theoddpen

[theoddpen]

From Eve’s Bite to My Own: Unpacking Religion, Morality, and Independence

Growing up in a religious household is undoubtedly my canon event—a lighthearted way to frame what some might call religious trauma. But honestly, how else can I describe the pecksniffian community I was raised in? “Trauma” feels like such a heavy word, though. Maybe that’s one for my therapist to unpack.

Today’s topic, however, isn’t just about that upbringing; it’s about man’s greatest weapon of destruction and how I finally made peace with my separation from that part of my life. Spoiler alert: being a woman played no small role in this journey.

I vividly remember the first time I questioned religion—or, more accurately, the first time I dared to chase the laudable answer to that intricate question that had always lingered in the back of my mind. The same question I’d been warned never to utter aloud. It happened when I first came across the Marxist view on religion—specifically, Marx’s theory that religion is essentially man-made. It was an undeniable “aha!” moment for me.

You see, I had always struggled to understand why religion didn’t resonate with me. Or rather, I understood deep down but was too afraid to confront those doubts. The thing is, religion always felt too…human to me.

What I mean is that for something so grand, so undeniably divine, it seemed oddly convenient—too perfectly crafted to serve as a tool, or perhaps more aptly, a weapon in the hands of humanity (and, let’s be honest, mostly men). I remember questioning the “plot holes” in religion. And just to be clear, this goes for the big monotheistic religions. One of the first questions that came to mind was about the concept of heaven and hell. How could an all-forgiving, all-merciful God send people to hell for simply not believing in Him?

Whenever I voiced this—or more often, thought it silently—I’d be met with the explanation, “Well, if you’re a good enough person, you can go to heaven.” But then another question would inevitably arise: if being a good person is enough to secure a place in heaven, then what’s the point of following a religion at all?

Or, more broadly, the very narcissistic concept of a “chosen people.” It’s an idea that always felt deeply unsettling to me. I couldn’t reconcile the notion that a deity would single out one group over others. Wouldn’t we all be His chosen people, given that we were all created and given a chance to exist in this vast universe?

But perhaps most importantly, it was being a woman that ultimately prompted my separation from religion. As a woman, I couldn’t bring myself to follow something that has not only upheld patriarchy for centuries but has also handed patriarchy its smoking gun—a weapon that continues to oppress women around the world to this very day. The use of Eve eating the apple as the origin of sin, the exclusive elevation of men as religious leaders, and the relegation of women to second-class citizens—it all paints a clear picture of how women have been positioned as inferior to men. Let’s be honest: in most religions, men are considered superior.

But here’s the thing—God is all-powerful, right? You’re telling me women, who are brave enough to endure one of the most excruciating experiences a human can go through—giving birth—are somehow not capable of holding positions of spiritual authority?

If God is all-powerful, then why couldn’t He make men and women equal? Why couldn’t He create a world where women are seen as just as powerful as men—especially when we are the ones responsible for populating the earth?

And why is God so often depicted as this toxic, psycho partner who “tests you” by putting you through unimaginable suffering? We see this narrative play out in wars, genocides, and other heinous atrocities, with the explanation that “God never puts you in situations you can’t handle.”

But let’s be real—who in their right mind could handle the horrors we see innocent humans endure every single day?

Women are victims in a world where we make up nearly half the population. Whether in Afghanistan or America, the pattern is the same. And, surprise, surprise, the downfall of both nations when it comes to women lies in religious fanatics who feel the need to police women’s bodies and choices—while conveniently never using religion to address rape or domestic violence.

Another major factor in my separation from religion was the response I received when I started questioning certain teachings. For example, why are women expected to be modest while the same standard isn’t extended to men? The answer I was given? “It’s to protect women from men’s ‘tempting nature.’”

But once again, if God is all-powerful, why would He create men with such uncontrollable urges that women are left bearing the responsibility of managing them? Why place the burden on women to shield themselves instead of instilling the decency of accountability and respect in men?

Then there’s the issue of how God is often referred to using masculine pronouns—He, Him, His—despite being told that God cannot be anthropomorphise. We’re taught that God is beyond human comprehension, yet His image and pronouns are deeply human, gendered, and rooted in patriarchal frameworks. Why is God represented this way if He transcends human limitations? The contradiction just doesn’t add up.

So then I concluded: no way—this has to be a tool designed to make the masses, especially women, conform. And let’s be honest, we’ve seen religion weaponized this way before. Think about its role in justifying systems like slavery. Religious texts and interpretations were twisted to maintain control, painting obedience as divine will and rebellion as sin.

This wasn’t just about controlling labour—it was about controlling minds. The enslaved were taught that their suffering was a test, a path to salvation, and that submission to their masters was pleasing to God. It’s a chilling example of how powerful religious doctrines can be when wielded to serve the interests of those in power.

And women? Women have been subjected to a similar pattern. Modesty, submission, and obedience are often preached as virtues for women, framed as divine expectations, when in reality they serve to uphold patriarchal systems. It’s the same strategy, just targeted at a different group.

Look, I see faith as a wonderful virtue—in theory. Personally, I identify as agnostic. I believe there’s something out there because, let’s face it, there’s no way humans are the pinnacle of the universe. But I just don’t believe in religion—not the ones that have been presented to me, at least.

You can argue with me all you want, and that’s fine—this isn’t about refuting anyone’s beliefs. I firmly believe everyone has the right to believe in whatever brings them peace or purpose. In fact, I can fully understand the need to cling to faith, especially when faced with the horrors and chaos of the world.

