at weddings and

funerals standing quietly during

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prayers that I no longer believe in.

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Not out of mockery, but out of

memory, out of respect for the

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moment, even if not the meaning.

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I've felt it when I remain at my seat

when the call for communion is made.

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Because I no longer believe in that

symbolism, but I remember the reverence.

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And honestly, I remember the taste.

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I've felt it during holidays when

the old rituals call up something

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inside me that's not quite belief,

but it isn't absence either.

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And over the years, I noticed

something interesting.

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It's possible to feel

both grief and relief.

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To remember the certainty while

still choosing the questioning.

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To honor the comfort that religion

once gave you, while also naming,

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the harm that it might have caused.

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Here's the part I wish

someone had told me earlier.

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You don't have to have it all figured

out to start living with intention.

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You don't need a label

for everything you feel.

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You're allowed to be unfinished.

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You don't have to resolve it all.

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You don't have to land in a neat category.

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You can be a work in progress,

a walking contradiction.

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You can be someone who bows their

head at grace and then sits quietly

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with their own quiet kind of truth.

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It's about choosing

integrity over performance.

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Alignment within yourself

over their approval.

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And sometimes it's choosing

healing over certainty.

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And once we start living that way,

not from fear, but from alignment,

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a new question starts to emerge.

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If we've stepped away from a faith that

once gave us structure, what holds us now?

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If we no longer live by a

divine plan, what do we live by?

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Because the truth is we didn't leave

meaning behind, but we're making it new.

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Religion gave many of us a script, a

sense that life had a built in purpose.

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Follow the rules, honor

God, obey the path.

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There is something comforting about

that until it doesn't fit anymore,

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until the path narrows and that script

starts to suffocate more than it guides.

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When I stepped away from that, there

was a time, maybe a long time where I

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felt like I was floating untethered,

like I'd cut the anchor and I

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didn't know what else to hold onto.

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Because it's not just walking away.

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You end up asking, what do I do now?

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How do I build a life that's not

defined by what I escaped, but

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by what I'm consciously creating?

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Over time, I started finding

different roots to hold on to.

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Humanist roots, even before

I knew what they were.

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Grounded, not in hierarchy,

but in a shared humanity.

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Not divine judgment, but mutual care.

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Bell hooks once wrote that love is

an action, never simply a feeling.

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And I've come to think of

humanism in the same way.

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It's not just about what I don't believe

and not even just an idea I believe in.

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It's about how I choose to live.

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It shows up in how I treat people,

what I protect, what I make

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space for, what I choose to love.

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So it's not just about rejecting

belief in Gods, it's about

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affirming belief in us, in humanity.

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It's about choosing to honor the sacred

in a world without a supernatural script

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where the sacred isn't handed down, it's

created through care and connection and

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responsibility through love as action.

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Now meaning looks different.

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It's not handed down.

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It's built layer by

layer through intention.

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And my purpose comes from within, from

the pull of curiosity, from the work

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that makes me feel useful from the

moments when I show up fully in my

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own life and in the lives of others.

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Relationships have become sacred, not

because somebody says so from the pulpit.

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But because love is a kind of

miracle and holding space for someone

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else's truth is downright holy work.

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Responsibility is my compass now.

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It's not fear of eternal consequences,

but caring about the real world ones.

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What I do matters because

it impacts others.

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Because this life, it's what I've got

and how I live, it ripples outwards.

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This is what I mean when I say no gods,

no guilt, just the work of being human.

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It's not perfect.

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It's not always certain.

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But it's real, deliberate and alive.

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And I want to leave you with

this thought that you don't

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have to borrow meaning anymore.

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You can build it.

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And maybe the best place to start

building is by pausing, by turning

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inward, asking the quiet questions

that help you see what's still shaping

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:

you and what you're ready to reshape.

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So let's take a breath.

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I want to leave you with

some space to reflect.

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:

No pressure, no performance.

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Just a quiet invitation to turn inward.

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Take a moment this week.

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Ask yourself, what parts of your

religious upbringing still live in you?

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:

Was it the music, the rituals, the

values, the voices, what still echoes?

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Which parts have you lovingly released?

