My Journey to Faith

My Journey to Faith

I’ve hesitated to share this because I know not everyone will understand or agree, but my journey to faith has been so impactful that I feel compelled to share it.

My journey is unique, just like yours is or will be, no matter your beliefs. I don’t share my story as a debate or as a universal truth that others must accept. Instead, I share it as something deeply personal—something real to me. This is my experience and how it’s transformed my life. It may not resonate with everyone, but it holds meaning for me.

Over time, I’ve had countless conversations with people who felt like I did—those who feared Christianity, avoided church, and ran from anything associated with it. And yet, some of them found clarity in hearing my story, just as I’ve found healing in sharing it. My hope is that by opening up about my experience, you might feel inspired to explore your own - no matter your beliefs. I don’t tell my story to defend my faith or to explain it in ways that might satisfy others. Instead, I aim to invite curiosity, not confrontation. I’m happy to connect with anyone who has questions or doubts. I’ve been there myself and I understand that faith can be a complicated or even painful topic for some people. I’ve had my own struggles with it, but this is where I’ve landed and what I’ve found to be true for me.

Bridging the Gap Between Spirituality and Faith

I still teach and practice yoga and I always will. It’s where I found God, truly. I still engage in energy work, meditation, and other spiritual practices that help people find healing and peace within themselves. To me, this is all part of God’s work and when I practice, that’s what’s at the heart. I wholeheartedly believe it’s part of His plan for me—leading others in their own spiritual/energy practice and holistic wellness in order to help them find their way to healing.

Faith, after all, is personal. No one can dictate what you should believe or feel. And if I hadn’t had yoga, meditation, or energy work as tools during my darkest times, I might have drifted even further from God. In fact, I likely wouldn’t have found my way to Him at all. Whether I ever came to realized that or not, the benefit of the practices at that time in my life have saved me from myself more than once.

This won’t be everyone’s journey, and that’s okay. Your path is your own to walk. I’m simply here as a hand to hold, no matter where that road takes you. I’ll never pretend to have all the answers, but the answers I’ve found for myself are all I’ll ever need.

The Foundation of My Story

I was born into a Catholic family and raised to attend Sunday school (catechism) like most of my friends did. Ironically, it was this early exposure to religion that became the direct reason I lost my faith. It wasn’t just the cold, uninviting nature of the church, the monotonous services, or some of the stern teachers. It was the false messages—messages that turned me and my awesome friends into  “bad little sinners” for not perfectly conforming to the church’s expectations like: you must confess once a week or you’ll go to hell!

It wasn’t scripture itself that drove me away; it was how it was conveyed and interpreted by others. As a child, those interpretations filled me with fear, anxiety, and guilt. By the time I was 10, I feared God—quite literally. I would cry myself to sleep, gripped by an overwhelming terror of sin, punishment, and the end of the world.

Those years were marked by anxiety, depression, and a growing resentment toward the Church and Christianity. I felt disconnected and lost, carrying those wounds well into adulthood. 

Finding My Way Back

It took decades—and a lot of searching—for me to rediscover God in a way that felt authentic and healing. I had to disengage from everything I thought I knew and what others thought they knew. It wasn’t through traditional church services or strict dogma. It was through a series of genuine, inexplicable experiences and a growing realization that God was present in all the places I had been searching: in the quiet of meditation, in the flow of yoga, in the energy of human connection. A piece I wrote below (The Room At The End Of The Hall) explains my realizations in mere words. Nothing comes close to the actual experience. I didn’t recognize the connection to Jesus at the time with the experiences I was having - until I did . 

Again, this is my personal experience, and I share it not to convince or convert, but to let you know that no matter where you are, there is a path for you. It may not look like mine, and that’s the beauty of it. Your journey is uniquely yours, and I’ll always honor that. I know for certain that the one way to ensure someone with curiosity will never find God in any way, is to attempt to shove personal beliefs down their throat!

For me, faith is no longer about fear or rigid rules. It’s about love, connection, and a God who meets us where we are. That Truth has set me free, and I hope it can inspire you to discover what faith might mean for you. Ultimately, my faith is between me and God and your faith is between you and God. People may misunderstand, mock, or judge, but their opinions don’t define the journey. It’s not always easy to share this because I know not everyone will understand, but my faith isn’t about seeking approval—it’s about the relationship I’ve found with Christ and how it’s changed me. I would LOVE to hear your journey in Faith and how it has changed you - no matter the path or your current destination. 

The Unfolding

It all began when my daughter, Mia, was born. From the moment she entered the world, there was something extraordinary about her—a quiet, calming presence that felt almost otherworldly. The funny thing is, the post partum depression I had following her birth was debilitating. It was very dark for a while but there was a fire, a fight within me that emerged to save me (and continues to do so) and it’s only now that I understand what that was, who that was. Regardless of the circumstances of post partum depression, during nights of sleeplessness and anxiety, simply being near Mia seemed to soothe the chaos within me, though I didn’t think much of it at the time. It was just there, like an inexplicable thread connecting her to something bigger than both of us. Of course, my other children (Nevan and Meredyth) have been a large part of my journey, my learning and my understanding of God and all in different ways but all in ways of Love. It was Mia that asked the questions, that cracked the window when I needed it most. 

