Honestly, Sandie

Okay, so I am driving to work this morning listening to a playlist I made in 2023 called Songs That Translate, which honestly says way too much about me.

Because if I cannot figure out what I feel, apparently I outsource it to music.

I made the playlist during… well, that season. And I added to it pretty aggressively back then because I think I was trying to survive myself, survive faith, survive grief, survive confusion, survive becoming. You know. Casual things.

I still add to it every now and then, but not like I did in 2023 and maybe into 2024.

And this morning, Oceans came on.

Not the original one. A slower version. Strings. Piano. Sad girl soundtrack energy in the best possible way. Somehow deeper than the original, which I honestly did not know was possible because that song already takes me places.

And listen… I know people have feelings about Oceans.

I remember back when I had enough pull to suggest worship songs for weekend sets, mentioning it and hearing another leader be like:

“Oh God, please no. I hate that song.”

And I remember thinking:

Girl… WHAT?

Because that song was the song for me.

That was the shower song.

The crying song.

The “I don’t know where the hell life is going but I am trying to trust something” song.

The song I put on when things felt uncertain or painful or when I felt like I was standing somewhere where my feet absolutely could not touch and I was trying not to drown.

Back then, I understood it through church language.

Faith.

Trust.

Deep waters.

God growing you.

All the things.

And honestly? Some of that still feels true.

But now I hear it differently.

Because one thing nobody prepared me for after leaving church is how many pieces of myself I would slowly get back.

Not faith.

Myself.

And yes, before anybody freaks out, I know those things overlap sometimes. Calm down.

Anyway.

Funny thing happened while I was getting ready this morning. Before Oceans even came on, I found myself spiraling in the bathroom mirror, as one does, thinking:

If somebody gave me a magic wand and said, “Okay Sandie, what do you want back?” what would I ask for?

And sure, for like half a second I was like:

Honestly? Give me every dollar back.

Every tithe.

Every camp donation.

Every offering.

Every “God told us to give sacrificially” season.

Hand it over 😂

But then I sat with it for a minute and realized… no.

Not really.

Money feels weirdly small compared to the things I actually miss.

I want my integrity back.

I want the feeling of not being painted like fools.

I want friendships back.

I want time with my kids back.

And before anyone jumps in with “but you did the best you could” or “God used it” or “you are still a good mom” or whatever version of spiritual optimism we like to throw around…

I know.

I know.

Two things can be true.

Healing and grief.

Freedom and sadness.

Growth and anger.

Gratitude and loss.

And this is the part I have not talked about much yet.

Somewhere in early 2023, Alex and I both felt, at the exact same time, that we needed to stop tithing.

No dramatic rebellion.

No giant speech.

No “screw this church” energy.

Just this really quiet knowing of:

Hey… this no longer feels right.

Our lives were unraveling.

Things were not lining up.

And somewhere inside both of us, at the exact same time, it felt like:

We need to stop this part.

And if you ask certain church leaders, I am pretty sure they would tell you that was our flesh talking.

The enemy.

Pride.

Disobedience.

Whatever.

But looking back?

I think it was wisdom.

I think sometimes spirit sounds less like performance and more like honesty.

And what is wild is when we stopped, it felt like footholds started appearing.

Not easy things.

Hard things.

Scary things.

Painful things.

But now when I look back, it weirdly feels like a ladder.

Like somehow, all the terrible things became the way out.

Okay wait.

I totally lost my train of thought.

This is why I am a writer. My brain has 47 tabs open at all times and somehow they are all emotionally connected.

OH. Right.

Yesterday I wrote IDGAF.

And honestly? It scared me a little.

Which probably means I should post it because every meaningful thing I write scares me at least a little.

And then I started wondering what comes next and somehow landed back at this whole idea of:

What do I actually want back?

And maybe leaving religion feels a little like that old Rascal Flatts song Backwards.

You know the one.

Play a country song backwards and you get your dog back, your truck back, your house back, your best friend back.

Honestly? Leaving church kind of feels like that sometimes.

Not because everything magically returns.

But because little by little, pieces of yourself do.

Wonder.

Curiosity.

Rest.

Time.

Perspective.

Your voice.

The ability to trust your own gut again.

The freedom to ask hard questions.

The courage to stop performing and start becoming.

And maybe that is what Oceans sounds like to me now.

Not drowning.

Not proving.

Not becoming smaller.

Just standing in deeper water and realizing maybe faith was never about losing myself.

Maybe it was finally about finding her.