Opinion: Borka Schuster
We were never a strictly religious family. We never said evening prayers together, faith wasn't the center of our conversations, and Sundays weren't shaped by church. But on the big holidays, we always went to Mass. It belonged to the celebration, as much as the seasonal cookies and the family table.
My grandmother, though, was always a believer. Clearly that loosely held tradition of going to church came from her too — though she, given the chance, goes every Sunday. As a child, it all felt completely natural to me. I never stopped to wonder whether I actually believed. I was simply born into a world where this was part of life.
Then I grew up
And somewhere along the way, the Masses fell away — even on holidays. If I'm with my family for a major religious celebration, I might still go along with them, but even that isn't something I always do anymore.
I no longer feel that this tradition is an essential part of the holidays. And I've drifted away from religion entirely.
The strange thing is that I still don't feel like a nonbeliever. If anything, I think about how the world works, about human existence, about whether there's something greater than us, more than I ever did before. I just no longer find the same answers I found as a child.
These days I lean toward believing in some intangible, transcendent force rather than a God defined by precise rules and centuries-old dogma. I can't name this belief, and maybe I don't want to. It's enough for me to feel that there's something I can't explain, and something I connect with from time to time.
My grandmother, of course, knows none of this
She still thinks I'm the same little girl who sat beside her in church, flipping through the hymnal a little bored. She never asked whether I still go to Mass, and I never brought it up. Not because I want to hide it, but because I don't want to hurt her.
What if she's disappointed? What if she feels she did something wrong? What if she thinks I've lost something important? It's easier not to ask those questions. Just as it's easier not to start a conversation when you don't know how it ends.
But lately another thought won't leave me alone. What if, by not telling her the truth, I'm the one underestimating my grandmother? What if I've already decided, on her behalf, that she couldn't possibly accept it? After all, I expect her to love me for who I am. But if she doesn't know the person I've become, how can she truly love me?
I've realized that silence has a price too. If I keep treating the topic as taboo, at some point I'll start to resent her. I'll replay imaginary arguments in my head, ones that never actually happened. I'll convince myself she'd never accept my choices, without ever giving her the chance to. That wouldn't be fair.
Of course, I don't feel the need to announce it in the middle of a Sunday lunch:
"By the way, Grandma, I'm not religious anymore."
I don't believe every important thought has to be spoken just because it exists. But if it ever comes up — if she asks why I don't go to Mass, or what I believe in — then I think I'll be honest. Not because I want to convince her. And not because I expect her to agree. But because I want us to keep truly knowing each other.
When I was a child, she watched me learn to walk, to talk, to read. She saw the kind of person I was becoming. It would feel strange to stop that process now, as an adult, and say: you could see this far, but what comes next, I won't share with you.
It might be a hard conversation. There might be silences. We might not end up agreeing. But maybe love isn't strong because we think the same about everything. Maybe it's strong because we're willing to show each other where we differ — and let the other person decide what to do with that.
Is it wrong to keep my loss of faith from an older relative?
Not necessarily. Not every private thought has to be spoken aloud just because it exists. The question is whether the silence protects the relationship or slowly builds resentment inside you.
How do I know if silence is starting to harm the relationship?
A telling sign is when you catch yourself replaying imaginary arguments that never happened, and assuming the other person could never accept you. That kind of quiet resentment can grow even when nothing has actually been said.
Do I have to make a big announcement about my beliefs?
No. There's no need to declare it over Sunday lunch. Honesty can simply mean answering truthfully if the subject naturally comes up, rather than staging a dramatic reveal.
Can a loving relationship survive different beliefs?
Yes. Love isn't necessarily strong because two people agree on everything. It can be strong precisely because they're willing to show each other where they differ and still choose to stay close.