And as someone who grew up in religion, I don’t think I can ever fully rid myself of it. At its core, it served as the foundation for my morality. It’s woven into the fabric of who I am, and while I may question the institutions and teachings, the influence it had on shaping my values remains. But I also have independent thinking. And while being without faith can sometimes feel lonely, I believe that if you are truly a good person, your actions and intentions speak louder than any religious affiliation.

Morality doesn’t need to be dictated by a doctrine—it can come from within.

So, no, I don’t fear a deity anymore. What I fear now is the unknown—the vastness of life, the mysteries we’ll never fully understand, and the uncertainty of what lies ahead. But that fear isn’t paralysing. It’s part of what makes life worth exploring.

And as a woman, I want to explore that life without feeling like the forbidden fruit that Eve consumed is still lodged in my oesophagus, choking me at every turn.

[theoddpen]

The Baby That Never Was (And Why I’m Okay With It)

Lately, I’ve been asking myself a question I never thought I’d seriously consider: do I even want children? It feels vulnerable to put this into words—especially because I’ve had an abortion—but that experience has shaped the way I think about parenthood in ways I didn’t expect.

Here I am, years later, and that confusing happiness I felt when I was pregnant feels like nothing more than a fever dream. I don’t regret my choice in the slightest—bringing a child into an unstable life would have been unfair—but I do wonder if it has shaped my perspective, leading me to a life where I can’t quite see myself as a parent in the traditional sense.

During my brief pregnancy, I became incredibly ill—physically and emotionally. I sank into a deep depression that sent me spiraling into destructive habits. I found myself drinking excessively, losing nights to clubbing, and engaging in shameful sex that only deepened my despair. It was a vicious cycle where hours blurred into minutes, and mornings felt like a disorienting twilight zone.

The person who got me pregnant wasn’t someone I’d describe as kind, let alone someone anyone should build a life with. And yet, oddly enough, my reluctance toward pregnancy isn’t rooted in that experience.

Here’s the thing: I’ve clung tightly to the idea of a grand, cinematic love story. You know, the kind Nancy Meyers writes about—the kind where you bump into someone on the street, lock eyes, and suddenly your pulse spikes, and other parts of you... flutter. I’ve decided to hold out for that kind of love, and maybe that’s why I’ve grown comfortable with the idea that I won’t be bearing children. Because that love, right there, is more than enough for me.

As time has passed, my idea of family has shifted. It no longer resembles the neat, nuclear family my sociology textbooks used to drone on about. Now, I see family as something far more fluid. Maybe it’s stepchildren I embrace as my own. Or maybe it’s a home filled with a menagerie of creatures—snuggly dogs, sleepy cats, and outrageously beautiful stallions on a sprawling ranch. Somewhere like Alberta, Canada, perhaps.

Because at the end of the day, the idea of kids shooting out of my cervix—along with the possibility of losing teeth or hair—is not exactly enticing. That’s the simple answer I’d give to people I don’t want to get too deep with. But you and I, I feel like we’re past that now.

The truth is, I know I can’t handle it. It’s not just because I have absolutely no patience—though that’s part of it—but because I know myself too well. I know I’d never sleep another peaceful night. I’d overthink everything until I drove myself mad.

And worst of all, I know the world we live in all too well. Whether I had a boy, a girl, or a non-binary child, the worries would be the same—just with different reasons to drive myself insane.

A psychiatrist might call these thoughts anxiety, but to me, they feel like reality. More specifically, they feel like a stiletto nail dragging down my spine.

Don’t get me wrong—if you want kids, you should absolutely have them. This isn’t a post meant to discourage anyone. But wanting kids doesn’t automatically mean you’ll be a good parent. Over the years, I’ve met plenty of people who dream of having children and building a family, but I’ve come to realise that it’s often not the act of parenting they’re truly dreaming about. It’s everything else—the image, the boost to their self-worth, the fun of playing dress-up.

It’s not about giving a child something they didn’t have beyond material wealth. It’s not the comforting moments that help shape who the child becomes, nor is it the profound depth of unconditional love that excites them. It’s the idea of having a tiny version of themselves—a child who mirrors their best traits, fulfils their unachieved dreams, or serves as proof of their legacy.

But being a parent is so much more than that. It’s about sacrifice, patience, and the ability to nurture someone entirely separate from yourself—someone with their own personality, desires, and flaws.

And that’s where I feel the disconnect for so many people. The idea of raising a child is romanticised, but the reality? It’s messy, exhausting, and often thankless. It’s about showing up day after day, even when you’re depleted, even when you don’t have all the answers.

For me, that level of devotion can’t come from a place of half-hearted desire or societal expectations. It has to be rooted in a deep, unwavering want to be a parent—because anything less wouldn’t be fair to the child.

We’re often told that having kids is the natural next step, a milestone that defines success or fulfilment. But for me, it feels more like a borrowed dream than my own. Yes, I’d love the idea of a little version of myself and the person I call my soulmate. But why can’t just having us be enough?

Sometimes I wonder what kind of parent I’d be. I imagine I’d love fiercely, I’d be nurturing beyond measure, and I’d give my all to make sure my child felt supported and safe. But I also know this: I’d lose myself in the process. And the truth is, I don’t want to lose the person I’ve worked so hard to become.

And because I know all of that, I choose to refrain. I don’t want to become the overbearing parent who spirals into a panic attack every time their child misses a call. Or worse, the one who organises a full-blown search party because they’re five minutes late for curfew.

That’s not to say I lack love or connection. I see it in my partner, my chosen family, and even the chaos of my pets. Having a child is no joke, and—oddly enough—I’m thankful for that misstep for showing me just how serious it all is.

I’ve learned that knowing what you don’t want is just as powerful as knowing what you do. And for me, stepping away from parenthood doesn’t feel like giving something up—it feels like choosing a life that’s authentically my own.