The Duality of Spirituality and Being Human

Faith Isn’t Meant to Be Convenient.

Read that again.

There’s a funny thing about belief —It’s always easiest when things go our way.

When the text comes through at the perfect moment.

When we land the job we were just praying for.

When the person we like looks at us like they already know our soul.

We chalk it up to divine timing, manifestation, God’s hand.

We love spirituality when it wraps around us gently — when it confirms what we already wanted to be true. When it’s pretty and digestible. When it gives us control. We light our candles, wear our angel numbers, pull our affirmation cards, and quote scriptures about favor.

But what about when none of it works?

What happens when the person you thought was forever becomes a ghost?

When the baby you prayed for dies inside your own body?

When you pour your life into your children, and someone else takes them from you?

When the people who did the damage go to church three times a week and still sleep just fine at night?

Do you still believe?

That’s the uncomfortable, human contradiction we don’t talk about enough — the conditional belief we quietly walk around with. We tell ourselves we’re spiritual. We say we have faith. But often, what we actually have is a transactional relationship with the universe.

An unspoken expectation that if we’re good, life will reward us. That if we do the work — the journaling, the praying, the forgiving, the trusting — we’ll be spared the kind of pain we watch other people go through.

But then pain comes anyway.

And when it does, it reveals the cracks in everything we thought we stood on.

Faith Isn’t Supposed to Be Comfortable

We say things like:

“Everything happens for a reason.”

“What’s meant for me will find me.”

“Karma will take care of it.”

“God gives His toughest battles to His strongest soldiers.”

But then we lose something — something real — and suddenly those phrases turn to ash in our mouth.

We get bitter.

We shut down.

We start mocking the very things we once posted about.

I’ve lived through the kind of grief that fractures you.

I’ve had to wake up the day after the life I planned was ripped away.

I’ve cried out to God in rooms that still smelled like antiseptic and death.

And I still believe.

Not because it makes life easier. But because it grounds me when life doesn’t make sense.

I carried a child in my womb for 20 weeks. I prayed over his heartbeat. I whispered hopes into the silence of every night. And then God took him.

I was married to the love of my life — a man I thought would be my forever. But I still had to walk away, because he wasn’t who he was supposed to be.

I raised my children the best I knew how, and they were taken from me — not because I failed them, but because of other people. People who called themselves “Christians,” who sat in pews and read from the Bible while tearing apart my family behind closed doors.

I’ve watched the so-called faithful break things they were never meant to touch.

And yet —I still believe in God.

I still trust that the universe is real.

I still look for signs and synchronicities and deeper meaning.

Because duality exists.

Because both things can be true.

Because pain doesn’t cancel out purpose.

Spirituality Is Not a Loophole for Pain

We love to say things like “karma will get them,” but what happens when it doesn’t?

When the person who hurt you gets promoted?

When the liar finds love again?

When justice doesn’t show up in the way you hoped it would?

Do you stop believing in karma?

Do you start side-eyeing God?

You can’t just wear your “444” necklace, smile at angel numbers, and say the universe has your back — only when it benefits you. And then turn around and mock the very same energy when you don’t get what you want. That’s not faith. That’s spiritual entitlement.

You don’t get to wear a cross around your neck and post “blessed” when things are easy, but then curse God and walk away when life breaks your heart.

Belief isn’t supposed to be comfortable.

It’s supposed to carry you through discomfort.

Religion and Spirituality Are Not Opposites

And here’s the other thing we don’t talk about enough:

You can be both religious and spiritual.

You can believe in Jesus and still feel the pull of the moon.

You can read your Bible and still light your candles.

You can trust in God and believe the universe is conspiring to protect you.

That’s not hypocrisy. That’s balance.

God isn’t scared of your crystals.

He’s not confused by your tarot deck.

And the universe isn’t offended by your prayers.

They can coexist — because we are layered. Complex. Multifaceted.

We are spiritual and we are flesh.

We are human, flawed, impulsive, questioning.

And yet we are still divine.

Faith That Survives Grief Is Faith That Lasts

Maybe the point isn’t to avoid the hard things.

Maybe it’s to believe anyway.

To cry, and scream, and still whisper, “I trust You.”

To ache, and question, and still light the candle.

To sit with your brokenness and still look for the meaning.

You can grieve and still believe.

You can be pissed off and still find peace.

You can be lost and still be held.

Because real belief — in God, in the universe, in karma, in spiritual rhythm — isn’t proven by how loud you shout it when things are good. It’s proven by how deeply you lean on it when things fall apart.

In the End…

I’ve stopped asking why things happen the way they do.

There are too many questions that don’t have answers.

Too many things I’ll carry for the rest of my life.

But I do know this:

Every shadow has a light.

Every storm has a clearing.

Every loss cracks us open, not just to grief — but to grace.

So no, I’m not giving up my beliefs.

I’m not picking one over the other.

I’m not quitting God or cursing the stars or burning my altar when the world turns cruel.

I will sit in the tension.

I will believe in both.

And I will keep walking forward — spiritual, human, bruised, believing.

Because I don’t need answers to keep the faith.

I just need hope.

And somehow, even still, I have that.