My mother believes a method in the stars dictates who we are and how we ought to live our lives. She is a fallen Catholic and a passionate Sagittarius. When her father died suddenly at the age of 56, grief fractured her trust in God. When my parents divorced and Catholic tradition insisted their marriage be annulled, she refused. As countless victims of predatory priests came forward, and the Catholic Church was charged with covering up decades of abuse, she distanced herself further from the religion in which she was raised. Bible passages and marriage licenses ceased to bring her comfort. Now, she finds relevance in daily horoscope readings and prefers to sign contracts outside of Mercury Retrograde.

My father believes a deity created the stars above us and weaves meaning into our everyday existence. When I feel overwhelmed by the ugliness of the Christian Right, I must reframe religion through my father’s eyes to remember its merits: ritual, community, security, and purpose, with an overall emphasis on love. When my stepmom was diagnosed with leukemia, faith strengthened her and my father’s ability to withstand the physical and emotional burden of that reality. Church friends lent their ears to vented sorrows and frustrations, delivered home-cooked meals, and offered their homes as places of respite between treatments.  

My husband believes in preparing for a zombie apocalypse. I can never tell if he’s serious about the zombie part. For years, I rolled my eyes when he insisted we gather supplies and stock canned goods. But I conceded when my daughter was born three days after Donald Trump won the 2016 U.S. presidential election. We now have a basement shelf that is well-stocked with non-perishable food items as well as a bugout bag full of matches, a water purifying straw, a crank radio, and other Mad Max essentials. 

As a child, I attended Catholic mass with my family. I frequented Sunday School where one teacher ruined my childhood by claiming animals don’t have souls. She must have been too old and jaded to know that all dogs go to heaven. Disney had already promised me this, and I intended to reunite with my dog Goldy in heaven one day. 

My favorite thing about church was the crispy chocolate chip cookies and neon orange Tang waiting for me after the service. These invoked feelings of pleasure (read: sinful), but I could confess my gluttony to a priest later. I remember reading a book that used a cookie metaphor to explain why I should love God more than my parents. When my parents made cookies, I didn’t love the cookies as much as my parents, right? Then I should love God more than my parents because he made them! Uh, yeah— nice try. Sorry, but this sounds dumb even to an eight-year-old cookie fiend. No amount of indoctrination could make me love a faceless master creator more than the people who literally wrapped their arms around me on a regular basis.  

Mostly out of convenience, I considered myself a Christian until mid-college. I had never taken the time to question my religious identity. I liked the idea of prayer. It gave me a way to feel heard and more important, safe. 

My friend Kaitlin, a philosophy major, invited me to attend the Science, Religion, and Lunch Seminar series held on our North Dakota State University campus. One speaker introduced a simple concept that presented itself as a revelation to me: if born in a different region, wouldn’t I believe the dominant religion taught in that area was the one religion to rule them all? 

Kaitlin was a self-proclaimed atheist. I couldn’t commit to that term because it seemed too definitive. The idea that all earthly interactions were the product of mere coincidence left me sad, scared, and empty. Kaitlin argued how freeing the concept could be, but it would take a few years of inquiry and reflection for me to relate to that view. 

I still don’t consider myself an atheist. How can you prove there isn’t anything any more than you can prove there is? I label myself Cathnostic: baptized as a Catholic baby, confirmed agnostic in my adult mind. I assume (and hope) the afterlife consists of nothing but dirt. Frankly, the idea of eternal life sounds exhausting and terrifying to me. 

I am intrigued by weird proclamations surrounding death, such as the notion that a soul weighs 21 grams based on one scientifically flawed experiment from over a century ago. I find recounted tales of near-death experiences involving bright lights fascinating but suspect the visions are brought forth by a dying brain. I also *kind of* believe in ghosts, in the sense that I love the idea of them and want them to exist. And if energy cannot be created or destroyed, where does it go when we die? 

You want a physicist to speak at your funeral. And at one point you’d hope that the physicist would step down from the pulpit and walk to your brokenhearted spouse… and tell him that all the photons that ever bounced off your face, all the particles whose paths were interrupted by your smile, by the touch of your hair, hundreds of trillions of particles, have raced off like children, their ways forever changed by you…According to the law of the conservation of energy, not a bit of you is gone; you’re just less orderly.” Aaron Freeman,

Religion doesn’t inspire me, but science, love, and nature do. I believe in the power of empathy, the necessity of kindness, and the urgency of climate change. At my core, I am a pragmatist (typical Capricorn). As such, I understand the allure of a definitive template, so I’ve made this one: 

  1. Thou shalt be kind.
  2. Thou shalt vote with thy dollar, supporting companies that give a damn about living beings and this planet.
  3. Thou shalt vote with thy pen, supporting candidates who give a damn about living beings and this planet.
  4. Thou shalt not impede initiatives to educate women and provide access to birth control.
  5. Thou shalt strive toward veganism: the best diet for reducing thy carbon footprint and unnecessary animal suffering.
  6. Thou shalt carpool, use public transportation, and walk/bike more often.
  7. Thou shalt reduce, reuse, and recycle (in that order).
  8. Thou shalt switch to cruelty-free, eco-friendly cleaning/personal care products. 
  9. Thou shalt waste as little food, water, and electricity as possible.
  10. Thou shalt embrace clean energy alternatives.

(On my worst days) Existential dread consumes my belief in my ability to make a difference. I tune out the world and decide it’s time for others to pick up the slack. I wholeheartedly believe this planet is doomed, or at least, the humans who inhabit it will soon be extinct. We deserve this.

(On my bad days) I focus on my own pathetic struggles. I don’t want to cook dinner. I don’t want to load the dishwasher again today. Or ever again in my life. I am lucky to dread these things. I have food to cook and clean water to wash dishes. I even have a machine to do the work for me, giving me more free time than those who must scrub their dishes (if they own any) by hand. I need to believe writing about my privilege will help others recognize theirs, even on their bad days.

(On my good days) I believe in the power of the individual. I need to believe walking, in lieu of driving, to the store, and voting with my dollar is putting a dent in this clusterfuck of a climate dilemma. I need to believe there are enough other individuals out there fighting the good fight to make an impact. 

(On my best days) I reach out to others who are hurting, donate my time and/or money. I see progress and trust its trajectory. The brilliance of the human spirit overwhelms me. I feel loved and so, so grateful. 

My dad invites me to attend church with him, though he knows where I stand. My mom warns me when the planets create obstacles for my Capricorn sign, sometimes with the preface: “Now I know you don’t really believe this stuff…” My loved ones are amazing. We hold our own beliefs but allow each other to take comfort in different ideologies. Whatever force is responsible for this acceptance makes life worth living, however we define it. 

All images from Agnes Giberne’s 1898 book, The Story of the Sun, Moon, and Stars