I Left Religion But Sunday Mornings Still Made Me Sick—Here's What Finally Healed It

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The Knot That Stayed

I remember my first Sunday morning after leaving the church. I thought I'd wake up free, but instead, there was this knot in my stomach at 10:30 a.m.—right when the service would begin.

Even in my own home, wearing mismatched pajamas, I felt guilty. That old programming ran so deep: "Don't be late. Wear something modest. Smile and serve. Act like everything is fine."

But I wasn't fine. I was exhausted from pretending, from carrying guilt that wrapped around everything I did or didn't do, from the fear that even questioning made me unworthy.

The wildest part? I thought leaving would automatically mean freedom. Instead, I found myself tiptoeing through Sundays for months, that familiar ache blooming in my chest like clockwork.

One morning, desperate to understand what I was grieving, I watched a service on TV. I sobbed—not from shame, but from recognizing my deep longing to belong. To be part of something bigger. To matter.

The Morning Everything Changed

Healing that Sunday-morning-feeling took time and such tender presence with myself. It required re-teaching my nervous system what safety actually felt like.

Then one morning, without fanfare or announcement, it happened: I woke up on a Sunday and felt... peaceful.

I made coffee with cinnamon and real cream, sat on my porch in those same mismatched pajamas, and talked to my plants like old friends. For the first time in decades, I felt nothing pulling me to be anywhere I wasn't.

No pressure. No punishment. No shame.

Just my own sacred presence, communing with the morning light filtering through leaves.

That moment didn't come from someone else's permission. It came from me deciding I no longer needed to perform holiness to know I was already whole.

A Gentle Grounding Practice: Coming Home to the Present

When the past tries to pull you back, try this nervous system reset:

Pause wherever you are. Let your eyes slowly sweep the space around you—colors, shapes, light. Turn your head gently, like a deer sensing safety.

Notice four things you can see. Then, close your eyes. Notice three sounds you can hear. Feel where your body meets whatever is supporting you. What can you smell? Taste?

Whisper to yourself: "I am here. This is now. I am safe."

This is how we call our nervous system home from exile—one breath of presence at a time.

The Truth I Hold For You

This is how healing happens—not by pretending the hurt wasn't real, but by choosing not to repeat patterns that no longer serve when you have the power to choose differently.

If Sunday mornings carry weight for you, know this: You're so deeply not alone. And you don't have to carry that weight forever.

There's no wrong way to rebuild your rhythm with life. There's only your way, and it's perfect because it's yours.

I'm walking beside you in this unbecoming and becoming, barefoot and coffee in hand, believing in your beautiful, wild wholeness.

With infinite love and knowing,
Debby

Ready to dive deeper into these conversations about healing, reclaiming your power, and trusting your inner wisdom? Join our sacred circle of souls in Mystical Meadows on Facebook—a private space where we explore the magic of becoming who we truly are, beyond the stories that once defined us. Come as you are. You belong here.

The Next Spiral:

My 3 favorite tools for when the past hits hard

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