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After a lifetime of inner deliberation, quiet discomfort, and countless soul-searching moments, I believe I’ve finally found the words to describe the faith I’ve lived—even when I couldn’t name it.

I was born and raised in Africa, under the shelter and structure of Christian values. Like many children, I inherited belief before understanding. I absorbed rituals, scriptures, and morality tales, not through inquiry, but through repetition. The questions I had—about contradictions, suffering, and exclusivity—were buried under the weight of tradition and the fear of offending the sacred.

Challenging religious teachings as a child was simply not an option. Respect meant silence. Doubt was interpreted as rebellion. Even as an adult, the landscape rarely changed. Rational discussion about faith often felt like trespassing onto sacred ground. I encountered people of deep conviction and others of equal confusion—many clinging to inherited dogma, others angrily rejecting it, and a few who simply drifted.

I wrestled. Not with God, but with the frameworks men built around Him. I saw the beauty in faith—its capacity to heal, to connect, to give hope—but I also saw its power to exclude, shame, and divide. My heart longed for something true, something that didn’t require blind acceptance or tribal loyalty.

My Religion, If It Must Be Named

And so, after all these years, if I were to put words to what has quietly guided me through life, they would be these: I live with gratitude and act with benevolence.

That’s it. That’s my creed. Gratitude—not just as an emotion, but as a posture of the soul. An acknowledgement of the gift of life, of breath, of time, of family, of opportunity. And benevolence—not just kindness, but a commitment to do good, to be good, to leave things better than I found them.

I’m not sure where this fits—between religion, spirituality, philosophy, or just plain common sense. But what I do know is that these two principles have been my compass. They have steered me more than scripture ever could, and they have spoken louder than sermons ever did.

Beyond Labels

Some will say this is spiritual. Others may call it secular humanism in disguise. A few might argue it’s not enough without ritual or belief in a defined deity. But I am no longer interested in winning debates about faith. I’m more interested in living it.

In fact, I now see belief not as a set of declarations, but as a lived experience. Gratitude as my daily prayer. Benevolence as my Sunday service. My children don’t need to memorise creeds to know what I value. They see it in how I treat others, how I recover from mistakes, how I give without expecting a return.

I do not wish to impose this on them or anyone else. I only wish to model it. To show that a life grounded in appreciation and goodwill can be just as sacred as any life grounded in doctrine.

Passing the Torch

What I am passing on to my children, then, is not a religion in the conventional sense. It is a rhythm. A rhythm of the heart and of the hands. Wake up grateful. Go to bed having done good. This is the foundation I offer them—not to restrict their spiritual journeys, but to ground them.

If they choose to follow a religion one day, may they do so with love, not fear. May they ask questions freely and seek truth courageously. And if they choose none, may they still live with reverence for life and responsibility toward others.

Conclusion: Let Each Soul Decide

So, yes—the jury is finally out. I’ve stopped searching for the perfect label and started living the imperfect truth. And that truth is simple, though not always easy:

Live with gratitude. Act with benevolence.

That’s the only religion I’ve ever needed.

And if it guides my children, and anyone who walks a while beside me, then I will have done my part.