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:

Maybe it's the fear, the shame.

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:

What have you let fall away,

not with anger, but with grace?

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:

And maybe the hardest question,

if you're not there yet,

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:

but start to think about it.

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:

How do you want to define your

moral and spiritual compass now?

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:

Not the one you inherited,

but the one you're building.

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:

If you're interested in taking it even

deeper, here's a journal exercise for you.

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Write a letter, a thank you and goodbye

letter to your childhood religion.

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Tell it what it gave you.

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Tell it what it took.

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Tell it what you are

reclaiming for yourself.

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:

You don't have to share it.

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:

You don't even have to read it again.

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:

Just write it for the sake of

clarity, for the sake of peace.

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:

If anything in this episode stirred

something in you, a memory, a question,

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:

a story of your own, I'd love to hear it.

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You can send me a voice note

or write in anonymously, email

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:

is hello@livegoodwalkgood.com

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:

or via any of our social channels.

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:

I may share a few reflections

in future episodes.

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:

Always with consent, so let me

know when you submit, if you're

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:

okay with it being shared.

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:

Because these aren't just

my stories, they're ours.

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:

And maybe, in hearing some of

our stories, you've started

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remembering more of your own.

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:

The detours, the doubts, the quiet shifts

that you couldn't name at the time.

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:

And maybe you didn't walk a

straight line out of religion.

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:

Maybe it was more like wandering

or wrestling, or slowly loosening

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:

your grip as you tried to let go.

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:

And maybe there's still a part of you

holding tension between who you were

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:

taught to be and who you're becoming now.

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:

And that's okay.

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:

You don't have to hate your

past to grow beyond it.

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:

You don't have to discard every single

memory to step into a new kind of meaning.

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You can honor what was

while choosing what is.

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Next time, we'll go deeper into

what that choice looks like for me.

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We'll look at what is humanism

anyway, and why is it more

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than just not believing in God?

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We'll talk about values, purpose,

and how to build a life rooted

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in compassion and clarity without

needing a supernatural framework.

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So you're welcome to join me

for that in our next episode.

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Until then...

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live good, walk good.

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About the Podcast

Live Good. Walk Good.
Honest conversations about living well without religion, from a Caribbean perspective.
What does it mean to live a good life when you’ve left religion behind or never had it? This podcast explores humanism through a Caribbean lens, asking what kindness, meaning, and connection look like without gods or guilt.

Hosted by a curious, questioning soul raised in faith, each episode blends personal reflection, cultural insight, and practical ideas for building a grounded, ethical life. From creating rituals without religion to practicing moral courage without fear of divine punishment, we explore life’s big questions with warmth and honesty. In a world where religion often claims a monopoly on morality, purpose, and community, this podcast dares to ask:
• What if being kind, ethical, and grounded didn’t require a belief in the divine?
• What if we could root our values in reason, empathy, and shared humanity, without losing our sense of meaning, ritual, or connection?

Caribbean at its core, our journey weaves in regional culture, values, and history—market chatter and moral crossroads, reggae basslines and restless questions, sunsets and self-discovery. Each episode invites you into a deeply human conversation (sometimes solo, sometimes with guests) unpacking real-life, everyday questions of living well without religion.

This isn’t a philosophy lecture or a takedown of religion. It’s a space for reflection, curiosity, and practical tools to build a meaningful life, grounded in reality, compassion, and cultural truth.

So whether you’re:
• questioning inherited beliefs
• seeking community outside traditional faith spaces
• navigating life’s big questions without a sacred text
• or just trying to be a good person in a messy world…

This show is for you.

Come for the honesty. Stay for the freedom.
Leave with a new way to see yourself and the world.

About your host

Profile picture for Bianca Welds

Bianca Welds

Bianca Welds is a Caribbean innovation strategist, writer, and storyteller raised in Jamaica and shaped by a global perspective. She blends personal reflection, cultural insight, and bold humanist values to help people think differently about what it means to live well, love deeply, and create meaning in a secular world.

She draws on her work in leadership, creativity, and social impact, as well as her lived experience navigating life without religion, to offer a voice that is thoughtful, real, and unapologetically Caribbean.