I remember the night I first Googled “Is it okay to question your faith?” My hands shook as I typed. I cleared my search history afterward, as if someone might find evidence of my doubt and revoke my Christianity card.

Looking back now, I wish someone had told me that moment—that terrifying, exhilarating moment of asking questions—wasn’t the beginning of losing my faith. It was the beginning of finding it.

Deconstruction Isn’t Destruction

Here’s what I wish someone had whispered to me in that season: deconstruction doesn’t mean demolition. When you deconstruct a building, you don’t blow it up. You carefully take it apart, examining each piece. What’s load-bearing? What’s decorative? What was someone else’s addition that never quite fit?

The same is true for faith.

You’re not abandoning your relationship with God. You’re asking which parts of your theology were handed to you without question and which parts resonate with the person you’re becoming. You’re separating the “God of your childhood Sunday school” from the God who might be bigger, wilder, and more inclusive than you were taught.

One interpretation of this journey is that you’re not losing faith—you’re outgrowing a container that was always too small.

The Questions Are the Point

I spent months feeling guilty about my questions. Every “what if” felt like betrayal. Every “but why” seemed like rebellion.

What I didn’t know then: the questions aren’t a sign that something’s wrong with you. The questions are evidence that something’s right. You’re thinking critically. You’re engaging honestly. You’re treating your faith like it matters enough to examine.

Many scholars believe that doubt is a necessary ingredient in mature faith. You can’t choose what you believe if you’ve never questioned what you were told. The absence of questions doesn’t mean strong faith—it often means inherited faith that’s never been tested, tried on, or claimed as your own.

Your questions don’t make you less faithful. They make you honest.

You’re Not Doing It Wrong

Deconstruction doesn’t follow a neat timeline. There’s no five-step program with a graduation ceremony at the end. Some days you’ll feel free. Other days you’ll grieve what you’re releasing. Both experiences are valid.

I wish someone had told me that deconstruction can feel like:

• Relief and loss at the same time
• Excitement about new ideas mixed with fear of the unknown
• Freedom from toxic theology alongside grief for the community you’re leaving
• Clarity on some things while other beliefs remain beautifully uncertain

You might deconstruct quickly or slowly. You might land somewhere progressive, or somewhere else entirely. You might reconstruct a faith that looks nothing like where you started, or you might step away from organized religion altogether while maintaining a spiritual practice.

There’s no “right” way to do this. The path is yours to walk.

You’ll Lose People, and That’s Painful

This is the part I really wish someone had prepared me for: some people won’t come with you. Friends who once felt like family might distance themselves. Church communities that claimed “all are welcome” might quietly communicate that questioning isn’t actually welcome.

It hurts. I won’t pretend it doesn’t.

But here’s what else is true: you’ll find new people. You’ll discover communities that celebrate questions, that make space for doubt, that practice the kind of radical inclusion you’re learning to value. You’ll meet others on their own deconstruction journeys, and you’ll realize you’re not alone.

The loss is real. The new connections are also real. Both can be true.

Your Body Knows Before Your Mind Does

As a person with a visual disability, I’ve learned to trust my body’s wisdom in ways sighted people might not have to consider. My body tells me things before my eyes can confirm them.

The same was true for my faith journey.

My body knew something was wrong before my theology could articulate it. I’d feel sick sitting through sermons about hell. My chest would tighten when leaders talked about LGBTQ+ people. My shoulders would hunch when disability was framed as something to “overcome” for God’s glory.

Listen to your body. If your theology makes you feel small, afraid, or ashamed—that’s information. The Divine doesn’t require you to shrink. Any god who demands your self-betrayal isn’t worth following.

Progressive Faith Is Still Faith

I worried that asking questions meant I was on a slippery slope to atheism. (Spoiler: there’s nothing wrong with atheism if that’s where you land. But it’s not the only option.)

What I learned: you can question purity culture and still value sexual ethics. You can reject biblical literalism and still find Scripture sacred. You can center disability justice in your theology and discover that accessibility isn’t just practical—it’s deeply theological.

Progressive Christianity isn’t “Christianity lite” or “faith for people who can’t handle the real thing.” In many understandings, it’s faith that takes the life and teachings of Jesus seriously enough to ask what radical love, inclusion, and justice actually look like in practice.

The Grief Is Holy

Here’s something I wish someone had said to me earlier: you’re allowed to grieve.

Grieve the certainty you once had. Grieve the community you’re leaving. Grieve the version of God you’re releasing. Grieve the sense of belonging that came with staying silent.

That grief doesn’t mean you’re making a mistake. It means you loved something, and now you’re choosing something different. Both the loving and the leaving can be sacred.

Let yourself feel it. Cry when you need to. Rage when that’s what’s present. Then, when you’re ready, open your hands and see what new thing the Spirit might place there.

You Get to Rebuild Differently

The most surprising gift of deconstruction? You get to choose what comes next.

You can craft a theology centered on love instead of fear. You can build spiritual practices that honor your body instead of treating it as something to transcend. You can choose communities that celebrate your questions instead of silencing them.

You get to ask: What if God is bigger than gender? What if sacred texts can be inspired without being inerrant? What if disability isn’t a punishment or a test but simply part of human diversity? What if the kindom of God is about justice and inclusion right here, right now?

One way of seeing this: deconstruction gives you permission to construct a faith that actually fits the person you’re becoming.

What I’d Tell My Younger Self

If I could go back to that night when I first Googled my doubts, here’s what I’d say:

You’re not broken. You’re not backsliding. You’re not losing your faith—you’re finding a faith that’s actually yours.

The questions won’t destroy you. The honesty won’t damn you. The journey will be harder than you expect and more beautiful than you can imagine.

You’ll lose things that mattered. You’ll also discover things you didn’t know you needed.

And five years from now, you’ll look back at this moment and realize: this was when you finally started breathing.

Your Turn

If you’re in the middle of deconstruction right now, I see you. I know it’s disorienting and exciting and terrifying all at once.

What do you wish someone had told you at the beginning of your journey? What surprised you most? What question are you sitting with right now?

You don’t have to have answers. Sometimes the questions are enough.

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Grace and peace,

P.S. If you’re looking for community on this journey, my weekly newsletter dives deeper into progressive theology, disability justice, and the intersection of ancient faith and modern life. You can subscribe at [YourWebsite.com]. No pressure. No judgment. Just honest exploration.