Have you ever been knocked down so hard by life that it felt impossible to see a way forward? If you have, then this may be the article you need to read.
If you’ve kept up with my previous pieces, you know how deeply connected I am to music—how it often feels like lyrics speak directly to my soul. Right now, as I write this, I’m listening to “My Jesus” by Anne Wilson. I can’t think of a more beautiful way to share my journey—how I lost my faith and found it again, stronger and more permanent—than by reflecting alongside this song. I encourage you to press play as you read. Let His presence wraps around you the way it does for me.
I grew up in a deeply Hispanic Catholic household where religion wasn’t just something we practiced, it was part of who we were. I was baptized before I could even speak and made my first Holy Communion before I truly understood the spiritual weight of what that meant. Sunday Mass was a weekly ritual, not out of obligation, but tradition and devotion. I saw how my parents and grandmother honored God, how they prayed, how they believed. And as I grew older, I began to see what God could do, and how He worked in mysterious but beautiful ways.
I was taught that Jesus had a plan for us all. That whether or not we understood or agreed with it, His path was always greater than our own. At the time, I believed it. I worshiped in my own quiet ways, every single day. I thanked Him when I opened my eyes in the morning, before I ate the food He provided, and each time I overcame a challenge I once thought insurmountable. I prayed for blessings and for protection, especially over my family. But everything I believed, everything I thought I knew about God, was about to be shaken to its core.
It was Thanksgiving of 2019. I was just a freshman in high school when my world came crashing down.
My father passed away unexpectedly. And with him, my faith, my hope, my joy, everything vanished.
It still amazes me how everything can change in a matter of seconds. The man who taught me how to dream, who helped me plan for the future, was gone. And all I could feel was betrayal. I turned my back on the very thing that had once comforted me. I dropped out of Sunday school. I stopped going to Mass. I stopped praying. I was furious with the God I once believed in.
People tried to offer comfort: “Jesus needed him more,” they said. “God has a plan,” they’d whisper. “You have to trust His hands.” But none of those words brought peace, they brought rage. How could God need my father more than I did? I was 14. I still needed him for everything. I didn’t want to hear about a greater plan. I couldn’t believe that any good would come from the pain I was experiencing.
So, I shut it all out. For four years, I refused anything related to religion. And during that time, I fell into temptations I knew were wrong. I rebelled, not just against the Church, but against everything I once stood for. I defied the truth I had grown up with because I thought it had failed me when I needed it most
Fast forward four years. I was 18, fresh out of high school, preparing to start my first year at the university my dad and I once dreamed about together. I should’ve been proud, excited, even hopeful. But life had one more blow to deliver.
That summer, my grandmother—the woman who had been my biggest supporter, my safe haven, my absolute favorite person—was diagnosed with terminal cancer. Her diagnosis broke something inside me. Watching the strongest woman I had ever known begin to fade before my eyes was a pain I couldn’t even put into words. A week before I was set to move to another city for college, everything in me screamed to stay behind. I didn’t want to go. I wanted to be by her side, take care of her like she always had for me.
But I left. And the guilt crushed me.
From my new college town, I felt helpless. I went from being by her bedside to seeing her only through a screen. And that’s when I did something I hadn’t done in four years.
I prayed.
Not because I wanted to believe, but because she did. Because she had always turned to God, even in her darkest moments. And for her, I turned to Him, too. But it felt like my prayers were empty echoes. Nothing was changing. I was losing her. And the battles I fought during that time—internally—were ones no one saw. I was crumbling under the weight of guilt and grief, questioning if I had made the right choice by leaving her to chase my education.
Then came winter break. I rushed back home, desperate to spend time with her, knowing deep down that her time was near. December 12—El Día de la Virgen de Guadalupe—we sat together listening to religious music despite the fact that I hadn’t listened to it in four years. Her spirit lifted, just for a moment. The peace on her face, despite her pain, was something I’ll never forget. I wept beside her. I never left her side for more than a few minutes. I was holding onto whatever time I could reclaim.
December 15 was the last night I laid with my grandmother. The last time I held her delicate hands. The last time I kissed her forehead. And the very first time in a long time that I truly, wholeheartedly, prayed.
I said, “Please, God. If tonight is her last night, welcome her with no pain, with open arms. Please give me a sign that she’s with You.”
There was no fear in my voice, only surrender. It was the first time I felt like a child again: scared, but hopeful. And it was in that very crack of dawn, on the 16th, as she smiled up at the ceiling one last time, a serene glow on her face, I knew. I knew someone was calling her home. She passed that exact morning. Peacefully. Just as she deserved.
And that was the moment everything changed. All the walls I had built, all the resentment, the bitterness, the hatred—I let it go. I wept with pain, but also relief. I felt something new. Something I hadn’t felt in years. A light.
God was there. I knew it.
That time of great grief marked the beginning of my rebirth. I began praying again, and this time on my own terms. Not because I was told to, but because I wanted to. I needed to. Every burden I carried began to feel a little lighter. With every prayer, I felt something shift. His grace started filling in all the cracks I thought would stay broken forever.
When the spring semester started, I decided to do something I had walked away from years earlier, and signed up to receive my confirmation sacrament. And this time, it wasn’t for anyone else. It was for me. For the first time in years, I felt my dad’s and my grandmother’s spirits with me, not as haunting memories, but as loving presences walking beside me.
I returned to Sunday Mass. I began blessing my food again, praying every morning, every night, in every moment of hardship and gratitude. I confessed my sins and opened my heart to a second chance. And He welcomed me back with open arms.
Jesus saved me. He rescued a soul that was lost, a girl that was hurting, a spirit buried under grief and guilt. He made a way when I thought there was none. He gave me strength, purpose, and an endless supply of love. I now understand what people meant when they said, “God has a plan.” Because I see it. I’m living it.
My faith today is stronger than it has ever been. Not because life is perfect, but because I know I’m never alone. Every time I fall, He’s there to catch me. Every time I rise, He’s there to celebrate me. I now see joy in the pain. I see purpose in the obstacles. And the first name I call on, whether I’m smiling or in tears, is Jesus.
It’s a beautiful and humbling feeling, knowing that even after I turned away, even after I doubted and disobeyed—He still wanted me. He still loved me. He never stopped.
The light He shines in my life now is so bright, it can’t be dimmed by anything or anyone. He’s my safe place through joy, sorrow, confusion, and clarity. And now, I can’t imagine my life without Him. He gave me a second chance I didn’t even know I needed.
If you’re reading this as someone who’s ever felt lost, who’s currently wandering, or who’s already found their way, I want you to know something:
I see you. I hear you. I feel you.
You are loved. You are always welcome. You are forever protected.
Faith is a journey. Sometimes, it breaks. Sometimes, it bends. But when it’s real, when it’s personal, it always finds a way back home.
And I hope you do too.