Not Religious, Just Rooted

I grew up in a church that preached fire and brimstone but never softness. Never true healing.

It was a strict, cult-like Pentecostal church deep in the Southern Bible Belt, embedded in my Latino community. We didn’t just go to church—we belonged to it. Three to four days a week. Four to five if we had revivals that weekend. Our lives were measured by how holy we could appear, how obedient we could be, how well we could deny ourselves anything deemed worldly.

I remember being young and afraid. Afraid of missing the rapture. Afraid of wearing pants. Afraid of expressing too much, asking too many questions, or simply being seen.

Much of my teenage years were filled with long services, emotional testimonies, and warnings about hellfire. No makeup. No jewelry. No TV. No secular music. No after school activities, even if your grade depended on it. Everything had a rule. Everything had a consequence. And in all of that noise, all of that fear, I started to lose my sense of Spirit.

Because what was being taught didn’t always align with what I felt.

It felt restrictive, not freeing. Performative, not personal. Fear-based, not love-filled.

But the thing is—Spirit still found me.

Even there. Even under all those layers of control and judgment and silence.

And now, decades later, I’ve begun to reclaim something that was always mine:

A sacred connection that is not religious, just rooted.

Not hard, but soft.

Not shame-filled, but full of freedom.

This essay is my love letter to that journey. To spiritual softness, to the gentle unraveling of old beliefs, and to building a faith that doesn’t ask me to shrink, but invites me to bloom.

Leaving Behind the Fear

Walking away from that church was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. Because leaving didn’t just mean disconnecting from the religion. I was walking away from a community, from family expectations, from the only spiritual structure I’d ever known.

But I had to. I needed to.

Staying meant silencing parts of myself that were begging to be heard. My creativity, my intuition, my questions, my softness. And honestly, reality in itself.

I was tired of feeling like I had to earn love from God. I was already struggling trying to “earn” it from family members. Now God??!

I was tired of fearing what would happen if I just exhaled. Tired of pretending I believed in a version of holiness that required me to be invisible.

When I left, I didn’t have a plan. I was 17. All I knew was that I needed an exit plan. I didn’t know where I would land spiritually. I just knew I needed space.

Space to feel.

Space to question.

Space to meet God outside the walls of that building. Feel God.

Reclaiming Spirit, My Way

For a long time, I didn’t call myself spiritual at all.

I associated that word with either hyper-religion or hyper-performance—both of which exhausted me.

But then motherhood cracked me open.

There was a night after a day full of tantrums and teething and mental exhaustion when I sat in the bathroom, lights off, and just… breathed. I lit a candle. Not for ceremony, just for peace. And I whispered to the universe, “Help me come home to myself.”

That was the moment everything shifted.

I realized I didn’t need a pulpit to feel the divine. Didn’t need to wear those dreadful denim skirts to be seen as pure. Didn’t need to shout and run up and down anyone’s aisles. Didn’t need to fear silence—because in the silence, I found me.

I started slowly rebuilding my connection to Spirit. Not from doctrine. Not from guilt. But from a desire to feel grounded. To feel rooted.

What Spiritual Softness Looks Like

Spiritual softness is a daily practice of being present and gentle with myself. It’s not performative. It doesn’t require an audience. It doesn’t ask me to be perfect. It just asks me to be.

Here’s what it looks like in my world:

• Lighting a candle and saying a quiet thank you while the kids nap.

• Journaling with no filter, just letting Spirit speak through my pen.

• Honoring my ancestors with music, food, and stories.

• Pulling a card and trusting my intuition, not second-guessing it.

• Crying during a full moon and calling that release holy.

• Sitting in silence with a cup of tea and letting that be my church.

There’s no shame here. No fear of “backsliding.” No punishment for resting, for questioning, for laughing too loud. Spiritual softness is slow, intentional, and deeply freeing.

Growing up, we weren’t allowed to talk about ancestral anything. That was “witchcraft.” “Of the devil.” Dangerous.

But now I know better.Now I know that our ancestors are the original spiritual guides.That honoring them is not demonic—it’s divine.

I see my abuelas in the way I stir my coffee. I hear their in the lullabies I hum to my babies. I carry their strength in my bones—and their prayers still live in my bloodstream.

I’ve learned to call on my lineage. To light candles for them. To speak their names. To thank them for walking beside me as I rewrite the spiritual narrative I inherited. They remind me that I don’t walk alone. That my softness is not weakness. It’s a legacy.

Living in Rhythm, Not Rules

In the church I grew up in, everything was black and white. Sin or holy. Saved or lost. Woman or nothing.

Now? I live in color. I live in the flow.

The moon teaches me.

The seasons teach me.

My body teaches me.

I sync with lunar cycles now. Not because I worship the moon, but because I’m learning to honor the rhythms that have always been sacred, long before anyone wrote a Bible. New moons are for intention. Full moons are for release. Rest is not laziness, it’s a holy reset.

This rhythm reminds me that I’m not here to hustle my way to worth.

I’m allowed to feel.

I’m allowed to rest.

I’m allowed to be human and still be spiritual.

There’s still a part of me , small but present, that hears the voice of old pastors in my head when I light incense or pull a card.

“You’re playing with demons.”

“You’re inviting darkness.”

“You’ve backslidden.”

But I know better now. Because here’s the truth:

I’ve never felt closer to Spirit than I do now. Not when I was screaming in tongues on a church floor. Not when I was trying to live up to impossible standards.

Now, when I slow down and listen to the wind… when I cook with intention… when I journal under moonlight… when I speak to my ancestors and hear their warmth in my spirit…

That is God to me.

That is presence.

That is softness.

That is real.

I may not belong to a church anymore. I may not call myself religious.

But I am not lost.

I am not confused.

I am not empty.

I am rooted.

Rooted in ritual.

Rooted in Spirit.

Rooted in my culture, my womanhood, my softness. Rooted in a faith that doesn’t require fear to feel real.

I am rooted in me.

If you’re reading this and you’ve been carrying spiritual shame, I want you to know:

You are not alone.

You are not wrong for wanting something gentler.

You are not betraying your roots by exploring new paths—you are watering them.

Here’s your permission to create a spiritual practice that feels good in your body.

That allows rest.

That celebrates joy.

That lets you breathe again.

You don’t have to be religious to be rooted. You don’t have to fear God to feel close to Spirit. You don’t have to perform holiness to be divine.

You just have to be willing to come home to yourself.

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Words bloom best with coffee (or tea!). Help me water the garden. [Buy me a cup here.]