I did.
I went back. I could’ve worn the veil – well maybe not. I knelt. I said the Rosary.
I wanted the rhythm, the certainty, the lineage of saints. I wanted the silence of the chapel, the incense, the bones buried beneath altars.
I wanted to belong to something ancient and real.
I longed to believe that faithfulness meant obedience and that obedience would bring me peace.
But my soul would not stay small.
And I could not unknow what I knew.
I wanted the Church to be the harbor—but it became the cage.
I wanted Mary to be my guide—but they had made her so meek I could barely hear her voice.
And so, one morning, I stopped pretending.
Not out of rebellion, but out of reverence for what I could no longer deny:
God was calling me elsewhere.
To the trees.
To the white oak.
To the path that hadn’t been paved in doctrine, but carved in root and stone and sky.
I don’t regret trying.
I needed to see if there was still a home for me there.
There wasn’t.
But there is a grove now.
And I am walking it. More on that later.