Just a heads up: This post includes descriptions of ableism. 

Between the ages of nine and fifteen, the Presbyterian church tried to turn me into a respectable Christian young lady. They failed miserably on all counts, but they inadvertently prepared me to be the atheist activist I am today.

I spent a lot of time at church growing up. On Sundays, I sipped fruit punch after service, watching adults sit around around plastic tables and bond over suburban struggles. During weekend youth retreats, I crawled through rocky creek beds, waking up to sore arms and sermons. And every week, I attended Mission Mondays — a program designed to instill the importance of service into teens and preteens. 

Each week, we had a different mission. One week, our Christian education teacher read us Genesis verses about being stewards of the Earth on the bus on the way to a wildlife rescue where we would build houses for injured owls. A few months later, I sorted clothes at a women’s shelter while learning about the struggles of new mothers. And when there was nothing else to do, I soaked the church’s nursery toys in bleach. I didn’t bother with gloves. I wanted to feel the sting of service long after the evening meal. 

I loved it all. But when it was time for me to be confirmed and made an official member of the church, I refused. I loved my sponsors, both of whom were wise, older women. But I had stopped believing. Congregation members told me that God made me disabled “for a reason.” And that reason was clear: I existed to inspire them. One congregation member informed me that I helped him “move on from [his] mother’s death” every time I limped through the sanctuary. For the middle school Easter reenactment, I was dressed as an angel, given no lines, and made to walk in front of the entire congregation as they all clapped. I was the invisible child everybody stared at. 

Back then, I didn’t know what ableism or inspiration porn was. (Side note: I don’t actually like the term “inspiration porn.” It stigmatizes sex work.) My parents told me that people treated me differently because they assumed I had an intellectual disability. I brought my Honors Chemistry homework to church. It made no difference. I was never going to be a real member of the church even if I were confirmed. Members were meaningful voices in the community. My voice was too disabled to be heard.

My remaining Christian faith eroded throughout high school. I learned enough science to fill the void god occupied. I experienced the horrors of puberty and realized that I wasn’t going to grow to be the strong woman my mother imagined. Stella Young’s Ted Talk gave me the social model of disability and the church member’s behavior seemed far more appalling. I grew to love my twisted, spastic, queer, little body, and the godless world I lived in. 

Yet, my Christian upbringing still grounds me. I believe, and take great pleasure in, building my life around serving others. I am eager to pour 100 hours per week into advocating for racial, economic, and climate justice. I understand the framework of an enduring faith community and utilize this knowledge to collectively build a loving, resilient activism community. I inspire others, not by being disabled, but by fighting for liberation in an ableist world. 

In January 2020, Mylo reached out to me about helping them lead From the Ground Up because I could manage a budget and write articles. They wanted to build a community that advocated for justice and did so without becoming miserable. I was unemployed, broke, and directionless. I hated all of my 148595837570 potential career plans. But I suddenly saw the light the Christians talk about. Even two months before the pandemic, my struggles and the world’s problems seemed insurmountable. Yet, here was this flawed, ordinary person trying to make a difference. They believed, with far more conviction than many Christians, that the fight for goodness was worth it. I couldn’t resist the temptation to join.

I did not lose my faith when I became an atheist. I will stay up all night writing blog posts, spend hours every week with community members on Discord, research nonprofit fundraising until the librarian runs out of resource suggestions, and create joy every day. I don’t believe that a god will save us from the climate crisis, economic inequality, nor any of the other problems threatening our existence. I have faith that we will save ourselves.