Meaning is not given; it’s made—and in its making, we discover our humanity.

I was raised Catholic, pulled from the church as a child, and then drifted quietly into agnosticism. I lived for decades without a name for my disbelief. Humanism arrived much later—not as a conversion, but as recognition. This is how I came to humanism, what it means to me, and why I believe it offers a grounded, humane framework for living in a world where common sense is anything but and confusion is the norm.

My Early Life with Religion

Like all humans, I was born an atheist. Soon after, like roughly eighteen percent of the world, I was inducted into Catholicism. Organized religion shaped the rhythms of my early life. We observed the major holidays. We attended Mass on Sundays. I was baptized and completed First Communion. From first through fourth grade, I attended St. Mary’s Catholic School.

Religion became the background noise of my childhood—a holy refrigerator hum. It stayed steady, familiar, and mostly soothing.

Still, something felt off early on. Questions surfaced, and they refused to leave. Trusted adults placated me. The answers rehearsed and dismissive. When I pushed back, I learned to stay quiet. I was told faith was something I possessed, not something I experienced. God was described as love, yet I was taught to fear Him.

Slipping Away from Faith

When I turned nine, my world shifted. My parents separated and later divorced. With help from her parents, my mother moved my sisters and me to a small town—more village than city—about forty miles southwest of Cleveland. I was pulled out of my reality. Almost overnight, I lost everything familiar: my father, my friends, my home, and St. Mary’s, along with the church itself.

Religion didn’t end dramatically. Instead, it drifted—a fade cut into my new life. Gradually, Sundays became ordinary. Religion classes vanished. School-day Mass disappeared. Ritual gave way to routine. Over time, belief loosened its grip and then slipped away entirely.

Moral certainty began to feel brittle. Explanations for suffering—why bad things happened to good people, childhood cancer, and wars—rang hollow. I didn’t argue my way out of faith. There were no priests or nuns left to challenge. My faith fell away, a browning October leaf.

My Years as a None

What came next had no name. A child became a young adult inside what I would later recognize as normalcy. Throughout my teens, twenties, and thirties, I lived without a label. At the time, I would not have used the term, but I had become one of the growing group of religious “nones.” These are people who no longer identify with any faith. Agnostics. Atheists. The nothing in particulars.

Importantly, I wasn’t angry at God. I wasn’t looking to blame anyone for my overturned tractor‑trailer life. And I wasn’t hunting for replacement beliefs either. Instead, I observed.

During those years, life stayed full. Religion faded into an afterthought, and faith slipped into a neglected endnote. It seems like a jumble of milestones now. I fell in love, lost my virginity, graduated from high school, and went to college. I suffered heartbreaks, got a job, fell in love again—this time for good—got married, and acquired the requisite debt of a proper consumer, the house, and the cars.

Along the way, I read widely and reflected often. I wrestled quietly with the big things: meaning, purpose, ethics, and moral responsibility. Eventually, I learned to live with unanswered questions. The effort spent chasing why began to feel wasted. Uncertainty stopped feeling like failure and started to feel like honesty.

Finding Humanism in My Forties

Once the Catholic Church had been excised from my life—or was I the one excised?—religion rarely crossed my mind. Faith never did. Of course, living in the United States, and in red‑state Ohio no less, made avoidance difficult. Churches loom on every corner.

Golden crosses hang from countless necks. Highways glow with billboards insisting that (white) Jesus is the answer. In America, we are force‑fed faith and family, family and faith—proselytization via peg tube.

Humanism didn’t convert me, it clarified me.

Humanism arrived late for me. It came without ceremony and without rite. There was no revelation, no lightning strike, no humanist confirmation requiring bowed heads or whispered vows. Instead, it crept in, waited patiently, and allowed itself to be noticed.

I realized the values I had been trying to live by—care, fairness, curiosity, responsibility—weren’t borrowed from religion. They were human. Humanist.

That realization mattered. Ethics no longer required surveillance from an all‑knowing, all‑seeing sky god. Meaning didn’t need permission.

What Is Humanism?

Humanism focuses on human experience, reason, and compassion. It rejects the idea that morality comes from a divine source. Instead, it teaches that ethical behavior stems from empathy, evidence, and our mutual humanness.

Humanism encourages us to act ethically because our actions impact others, not because it tells us to or because we fear judgment. It values curiosity over certainty and participation over belief. After that shift, patterns appeared.

I felt more a part of something bigger, wider than me. Honest conversations became more important. Choosing integrity over convenience became intentional. 

None of this required belief in the supernatural; it only needed empathy and presence. 

Around that time, I encountered humanist writings that articulated what I already believed—Richard Dawkins, Kurt Vonnegut, Margaret Atwood, and many others. The ideas didn’t convert me; they clarified me. Even the murkiest stream clears once it stills. Humanism didn’t give me answers; it provided a framework to build on.

Learn more about humanism here.

Humanism Beyond the Personal

For me, the most prominent characteristic of humanism is its inclusivity. Humanists aren’t about tribalism, and we don’t practice the us-versus-them mentality so prominent in organized religions.

At its core, humanism values evidence, education, and the shared human experience. It supports science‑based responses to climate change. It defends the most basic rights of all humans, without exception, advocating education, critical thinking, and social systems built on dignity rather than doctrine.

In other words, humanism asks a practical question: What can we do to help people thrive? Universal healthcare, feminism, LGBTQIA+ rights, and environmental stewardship. The answers are never dogma, but more often, it’s compassion guided by reason.

Explore humanist principles for a better society.

Living Fully Human

Unlike religions that promise the rewards of heaven or threaten eternal damnation, humanism offers no afterlife certainty. It does not resolve every mystery. Instead, it invites questions and encourages engagement.

Meaning is not delivered from above. We build it instead. We shape it through our choices, our relationships, and our willingness to care for our fellow humans. When responsibility replaces abject obedience, something shifts neurally. Participation begins to matter more than belief.

Meaning is not delivered from above. We build it—through our choices, our relationships, and our willingness to care.

Speaking as one human among billions, I know the comparative weight of my opinions is small. Still, I have found it. The usurper of my faith and the replacement for my subservience is humanism.

For this large‑brained mammal, humanism offers a way to live honestly in a world that has grown far too complicated for simple answers. It allows doubt and even welcomes it. It demands compassion. Most of all, it insists that what truly matters is how we treat each other.