As she grew, Mia’s inquisitive nature began to surface more and more. She started asking questions—questions far beyond her years. At first, they were about the world, life, and existence itself, but soon they shifted to something I had spent decades avoiding: God, church, the Bible.

These questions caught me off guard. I wasn’t equipped to answer her, and honestly, I didn’t want to. I sent her to my grandmother and my mother in hopes they could feed her the knowledge she was seeking. My own childhood experience with religion had left deep scars—wounds from church hurt that had festered for over 30 years. I had been terrified of God, Jesus, the Bible, and the looming fear of hell since I was nine or ten, thanks to a well-meaning but damaging Sunday school lesson about confession and eternal punishment. That fear followed me into adulthood, casting a shadow over any thought of faith.

So, I ran. For most of my life, I was as far from Christianity as one could be. And yet, I was deeply spiritual. I chased God in every corner of my life, so long as it didn’t involve a church or a Bible, I avoided those at all costs. I meditated, sought wisdom in nature, studied philosophies and spiritual practices from across the world. I felt connected to something greater, but I wanted nothing to do with the Christian God I had been taught to fear.

But then, Mia.

Mia, with her innocent yet profound questions, broke open a crack in a window I had sealed shut long ago. Her curiosity demanded answers—answers I didn’t have, but needed to find for her sake. What started as a search to satisfy her blossomed into a journey of rediscovery for me. She had compelling and emotional spiritual conversations that always surfaced when I was struggling. She was chasing after me without knowing it. Then she asked to go to church and I felt like I was suffocating but I recruited my grandmother to join us and away we went.

Soon after the floodgates of rediscovery opened for me, Mia went back to playing with dolls and being content with what answers and experiences we’d given. There was much more depth to the story but, all in all, it was as if her simple questions had set off a series of events, a divine unraveling that led me to confront truths I had buried for decades.

I didn’t just find answers; I found Him. (I talk about the “Him”, “He”, “God” below and how it used to jolt me, but what I’ve come to explain in order to understand and digest for myself.)

Not the version of God I had been taught to fear, but the God I had unknowingly been searching for all my life. Through genuine, inexplicable experiences, I began to see a love and presence so much greater than the confines of my childhood understanding. It wasn’t in a church, and it wasn’t in a textbook version of faith. It was raw, real, and deeply personal.

Now, here I am. Profoundly changed, still learning, and still untangling the threads of this new and developing understanding that feels unlike anything I’ve heard in a church. But it’s real, and it’s mine. And it’s something I can no longer keep to myself.

Below is the piece I wrote that is somewhat of a dream state for me. There are no words to fully describe but I’ll keep trying.

The Room at the End of the Hall by Mandy Hunter

It’s not a grand cathedral or a blazing mountaintop, but a small, tucked-away room at the end of a hallway in my soul. That’s where I find Jesus. The body is the temple, so very true. There’s nothing extravagant about the space I imagine, just two chairs—one for Him and one for me. Yet this simple, unassuming place has become the holiest ground in my life.

Every time I step into that room in my soul, in my mind, it’s like the chaos of the world fades. The weight of the day lifts, and the air becomes thick with something I can only describe as love. It’s real. More real than the walls around me or the floor beneath me. When I sit in my chair and look across to where He always sits, I feel a presence so profound it’s hard to put into words.

In this space, there’s no pretense. No need for carefully chosen words or perfect prayers. I decompress here, pouring out my thoughts and emotions. I’ve laughed and cried in that chair. I’ve raged and whispered. And through it all, Jesus listens. He doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t rush me, doesn’t scold me. He’s just there, fully present, fully engaged, like He has all the time in the world for me—because He does.

It’s overwhelming, in the best way. I get emotional just thinking about it because it’s real. This isn’t an abstract concept or a vague spiritual idea. It’s a concrete reality, unbound by time or space. It’s as simple as closing my eyes and He’s there.

Always There

What amazes me is that He’s always been there. Long before I found my way to this room, He was sitting in that chair, waiting. He wasn’t hiding; I just wasn’t looking. Like the sin of gossip, how other people explained Him to me is what I believed. I turned away from the fear I felt brought on by the many wolves in sheep’s clothings. The church hurt ran deep but still, He stayed. 

I spent so much time in this pain wandering the halls of my mind, my emotions, my body, my life, searching for peace. I opened door after door, hoping to find the thing that would finally make me whole. The belief system that would appease my soul but none of those rooms held what I was looking for.

I didn’t realize that peace wasn’t something I had to find. It was someone. And He was already there, sitting in the chair, waiting patiently for me to notice.

