Mental Health
The Pew Couldn’t Save Me: Looking Back at Religion, Grief, and My Mental Health
I can look back now. I couldn’t before.
I can look back at my mental health issues and realize that organized religion played a huge part in me breaking down. Not God. Not Spirit. But man’s version of it. The rules. The shame. The performance.
When my mother died, I broke. Not cracked — shattered. And I didn’t have closure. No long goodbye. No last words that made sense. Just gone. And a part of me went with her. The part that thought if I was good enough, prayed hard enough, went to church enough, bad things wouldn’t touch the people I loved.
Because that’s what I was taught. That church and religion, baptisms and a man’s interpretation of God could save me. Could save her. That if you tithed, if you served, if you kept your skirt long and your mouth shut, God would protect your house.
So when she died, it wasn’t just grief. It was betrayal. Not by God — by the deal I thought we had. The one the preacher promised. The one printed in the bulletin.
And organized religion didn’t know what to do with me after that. They had answers for sin, not for sorrow. They had verses for healing, but not for the nights I couldn’t get off the floor. They said “She’s in a better place” like that was supposed to fill the hole in my chest. They said “God needed another angel” like my mother was a vacancy He had to fill.
I sat in those pews feeling like a liar. Singing songs I didn’t believe anymore. Smiling so the church ladies wouldn’t ask questions. Hearing “Just have faith” when what I had was panic attacks. “Pray more” when what I needed was a therapist. “The joy of the Lord is your strength” when I didn’t have strength to shower.
That’s when I lost a part of me. The part that thought obedience was insurance. The part that thought baptism was armor. The part that believed a man behind a pulpit could explain why my world ended.
Organized religion told me my breakdown was a spiritual failure. That if I was really saved, I wouldn’t be depressed. That anxiety was a demon. That grief meant I didn’t trust God enough.
So I got worse. Because now I was grieving my mother and guilty for grieving wrong.
It took years to see it: I didn’t break because I lost faith. I broke because I put my faith in a system that was never built to hold a woman’s whole pain. A system that loved rules more than people. That loved certainty more than comfort. That used God’s name to sell man’s interpretation.
I love church services online now. No pews. No performance. Just me and something bigger than all of us. I’ve become more spiritual than religious. I study the Baháʼí Faith. I read about other religions. Because I believe in humanity. I believe we’re more similar than different. And I believe God is so big we can’t imagine how big — bigger than any one denomination’s guess.
I didn’t get closure with my mother. I still talk to her. Still miss her. But I got closure with the lie that church could save me.
Church didn’t save me. Facing the truth did. Therapy did. Learning to pray without an audience did. Letting go of a man’s version of God so I could find my own did.
Organized religion played a part in me breaking down. Unlearning it played a part in me coming back.
I keep to myself now. I choose carefully who I let in. I don’t argue religion or politics. I just know this: God didn’t break me. Guilt did. Grief did. And the people who said they spoke for God, but only spoke for control.
I’m still healing. But I’m not in that pew anymore. And for the first time, that feels like grace.
