“Are you there God? It’s me, Margaret. I’ve been to church. I didn’t feel anything special in there God. Even though I wanted to. I’m sure it has nothing to do with you.” ― Judy Blume, Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret
I first read Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret at nine years old, and it felt like someone had cracked open my heart and put it on the page. Like Margaret, I had questions about God. But unlike her, I never felt like I was talking to a stranger. God was always there—listening, patient, present. Not something to be chased, but someone I was always in quiet conversation with.
I grew up in the rhythms of the Catholic Church. By eight, I could recite the entire Mass and often stood in our living room pretending to read the gospel from my white prayer book. Even then, I sensed God wasn’t confined to a church—and I never believed one religion held all the truth. I went to VBS at the Lutheran church, youth group at the Methodist church, and had my “altar call” outside of Catholicism.
Still, I loved being Catholic. I didn’t know why at the time, but I think it was the tradition—the rhythm and structure of the Mass felt grounding to me, even as others poked fun at “stand, sit, kneel, repeat.” There was something holy in the ritual.
At 17, I taught Sunday school, preparing sixth graders for confirmation. It was the first time I remember God speaking through me, showing me part of my purpose. I still keep the handcrafted bookmarks they made tucked into the Bible I used then—a small, sacred reminder of that early faith.
But life moved on, and so did I. My marriage wasn’t against church—just indifferent—and over time, that indifference seeped into me. Church became an occasional event, but my dialogue with God never stopped. I still whispered prayers into the dark, still found peace on long drives alone.
When my boys were young, I tried returning to church through a vibrant non-denominational community. The energy was high, the music uplifting—but something didn’t sit right. The teachings felt narrow, the tone exclusionary. I quietly drifted away again.
Years later, as a yoga teacher, I was invited to teach at a Catholic church. I began weaving scripture with yoga philosophy—grounding my classes in the teachings of Jesus. I was writing daily meditations, and once again, God showed me part of my purpose.
During that season, I also began absorbing Buddhist teachings almost by osmosis—through movement, meditation, and a growing hunger for deeper truth. It fit my philosophical mind and felt like a quiet recognition of a path I’d already begun walking as a child.
The first book I read on Buddhism was Buddhist Bootcamp by Timber Hawkeye. It was a little mainstream—Buddhism for Dummies, almost—but one quote continues to guide my life:
“The opposite of what you know is also true.”
Timber writes, “No matter how certain we are of our version of the truth, we must humbly accept the possibility that someone who believes the exact opposite could also be right... This is the key to forgiveness, patience, and understanding.”
Reading that affirmed what I’d always felt: my Catholic upbringing didn’t make my faith better than anyone else’s. I’ve always believed we’re all children of God—each inherently good. But I also saw how some religions boxed God in, using fear and exclusion to protect their platforms.
That quote helped me walk my spiritual path with more clarity. I’ve learned to take what speaks to my soul and leave what doesn’t. I don’t need to agree with every part of a belief system to feel connected to God.
As I studied more, I learned that Buddhist philosophy isn’t about worship, but about a way of being. It affirmed what I already sensed: a spiritual life centered in presence and compassion.
In Living Buddha, Living Christ, Thich Nhat Hanh’s gentle way of bridging faith traditions affirmed something I had long felt: truth is bigger than any one religion.
He states, “The teaching of living happily in the present moment can be found in the teaching of Jesus Christ... 'There will be a day when you will see that I am in my Father and you are in me and I am in you.' That is the teaching of interbeing... There are many of us who practice according to the teachings of Jesus and the Buddha and do not find any conflict. And that is very good for the cause of peace and unity and harmony in the world.”
I felt something soften inside. It was like being given permission to trust what my heart had always known: that love is greater than any one language of faith, that God cannot be boxed, and that living with presence, peace, and compassion transcends all labels.
People often assumed they knew where I stood in my faith, but I usually surprised them. I have a cross on the wall, a Buddha on the shelf, prayer beads in my hand each morning, and a Bible worn soft with use. Some weeks I go to Mass on Saturday and Buddhist meditation on Sunday. I see the parallels across faiths and philosophies—and that keeps me both humble and open.
For a long time, I kept this private—not out of shame, but to avoid the burden of explaining myself. Letting others assume was easier than untangling their misunderstandings.
But now I see: this was another way I had “tucked the fringe”—folding in something sacred to be more easily understood, more acceptable.
God never asked me to hide.
Every prayer from childhood, every spiritual widening, every sacred conversation in the dark was preparing me—to share, to bridge, to speak for those whose faith stretches beyond walls and doctrines.
The little girl who once talked to God late into the night never stopped--
She just learned new languages through breath, silence, presence, scripture, story.

