When You Lose Your Religion

Photo Credit: Unsplash, Ahna Zeigler

I grew up Catholic… the Roman kind. Now that I live in England, I realize this isn’t as common as I had once thought. For a long time, it was the only way I understood morality. The motivation for an atheist to be good was baffling. I mean, if you weren’t worried about God striking you down or throwing you in hell for misbehaving, why else would you be good? My world was Catholic; a life without religion was incomprehensible.

My family did all the things good Catholics did: mass on Sunday, Catholic school, prayers as a family before supper…


Photo Credit: Unsplash, Jeremy McKnight

My heart succumbed to the jolt of adrenaline the 3 AM scream hurled at it from down the hall. It was my daughter Anna, age 2 ½. My body couldn’t move right away. There was too much sleep pumping around in my blood paralysing me. Anxiety knocked on my chest from the inside. I hoped she would self-soothe but judging by the pitch of the cry I figured it was unlikely. Alex showed no signs of budging, so I got out of bed and fumbled my way to the door. …


Photo Credit: GORDON BELL/GETTY IMAGES, thetimes.co.uk

I’d been living on the Isle of Wight for quite some time before I met someone locally who was American — well sort of, she is from the BVIs, has American parents, and went to American boarding schools. Her accent is American — so, she’s the most American I’ve met here anyways. Katie Bea. Up until this point and even still, I don’t really have the same sort of relationships with English people as I would with an American. Something I-can’t-quite-put-my-finger-on is more formal here than at home. I tend to have surface-y conversations with my friends here: about the…


Photo Credit: Caroline Selfors, Unsplash

I was in my attic yesterday and I found my journal from when I was in the Peace Corps. It’s dark leather cover was thinly covered in dust. The binding cracked as I opened it, revealing yellowed pages and a stack of letters I had sent to my grandmother whilst I was abroad. To my surprise, she had saved every single one in her sock drawer. My cousin gave them back to me at her funeral a few years ago.

I couldn’t help opening them; memories flooded back to me. The first few journal entries described my mother’s reaction prior…

E Cecilia

Living in the U.K. as an American Expat and sharing my thoughts with you about life.

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