The Spinster's Soliloquy

Finding God Later in Life

I never thought I would become a Bible banger.

I made fun of them. I was smarter than they were. There was no old man in the sky who created the Earth in seven days. Dinosaurs were real. I was already a good person and didn’t need religion to keep me in line. Christians, I thought, were comforting themselves against life’s hardships and the inevitability of death.

God didn’t make sense.

Religion didn’t make much sense either. Every culture seemed to have its own gods, myths, and explanations for existence. People borrowed from one another, fought over beliefs, and often killed in the name of certainty.

In my twenties, I explored just about everything except Christianity. None of it satisfied me. Whether it was Eastern spirituality, New Age practices, or alternative philosophies, they all seemed disconnected from the reality sitting right in front of me.

After years of crippling anxiety, I became a licensed massage therapist. The wellness world introduced me to energy work, chakras, crystals, herbs, and all the spiritual accessories that come with them.

At the same time, my life was drifting in a direction I didn’t want it to go.

My politics changed. My habits changed. My priorities changed. I stopped taking care of myself. I drank too much, smoked too much, dated men I didn’t love, and abandoned many of the things that once gave me confidence and purpose.

And especially—forget religion. All of them.

I was going to listen to the universe, carry pretty rocks, and trust my vibrations.

What nonsense.

None of it made me happier. None of it made me less anxious. Life felt disappointing, exhausting, and empty.

Meanwhile, my friends were building lives. They were getting married, raising children, celebrating anniversaries, and creating memories. I wasn’t jealous of their houses or cars. I was jealous that they seemed connected to something meaningful while I drifted from one distraction to the next.

By 39, I had hit rock bottom.

The crystals weren’t working. The chakras weren’t balancing. I was lonely, unhappy, and deeply disappointed in myself.

Something had to change.

I quit my job. Sold my house. Moved back in with my parents with everything I owned—including three cats—crammed into a single bedroom.

Then I spent years hiding.

One day, my mother found a picture of me in my twenties. I barely recognized the woman smiling back at me. She looked hopeful. Alive. She believed she had a future worth building.

I couldn’t stop wondering what she would think of the person I had become.

In that moment, I made a decision.

I was going to become her again.

I started small. I drank less. I put effort into my appearance again. I styled my hair, wore clothes that fit, and stopped spending time with people I no longer related to. I stepped away from social media and focused on my own life instead of everyone else’s.

Little by little, things improved.

After twenty-five years, I finally quit smoking. That alone felt revolutionary. I no longer felt like I was hiding from people or from myself.

But even as my life improved, something was still missing.

I was lonely.

Not just single. Lonely.

I had isolated myself so thoroughly that I barely let anyone in. The only creatures I trusted completely were my cats.

By then, I was back in school, trying to figure out what came next. Sitting in classrooms surrounded by people, I realized I felt just as alone there as I did at home.

Around that time, God started creeping into my life.

I found myself whispering little prayers just in case someone was listening. When people were struggling, I told them I would pray for them—and actually did. I lingered on YouTube videos about Christianity. I noticed something different about practicing Christians I knew.

They had peace.

Not perfection. Not wealth. Not easy lives.

Peace.

And for the first time, that was something I envied.

I often caught myself saying, “I wish I believed in God.”

Then one day, a simple question occurred to me:

Why can’t I?

If belief is a choice, why couldn’t I choose it?

The idea made me uncomfortable. Wasn’t that dishonest? Wasn’t it just a placebo?

My answer surprised me.

So what?

If it works, it works.

Not long after, I spoke with my aunt, a woman I respect more than almost anyone. She explained her faith to me with thoughtfulness and sincerity. Hearing her speak gave me relief. Faith wasn’t blind or foolish. It was something she had carefully considered.

A few weeks later, my cousin called me after hearing about my spiritual struggle.

She told me something that made me laugh and breathe easier at the same time.

“Satan is real, and he is fucking with you.”

For the first time in years, I felt like there was an explanation for the darkness I had been carrying.

Whether that sounds strange or not, it felt true.

Soon afterward, I enrolled in OCIA.

I was all in.

At 47, I found God.

I found peace.

I found community.

I found companionship.

Looking back, the first half of my life wasn’t wasted. It led me here. It humbled me, strengthened me, and prepared me for something I never expected.

A second half marked not by striving, but by surrender.

A second-half Catholic.