Spiritually Promiscuous
I tried many things—from energy healing to hallucinogens—and landed on “I don’t know.”
“The opposite of faith is not doubt, but certainty.” —Anne Lamott
When I was twelve, I attended a Catholic boarding school where daily mass was routine as geography and math class. Looking back, it felt like a factory for priesthood—churning out the next generation of collar-wearing, holy water-sprinkling men of the cloth.
Naturally, I started believing I might want to become one. I mean, why not?
The idea of a life devoted to a higher purpose, free housing, and a set wardrobe seemed like a pretty sweet deal—at least until teenage hormones and a taste for secular music kicked in.
My surprise came when I mentioned this priestly ambition to my mom, expecting some proud nod. Instead, she was horrified, like I’d just announced I was running off to join the circus. "No, no, no," she said, "This is not ok." The thought of her son becoming a priest was about as appealing as finding out I wanted to become a mime.
As you know, I didn't become a priest. But that moment set the stage for a lifelong journey of spiritual exploration—one that eventually led me to a place one of my best friends now finds perplexing: agnosticism.
After the priesthood dream died (RIP, cassock ambitions), I didn’t exactly renounce God—I just started... window shopping. Picture me as a spiritual nomad with a designer backpack and a slightly skeptical eyebrow, trying to find something that felt like home.
Catholicism was my first language. I spoke it fluently—confessions and all. But I gradually picked up other dialects: Reiki, Meditation, past-lives regressions, Buddhism, and astral projections. I dated a few spiritual ideologies. Some were short-lived flings, and others were longer relationships.
One of the most defining chapters came during my deep dive into the human potential movement. I won’t unpack it all here—it’s a story for another time—but it wasn’t just a phase. It was a system, a worldview, and a community that shaped how I thought, worked, and lived.
I learned about purpose, responsibility, integrity, belief systems, and how belief can free and quietly imprison you. It was thrilling, transformative, and eventually disillusioning—like falling in love with a magician and then realizing they’ve been pulling rabbits out of the same hat this whole time.
In between that came psychedelics—because when you’ve already questioned reality, why not meet it in technicolor? I sat in ceremonies, drank things that tasted like tree bark marinated in regret, and dissolved into the cosmos. At the same time, a shaman sang songs to my nervous system. And yes, I had revelations. About time. About self. About how everything is connected, nothing matters, and love is the only real thing. You know, that kind of thing.
So when my friend recently said, “Wow, I didn’t know you are so closed off. Why don't you want to share your spiritual side with me?” After I told him I now identify as agnostic, I had to stop myself from laughing.
Closed off? My spiritual passport has more stamps than a trust fund kid’s gap year.
But I didn’t say that. I just smiled and let him believe I hadn’t done the work—because sometimes, explaining your not-knowing to someone who thinks they’ve found The Answer is like trying to describe classical music to a metronome.
It started innocently enough—just a catch-up over coffee with a friend I love. One of those warm, familiar conversations where you both feel like slightly older, slightly wiser versions of yourselves (with better clothes and worse digestion). We were talking about life, purpose, and aging gracefully (or not) when he paused, looked at me, and said:
“I feel like you’ve stopped sharing that part of yourself.”
“What part?”
“Your spiritual side.”
I blinked. “You mean the part that spent years reading Ram Dass and sobbing through ceremonies in the jungle while questioning the nature of time?” - I thought of saying.
I wanted to respond thoughtfully, but the little voice in my head had already jumped to: Oh, sweet summer child... Because from where I stood, it wasn’t a closed door—it was a vast, expansive landscape I don’t know, and I was finally at peace wandering it without a map.
But how do you explain that to someone who sees certainty as evidence of depth? Who thinks a spiritual path ends in revelation, not more questions?
I tried. I said something like, “I’m still very open. I just don’t need to commit to any one explanation anymore.” (Which, in hindsight, is the kind of answer that sounds suspiciously like a breakup line—It’s not you, it’s me.)
He nodded, but I could tell he didn’t hear me. His belief—anchored and comforting—saw my floating as avoidance. My agnosticism felt, to him, like a retreat—maybe even fearful.
But for me? It’s the opposite.
It’s standing in the middle of the unknown and resisting the urge to label it. It’s seeing mystery and letting it stay mysterious.
Here’s what I mean when I say I’m agnostic—not the textbook version, but the lived-in, slightly-sweaty-from-all-the-spiritual-exploring version:
I don’t claim to know. I refuse to pretend I’m sure either way.
Pick your cosmic framework about the afterlife, God, consciousness, karma, and soul contracts. I’ve considered them. I’ve sat in rooms where people swore they’d found the truth, and sometimes I felt it, too. But always, eventually, came the quiet voice: Maybe. But also… maybe not.
Agnosticism, for me, isn’t some vague fence-sitting. It’s a practice—a discipline of staying open without needing to land.
It’s saying “I don’t know,” not out of apathy but reverence.
Because if the universe is as big and mysterious as all these traditions claim, why would I rush to shrink it into a single story?
So, no, I’m not against belief. I just hold mine loosely.
When someone asks me what I believe, my most honest answer is that I'm agnostic, so it changes. But I’m paying attention.
I left that conversation with a strange mix of emotions—annoyed, amused, and sad. Not because he didn’t understand me, but because I knew I probably couldn’t explain it in a way that sounded comforting. Spirituality favors certainties: the light, the path, the truth.
Agnosticism? It just shrugs and says, “Maybe. Let’s see.”
And yet—here’s the thing. Not knowing doesn’t mean not caring.
Stepping away from the prescribed meaning forced me to start making my own. No gods, no guarantees—just this messy, beautiful life and the wild idea that maybe, just maybe, meaning isn’t something we’re given.
Maybe it’s something we build.
And that’s where I’m taking the second part of this essay —where the search for truth gives way to something even wilder:
What happens when you stop asking what it all means and start recognizing that you ascribe the meanings yourself? Until next Monday.
Book Recommendation:
If you're into spiritual exploration but allergic to certainty, read The Wisdom of Insecurity by Alan Watts. It’s like having a brilliant, slightly mischievous friend remind you that not knowing is precisely where the magic lives. Short, sharp, and strangely calming—perfect for anyone who's ever whispered "WTF" to the universe and meant it as a prayer.
Liked this piece?
In Part 2, Meaningfully Monogamous, I explore what happens after the spiritual wandering—when you stop searching for meaning out there and start choosing it for yourself. No gurus, no glow—just the quiet rebellion of deciding what matters.
I also landed on "I don't know".
Socrates was right 😂