I woke up irritated this morning—nothing major, just that low thrum of agitation humming beneath the surface. Then I saw an Alan Watts quote about walking alone being a choice, not a curse, and something clicked. Sharp. Unfiltered.
I realized that religion and I were bound only by a mutual illusion: the idea that I needed to be micromanaged in order to be safe. That if I wasn’t watched, corrected, subdued—controlled—I’d be dangerous. Not just to others, but to the system itself.
Somewhere along the way, I absorbed the belief that freedom was rebellion, and rebellion meant exile—from love, from belonging, even from God. I grasped the ridiculousness of this long ago, when I rebelled against my upbringing two decades ago and began to seek more depth than the thoughts of a preacher in a pulpit, but this morning that entire journey came full circle for me.
This morning, I realize I have achieved the initial goal in full: to truly be able to profess that all-inclusive lyric in my grandmother’s favorite hymn.
…was blind, but now I see.
I do. I see it in full clarity now. Religion claimed to want to guide me, to help me “see.” To help me remain on the “right path.” To keep me “safe.” Here’s the clarity:
I was never the danger. Their need to control me was. The problem wasn’t my mind, my heart, or my spirit—it was the fear that all three, unrestrained, might disrupt the status quo. So they built systems to contain people like me.
They built systems that mistook obedience for holiness, passive silence for peace, and rule-following for righteousness. Systems that taught me safety could only be achieved by keeping my wildest, most instinctual self on a short leash. And for a long time, I complied—not because I agreed, but because I was afraid of what would happen if I didn’t.
Awakening to that reality didn’t just help me break free from religion. It helped me break free from a lot of rules I’d conformed to for far too long. One of the most directly impacted areas of my life has been my writing—which is why I’m pausing here, mid-thought, to explain this. If you understand how deeply the control went—into even something as personal and sacred as my voice—you’ll understand just how much I had to unlearn to feel free again.
I’ve chosen to write these more personal, less research-based reflections in a very different voice than I used on my old blogs. Back then, I wrote “properly.” Formally. In polished prose that passed inspection.
Now? I write like me. The real me. And that shift hasn’t gone unnoticed. I’ve gotten messages saying my writing seems lazy now, that it’s lost its polish, its sophistication. I’ve even been accused of not being me at all—of being an AI bot.
But honestly? That’s the perfect analogy for what religion tried to make of me. It didn’t want a living, breathing human with nuance and fire and questions. It wanted compliance. Predictability.
It wanted me to speak only when spoken to—and only in approved formats. I was spanked, literally beaten, as a child, to drive this reality home. Religion, as I experienced it, creates spiritual AI bots: pre-programmed with someone else’s beliefs, running a loop of borrowed phrases, afraid to glitch.
So yes—I used to write “properly.” According to every rule. Every comma. Every clause. Every academic expectation that said if it wasn’t grammatically complete, it wasn’t intelligent. It wasn’t human. Worse still, it wasn’t creative—because creative writing has its own special rules, too.
Over time, especially when it comes to artistic expression, I understood that rules defeat the purpose. I once referred to following rules in art turning art into just another prison, not an expressive experience. Over time, whether regarding art or religion or any other facet of my life, I realized I wasn’t trying to pass a test anymore.
I realized who I am, and that I truly am a piece of the I Am, something religion often baited me with but never wanted me to fully embody. I realized that who and what I really am is someone trying to express the truth. To be real. To be more creative. To be authentically me.
So, in short, I stopped following the rules.
Because the truth doesn’t always show up in tidy compound-complex sentences. Sometimes it arrives in fragments. In echoes. In stutters and breathless pauses. In rhythm and tone and flow that sound more like memory or prayer than essay. That doesn’t make me less human. It makes me more. Because this is how the soul speaks when it’s no longer trying to impress—just trying to be.
If that feels unfamiliar to you, that’s okay. But don’t confuse unfamiliar with artificial. This isn’t a bot speaking—and the church isn’t God speaking.
Who is speaking from the pulpit? A person who wants you to be a slave to their own interpretation. Who is speaking in these posts? Someone who broke free from the grammar cage and chose to write her thoughts in her own voice—raw, rhythmic, and real.
Because walking alone isn’t a curse. It’s a return. For me, here and now, it’s return to the voice I had before they told me it was too much, too messy, too dangerous. And now? I know better. I know that voice was never the threat. That voice was always the way home.
The Twin Tree Project 