Faith, Fear & the Need to Believe in Something Bigger

I did not grow up particularly religious. My mum was Catholic and would often pray. My dad was not religious at all. We did not go to church, and I was never baptised or given First Communion, which was quite unusual growing up in Brazil, where many of my friends did.

Still, I think I always longed for something bigger. I wanted to believe. Not necessarily in the traditional sense of religion, but in the feeling that life meant something. That there was something beyond all of this. Something connecting us. Something guiding us.

When I was little, we visited my grandmother every Wednesday and Sunday. She was deeply Catholic, and before meals or at certain moments during the day, she would pray quietly. I remember joining in sometimes. Not because I fully understood it, and not even because I truly believed in the way some adults around me seemed to. I simply liked the feeling of it. The softness. The pause. The comfort of everyone becoming still together for a moment.

Looking back now, I think what I was really searching for was not religion itself. It was trust, it was faith.

As I grew older, especially during my teenage years, I often felt lost. I was unsure of myself and constantly worried about whether I was good enough. Like many teenagers, I became rebellious at times, made silly choices, and attached enormous meaning to every disappointment.

If something went wrong, it felt like the end of the world.

• A bad mark at school.
• A friendship changing.
• A heartbreak I could not imagine surviving.

I did not yet understand that life could hold something larger than the moment I was in. I did not believe there could be meaning beyond any temporary pain.

Many of my friends who had stronger religious faith seemed to carry something I did not have at the time. Even when life became difficult, they believed they were being watched over. Guided. Protected somehow.

And while I could not fully connect to religion in the same way, I now realise I envied the comfort that faith gave them. Because without faith, fear becomes very loud.

There is a quote that stayed with me over the years:

You either have faith or fear.

Both ask you to believe in something you cannot yet see.

For a long time, I had the fear.

• I feared failure.
• I feared rejection.
• I feared not being enough.
• I feared life going wrong.

But as I grew older, something slowly shifted. Through motherhood, meditation, nature, books, Buddhism, quiet moments, heartbreak, healing, and simply living long enough to look back clearly, I began to understand something I wish I had known much earlier:

Some of the worst things that happened to me brought some of the best things into my life.

• The heartbreaks.
• The disappointments.
• The plans that failed.
• The moments I thought would break me.

Many of them quietly led me somewhere I was meant to be. I no longer believe life is random in the way I once did. And while I still do not follow one specific religion, I now deeply believe there is something bigger than us. Something difficult to fully explain, but easy to feel when we slow down enough to notice it.

• A connection.
• An energy.
• A wisdom flowing through life itself.
• Something that reminds us we are not separate from each other, from nature, or from the world around us. 

This understanding became one of the quiet reasons behind Pure Light.

I wanted my children to grow up with something I struggled to find when I was younger.

• Not rules.
• Not fear.
• Not pressure.

But trust.

• The feeling that they are loved and not just by their family.
• That life is bigger than one bad day.
• That mistakes are not the end of the story.
• That difficult seasons can often lead somewhere beautiful.
• That they are connected to something greater than themselves.

I wanted them to feel held by life. Not necessarily through religion, but through wonder, kindness, presence, nature, love, and the quiet belief that there is meaning even when we cannot yet see it.

Looking back now, I think what I needed most as a child was not certainty. I needed faith.

Not the kind that requires all the answers.

Just the kind that softly whispers:

• You are not alone.
• You are held.
• Life is still unfolding.
• There is more here than fear wants you to believe.

And maybe that is enough.