Are you there, God?
It’s me.
Still me.
Finally, fully me.
 

There’s a moment in healing that feels like standing at the edge of a cliff — unsure whether you’re about to fall or finally learn to fly. For me, that moment came quietly, during a Sunday meditation practice.
We had just settled into our heart practice when Victor, our Sunday meditation teacher, gently guided us: “I invite you to send Metta to the Universe.” He continued, “Now, bring to mind a difficult person in your life—someone who has caused you pain or suffering. Maybe a boss, a former spouse, or even a political figure. Hold them in your awareness and send them Metta. ‘May you be filled with loving kindness. May you be safe from inner and outer dangers. May you be well in body and mind. May you be at ease and happy.’”
I had been practicing Metta for several years, but that day was different. It was time to let go with love—to send Metta to someone who had never apologized to me, someone who didn’t even know the full extent of their impact. As I pictured them in the screen of my mind, tears began to fall. With each phrase, I saw them not as the source of my pain, but as someone who also deserved loving kindness. Someone who had suffered long enough. Someone I truly hoped had finally found peace. And with that realization, something softened in me — not just toward them, but toward myself.
There are many ways we learn to "tuck the fringe"—to hide, to minimize, to bend so we won’t break. I learned it at a young age through conditioning, in friendships, later in love, and often with those who said they cared for me the most. Letting go with love meant finally recognizing the pattern: not just walking away from people who hurt me, but releasing the bitterness — and the belief that I needed their approval to be whole.
I’d like to tell you this happened swiftly, but if you’ve read this far, you know that’s not true. It unfolded slowly, over years of shedding old skin and sitting with uncomfortable truths. But that one Sunday, something shifted. As much as I had been working on healing, it was in that moment my understanding came full circle. I wasn’t condoning — I was releasing. And with that, the burden lifted.
Letting go of toxic people doesn’t have to come from bitterness or anger. In fact, the most powerful way to release someone is with compassion. It’s the shift from asking, “How could they treat me like that?” to understanding, “Their behavior says more about their pain than it does about me.”
Letting go with love wasn’t a straight path. It was scattered—more than this methodical thinker liked to admit. But the turning point came when I realized it had to begin with me. I had spent years trying to fix what was broken around me, hoping it might soothe the ache inside. But I couldn’t offer to others what I hadn’t yet given myself. I had to meet myself exactly where I was — even in the moments when I was still tucked in and afraid to be fully seen. I had to sit with the parts of me still hurting and offer them compassion, not judgment. Only then could I begin to loosen the grip of resentment — first toward myself, then toward those who had hurt me. It was slow, stubborn, and humbling. But in time, one question surfaced and stayed:
Are you bitter, or are you better?
Closure, on my terms.
No one else can give you closure. I wanted to explain my hurt, to hear an apology — but that wasn’t possible. Closure had to come from within. Over time, I realized that living without healing — without closure — becomes a kind of violence against the heart. It keeps old wounds open. It keeps the ache alive. Sending Metta became my way of breaking that cycle — sending love into the universe, whether or not they ever received it.

Letting go with love is the ultimate act of self-respect. It says:
I choose my peace over my pride. I choose my growth over my grudges.
And that’s a choice worth making — every time.
And so, I continue the practice.
Sending Metta.
Sending love.
Choosing peace, again and again.
And again.
​
Reflection ~
Think of someone from your past or present who has caused you pain — someone who may never offer an apology or acknowledgment.
What would it feel like to release the grip of resentment, not for them, but for your own peace?
Can you offer yourself compassion for how long you've carried it, and imagine what it might feel like to let it go — with love?