by Elyana Pauline Aniero
|October 17, 2026
For years, I have lived without conforming to the religious practices of my upbringing. The only promise I kept was to indulge my mother by attending church once a year at Christmas. Strangely enough, despite my aversion to religion, Christmas has never lost its place in my heart. I still find comfort in the church songs I grew up listening to, and I genuinely love attending Christmas Mass.
I think that’s what can happen when you are raised in faith. You may eventually walk away from the beliefs. Still, you cannot easily strip away the pieces that have already formed part of your way of thinking, your memories, and the places your mind instinctively returns to when it seeks comfort.
Religion also has a unique way of weaponizing guilt. As Tam said in “Young Sheldon,” “That’s how you know it’s working.” Whether meant as a joke or not, there is truth to it. Religion has long been treated as the measure of morality, and I think that is precisely what many young people reject today. Rejecting religion does not mean rejecting morality. One can choose not to practice faith and still strive to be kind, honest, and compassionate. Our capacity to do good should not be measured solely by our devotion to a religion.
Weeks ago, while waiting for the final grade that would determine whether I had passed my first year of law school, I found myself back in church, even though it had long ceased to be part of my life. There I was, engulfed by the heavy, silent air of the sanctuary, watching the flickering orange glow of the votive candles. I lit five and prayed—not only for myself but also for my friends who shared the same agonizing anxiety. As I quietly mumbled my prayers, a jarring thought surfaced: “I don’t even know why I am here.”
Maybe it was because I already knew I no longer believed. Why would I seek comfort from something I had long walked away from?
And yet, I did.
When my cousin found out, she was upset. She told me my faith was conditional—that I only turned to the Lord when I needed something. But I don’t think that’s what happened.
It wasn’t faith that brought me there.
It was the instinct to reach for something familiar. It was the last place my mind knew to run to when nothing else could quiet the anxiety. I don’t think there is anything wrong with turning to something that once brought you comfort simply because everything else has failed to do so.
I think this impulse to return to abandoned beliefs is deeply human. We all look for something to hold on to when uncertainty becomes unbearable. But perhaps what we return to is not belief itself, but the comfort we once associated with it. Prayer does not always require faith. Sometimes, it is simply an act of hope and a quiet conversation with yourself when there is no one else to speak to. You do not have to be certain that someone is listening for the act itself to bring peace. Like a bandage over a wound, prayer may not heal what hurts, but it can make the weight of it easier to carry until you can move forward.
That is why I have never fully accepted the notion that prayer only matters when it comes from unwavering faith. If faith is expected to be unconditional before prayer can be considered sincere, then I cannot help but question that expectation.
If there truly is a higher being, why is suffering so often described as the path to grace? Why should hardship become the price of living a life that is not extraordinary, but simply enough? If morality is what we are called to pursue, shouldn’t happiness, peace, and dignity be basic conditions of human existence rather than rewards reserved for those who have first endured pain?
Some might call it hypocrisy to question religion while still finding myself praying when everything else falls short.
I see it differently.
Nonbelief is not mutually exclusive with prayer. To me, prayer is not necessarily an affirmation of belief in a higher being.
I believe prayer can exist even in the absence of faith. Sometimes it is less about believing that someone is listening and more about finding a place for your fears to rest. When tangible things are no longer enough, prayer becomes no different from talking to yourself, gathering scattered thoughts, or whispering hope into the silence.
I may never know if anyone up there is listening, and maybe that has never been the point. Whether anyone is listening becomes secondary to the comfort the act itself provides.
Maybe that is because the imprint of the religion I was raised in will always remain somewhere within my consciousness—not necessarily as belief, but as memory. As a habit. As a deeply human response to fear and uncertainty.
It is not faith that calls me back.
It is the part of me that remembers what comfort once felt like.
And perhaps there is nothing wrong with that.
