For a long time, I lived in silence. I obeyed, I conformed, I endured. I believed every word preached from the pulpit without question, because that was what I was taught: to trust, to fear, to submit. But somewhere deep within me, a quiet rebellion had been growing a small, persistent voice that whispered: "This cannot be all there is to life."
The voice grew louder with every passing year.
Each time I saw a pastor living extravagantly while members of the church walked home barefoot, the voice grew.
Each time I saw prayers rise like smoke while poverty tightened its grip on entire families, the voice grew.
Each time I saw a man who was daring but godless succeed far more than a righteous man, the voice roared inside me.
And then came the moment I now call my awakening.
It wasn't sudden, like lightning splitting the sky. It was gradual, like dawn breaking after a long, cold night. The more I read, the more I observed, the more I compared the written Word with the world around me, the more I realized: I had been raised to fear life instead of facing it.
I began to see righteousness differently. Not as a blind obedience to every instruction, but as living with integrity while still being brave enough to demand my portion of life.
I remembered the scripture that had been quoted to me countless times: "The kingdom of God suffereth violence, and the violent take it by force."
For years, I thought it was about some spiritual battle in heaven. But now, I understood it was about life itself. Nothing comes to those who wait in silence. Only those bold enough to stretch their hands, to fight, to demand, to risk only those take what they deserve.
It was not enough to be righteous. Righteousness without bravery was weakness. Righteousness without power was poverty. Righteousness without wisdom was slavery.
This realization unsettled me, but it also set me free.
I started questioning more. Not in arrogance, but in hunger for truth. I asked myself:
If Jesus said the kingdom of God is within, why were we made to fear an external hell?
If God created the earth and called it beautiful, why were we taught to despise it while waiting for another?
If money is a defense, why were we discouraged from pursuing it boldly?
I realized then that fear had been my greatest prison. Fear of hell. Fear of sin. Fear of questioning. Fear of failure. Fear of men who called themselves God's representatives. Fear of living.
But once the prison door opened, even slightly, I knew I could never go back.
I began reading beyond the books they gave us. I listened to people they called "heretics." I observed the world without the tinted glasses of religion. And what I found shocked me: the so-called unbelievers were not living in eternal fire they were often living freer, bolder, and sometimes even kinder lives than the religious ones.
I started to understand that life itself was God's gift, and bravery was the key to enjoying it.
It didn't mean abandoning morality. It didn't mean discarding righteousness. But it did mean balancing righteousness with courage.
Because what good is a holy man who cannot feed his children?
What good is a prayer warrior who cannot stand up against injustice?
What good is a righteous soul if his righteousness keeps him in chains?
My awakening was not just about rejecting fear it was about reclaiming my life.
I made up my mind: I would no longer bow to doctrines that made me small. I would no longer worship men who fed off my ignorance. I would no longer accept that suffering is holy while wealth is sinful.
I would be righteous in spirit, yes. But I would also be brave in life.
That was the turning point. That was when I began the slow, painful process of unlearning and relearning. It was the birth of a new me the me that believed God gave me not just a soul to save, but a life to live.
For the first time, I felt alive.