People talk about belief like it’s something you decide to pick up, as though its a hobby. Like you wake up one day and say, “Yeah, I think I’ll believe in God now.” But for some of us, belief doesn’t work like that. For some of us, it never has.
I’m an atheist. Not because I had a traumatic experience with religion or because I wanted to rebel. Not because I think I’m smarter than people who believe in God. I’m an atheist because I simply don’t believe. I can’t believe. That is why I’m an atheist. There is no other reason. Some people are wired for faith—but not I. I tried to believe in God for years, to fit in with family, community, to “feel normal.” Struggled with it greatly, in fact. For some years, even thought I was crazy because I could not be like them.
I Am Who I Am
Belief without evidence never clicked for me. I could stare at the stars, read the scriptures, sit in a church pew, and try to “feel” something greater out there—but it always felt like pretending. Like trying to force myself to love a song I’ve never liked. You can nod along, try to catch the rhythm, but deep down you know it’s not your beat.
I’ve always required logic. Always wanted proof. And faith, by definition, doesn’t offer that. It tells you to believe first and understand later—if ever. And that just doesn’t compute with how I process the world. It was actually a problem in my youth—my constant questioning. My unwillingness to accept “because I said so” as an answer. It got me in trouble quite often. Always “the troubled child.” From my perspective, most religion taught that questioning was bad, and that just didn’t make sense. Nowadays, I’m fully confident that it is absolute baloney. Questioning and skepticism are always good, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.
Some people can feel a divine presence in their bones. I don’t. And that’s okay. I’m not broken. Nor am I bitter. I simply see the world differently. For me, beauty is found in what is, not what might be. In the chaos of the universe, the weirdness of evolution, and the short, precious absurdity of this one life we know we have. Focus on an afterlife which may or may not ever come, on a potential eternity, only distracts from this precious life. And I didn’t even experience true joy until I accepted that.
This Life Is Enough
It wasn’t a dramatic conversion. Nor was it a moment of anger. It was more like a quiet realization: “I don’t believe this. I never really have.” I was actually meditating on my father’s front porch one day and simply realized that I saw no gods. To me, there was no use for a god. And constantly wondering about the topic was not serving me. That clarity was freeing. It didn’t make me cynical, but comfortable. In fact, I derived much peace from the realization. It turned a writhing, constantly flowing confuse into a child-like curiosity.
I’m not saying everyone needs to think the way I do. That would be—oh so boring! What is there to learn from people who all think the same? I’m saying people like me exist. People for whom belief without evidence isn’t an option. And that doesn’t make us empty, or lost, or cold.
It makes us honest with ourselves.