Looking back, I see the moments when He wasn’t content to simply wait. Sometimes He walked the halls of my mind, searching for me. Sometimes He busted down doors I was trapped behind, doors I couldn’t or wouldn’t open on my own. He set me free from prisons I didn’t even realize I was in. I was blind then to think it was me, I who busted down doors as if the strength I found could have ever come from the depleted moment I was in. 

And then there were the times He quietly provided for me, putting food on the table when I had none to prepare. I never stopped to wonder where the provision came from; I just accepted it, unaware that it was His hands sustaining me.

Pulling Up the Chair

The moment everything changed was the moment I finally decided to pull up the chair and acknowledge Him. He didn’t demand it. He didn’t force me to sit down. He simply waited, calling my name, living with me quietly and lovingly until I was ready.

And when I finally sat down, when I finally looked across the room and met His gaze, I realized something profound: there were no doors, no locks, no chains keeping me from Him. The barriers I thought existed were illusions. The only thing standing between me and this sacred communion was my own unwillingness to acknowledge Him.

Now, there’s no going back. I’ve spent too much time in that room, in His presence, to ever want to leave. I’ve discovered a peace that surpasses understanding, a love that heals the deepest wounds, a joy that doesn’t depend on circumstances.

The Invitation

This isn’t just my story. That room at the end of the hallway? It exists for everyone. It’s a space where Jesus waits, not with judgment or impatience, but with open arms and infinite love.

All you have to do is pull up the chair.

Getting past the “He”

Our language struggles to fully capture the reality of who Jesus is. We call Him "He," not because His essence is bound to human gender, but because it helps us relate to Him in a way we can comprehend. As human beings, we rely on symbols, metaphors, and forms to make sense of the divine. Jesus, in His human form, is one such bridge—an unfathomable mystery made personal and tangible.

But the truth is, Jesus is far more than the human form He once took on. That body, though real and sacred, could not contain the fullness of who He is. He is God—eternal, infinite, and beyond any category we can imagine. He transcends time, space, and even the limits of our understanding. The "He" we refer to is a reference, a representation that helps us approach the vastness of God without being overwhelmed.

Yet, God in Jesus chose to step into human history, to take on flesh, to live among us as "one of us." He did this so we could see Him, hear Him, and touch Him—so we could relate to Him. The Incarnation wasn’t about limiting His nature but about meeting us in ours. When we see Jesus, we see the Father. When we hear His words, we hear the eternal voice of God. His humanity is not a box confining His divinity; it’s a doorway revealing it.

So when we call Him "He," it’s a concession to our human limitations. It’s how we wrap our finite minds around the infinite. But even as we use this language, we must remember that He is so much more. He is the Word through whom all things were made, the light that shines in the darkness, the love that defies comprehension. He is the Alpha and the Omega, the beginning and the end, holding all things together in Himself.

Jesus is personal and intimate, yet cosmic and boundless. He is the human face of a God who cannot be contained, the bridge between our world and the eternal. In calling Him "He," we’re not defining Him; we’re drawing near to Him, using the tools we have to speak about a reality that exceeds all we could ever express.

Losing My Religion

I am Christian by human definition, but losing my religion was essentially what I had to do to truly find Jesus. I had to let go of the watered-down or fired-up versions of the Truth that others tried to define for me. Religion, as shaped by human hands, often felt like a box—a place where expectations, rules, and interpretations tried to confine what is infinite, mysterious, and deeply personal.

What I realized is that the missing piece in so many of our journeys is that we try to align our faith with everyone else’s. We spend our time searching outside of ourselves for validation, approval, and answers. But the Spirit of God is not bound by doctrines or traditions; it is alive, strong, and mighty within us. Jesus, the tangible and relative figure of our faith, came to reveal this truth: that God is with us, within us, and always present, no matter the path we’re on. In all the infinity of God, there is nowhere He is not.

For me, faith is found in love. It’s found in the quiet commitment to be a better person today than I was yesterday. It’s in letting go of my past sins, seeking forgiveness, and learning to forgive myself. This ongoing journey is not about perfection but about connection—to God, to others, and to the deeper truths that transcend any one belief system.

No one is excluded from God’s love. The good news of Jesus is for everyone, regardless of their struggles, desires, or identity. It’s not our sin that determines our eternal destiny but our response to God’s grace and love. And that grace is unearned, immeasurable, and available to all who seek it.

The focus should be on helping everyone encounter the transformative power of Christ. This power isn’t about conformity but about being shaped by love, humility, and faithfulness. For those who feel excluded or unworthy, the message of Jesus is clear:

"Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest." (Matthew 11:28)

Jesus didn’t come to create gatekeepers to God. He came to break down barriers, to call the lost, and to remind us that the Spirit—that powerful, infinite, loving Spirit—dwells with us always. Finding Jesus isn’t about fitting into a mold; it’s about allowing His Spirit to mold us from within.

In Love & Light,

Mandy Hunter