Innocence

Before I knew to question,

I thought the problem was me.

Everyone else seemed to fit so easily—

their voices sure,

their prayers smooth,

their belief sitting comfortably

in their bodies.

I tried to look like that.

I sat where I was told,

said what I was taught,

held my hands the right way—

like if I got the shape of it correct,

the feeling would follow.

It almost did.

There were moments

where I thought I felt it—

something warm,

something certain,

something I could call faith

without hesitation.

But it never stayed.

There was always a quiet distance,

like I was watching through glass,

close enough to see everything clearly,

but never fully inside it.

I didn’t question it then.

I just tried harder.

Tried to believe deeper,

to silence the small voice

that kept asking

why it felt so natural for everyone else

and so practiced for me.

I thought innocence

meant certainty.

But mine was imitation—

a careful learning

of how to belong

without ever quite arriving.

And then the questions came.

Not loud, not rebellious—

just steady,

persistent,

like something in me

finally refusing to stay quiet.

At first, I was afraid of them.

Because if I let them grow,

I knew they would take everything with them—

the structure,

the answers,

the fragile sense of almost-fitting

I had worked so hard to maintain.

And they did.

But what I didn’t expect

was the relief.

The way something in me exhaled

for the first time—

like I no longer had to pretend

to feel what I didn’t.

I didn’t lose innocence

all at once.

I lost the version of it

that asked me to ignore myself.

Now I live differently.

There’s no script,

no perfect alignment,

no easy belonging handed to me.

But there’s honesty.

And even though I sometimes miss

the simplicity I thought I saw in others—

the ease,

the certainty,

the way everything seemed to fit—

I don’t miss

the quiet effort

of trying to make myself

believe something

that never fully felt like mine.