I left the church 2 years ago. ‘I’m done!’ With what? my husband replies ‘The Church.’ It shoots out of me like a rocket. It took every urge not to slap my own hand over my mouth. But at that moment, after an hour of tearful conversation with my supportive husband, it felt like the kettlebells on my chest had been lifted. 

Sure, I was fearful. *cue the racing thoughts* My friends? Will they still be friends with me? What are my kids going to say? What happens now? 

I need to tell people.

My son was angry at me. My parents wouldn’t respond. Within what felt like a matter of minutes, everything crumbled. I spiraled into the depths of grief, hopelessness, and loss. You expect leaving to give you this sense of freedom. Like a rushing river, but it doesn’t. Especially not initially. You drip out of your shell, burning everything down in your path. You find confidence little by little. You traverse into the pits of emotional hell you never thought you’d experience. You may regret things. You may feel like you made a horrible mistake. I felt all of the above.