Losing my Religion

THE SACRED SHEDDING OF WHO I THOUGHT I HAD TO BE

"That’s me in the corner.
That’s me in the spotlight, losing my religion..."

The line, from R.E.M.’s song Losing My Religion, takes its name from an old Southern phrase — not about faith, but about reaching the end of your rope.
Losing your cool. Letting it all fall apart.

I remember hearing that song in the ’90s, not fully understanding it — but the phrase returned to me, loud and clear, as I was packing up my apartment to leave for Thailand.

Not because I was angry.
But because I was letting go of a religion of a different kind.

Not the kind I was raised with — though I grew up Christian and have my own story there.
No, this was a subtler, deeper religion:

The religion of work.
The religion of control.
The worship of productivity.
The liturgy of titles.

The unspoken gospel that told me to hold it all together. To climb. To conform. To be the “good girl” who achieves, ascends, and stays two steps ahead of falling apart.

That, too, is a religion.
A set of rules. A way of being.
And it doesn’t live in churches — it lives in calendars, offices, apartments filled with stuff we don’t even want anymore.

It’s a doctrine of extraction, not existence.
Of performance, not presence.
Of bondage, not freedom.

So when I made the decision to let go of my apartment — because paying New York City rent and trying to travel made no sense — it became clear that part of my healing required something deeper:

The sacred act of release.

I didn’t just let go of the lease.
I called back everything I’d left in storage — old belongings from my previous Brooklyn apartment, untouched for years.

Memories of my life. My mother’s life.
Our life together.

Boxes of clothes that didn’t fit.
Decades-old dishes.
Stacks of photos, awards, and trophies — fragments of who I’d been, who I tried to be, who I thought I was supposed to become.

What to keep?
What to release?

It was more emotional than I expected. And more exhausting.
Because anytime you are seeking freedom — real freedom —
you have to lighten the load before the journey can truly begin.

Before I could pack up my current apartment, I had to deal with what came before.

I opened the old storage boxes and found myself face to face with memory.

Stacks of school photos — me in every grade, always with chubby cheeks and bangs shaped by sponge rollers gone slightly wrong. Class pictures through eighth grade. Family photo albums filled with faces I’d never met, but somehow still recognized. Generations I carry in my blood.

I knew what to do with the photos: sort, preserve, pack.
But then came the next layer — the archive of achievement.

Caps and gowns. Sashes. Certificates. Trophies.
My mother had saved everything.
And I mean everything.
They gave out awards for breathing, and I had the receipts.

And I get it — it’s important to honor your life. To hold your legacy and witness where you’ve been.

But it’s also important to make room for where you’re going.

So I chose carefully. I kept my kindergarten graduation dress. A few small, joyful keepsakes. Pieces that captured my story in color and softness.

And I let the rest go.

Hundreds of awards and plaques — released.
Because they weren’t just clutter.
They were monuments to a belief system I was no longer willing to follow.

A belief that said:

• Your worth is in your winning.

• Your value is in your performance.

• If you fail, you’ll be unloved.

• If you lose, you’ll fall back into misfortune — and never make it out again.

That little girl believed that.
And that belief fueled a lot of success.

But also... a lot of sickness.

Because that same drive — the one that helped me “make it” — also led me straight into burnout. Mental health crises. Setbacks I didn’t see coming. We’re taught to push, but not to pause. To achieve, but not to rest. To hustle, but never to heal.

Balance? That’s for people who can’t handle the system.

Self-care? That’s indulgent.

Survival? That’s success — even if you’re hanging on by a thread.

And so we stay sick in the name of success, until the body finally says:

Enough.
Get this out of me.

An exorcism, not of demons —
but of expectations. Of inherited beliefs. Of systems that were never made for our wholeness.

So I went through each award.
Smiled. Remembered what I had done to earn it.
Took a photo — because yes, this is my life, and all of it deserves to be honored.

Then I tore them up.
Dropped them in the trash.
One by one.

Let them go.
Let her go.

The version of me who thought she had to earn love by achieving it.
The girl who learned to perform to be worthy.
The woman who built a life on proving herself to stay safe.

Even as I still aim for excellence, it’s no longer a mask for perfectionism.
Excellence now means: doing my best with what I have — without sacrificing myself in the process.
It means honoring completion, not chasing flawlessness.

I donated most of my furniture.
Gave away excess.
And stood in the middle of a life emptied out — no job, no lease, no fixed plan.
Just faith. And the next right step.

And surprisingly, I didn’t feel lost.
I felt free.

I’m not losing God.
If anything, I’m finding God more clearly now —
in the absence of clutter, noise, and codependency.
When we stop outsourcing meaning to things outside ourselves,
we become intimate with the Divine that lives within us.

This journey I’m on — across oceans and borders — mirrors the one unfolding inside me.

Letting go of stuff (yes, even from these overpacked suitcases)
is also letting go of outdated beliefs, identities, and inherited ideals that no longer fit.

And like all real journeys, it’s a practice.
A slow release.
A lesson in how to travel lite.

One belief at a time.
One corner cleared.
One self reclaimed.

Live. with less, and on your terms
Give. away what no longer honors who you are
Trust. that what remains will hold you
Be. whole without needing to perform
Honor. your story — then make space for a new one