It all began with a comment on one of the best blogs I follow. We engaged in a back-and-forth discussion, and I was taken aback by the blogger’s unwavering belief in God. Not the casual kind of belief that wavers in the face of hardship, but a solid, unshakable faith that seemed immune to doubt. That conversation unsettled me—not because I disagreed, but because it forced me to confront a question I had avoided for years.

Did I ever truly believe in God? Or was my faith like an old coat passed down through generations—worn because it was given, not because it fit?

As a child, belief wasn’t presented as an option—it was an instruction. The existence of God was as unquestionable as gravity, as inevitable as the sunrise. God was omnipotent, omniscient, and omnipresent. He rewarded the righteous and punished the wicked. To disbelieve was not just wrong; it was dangerous. Faith wasn’t a path I chose; it was a road I was placed on, with no signposts to question where it led.

But something never sat right with me. While others seemed to embrace faith like a warm hearth in winter, mine always had a cold, metallic edge. It was obligation, not devotion. My prayers weren’t whispered conversations with the divine; they were desperate SOS signals, sent out of fear. I didn’t love God. I feared Him.

Yet, life has a way of throwing contradictions in your face. I have seen moments that felt too precise, too intricately timed, to be mere coincidence. When I lost hope, when all logical outcomes pointed to failure, something—some force—intervened. And in those moments, I felt a presence. Not a voice, not a figure in the clouds, but something beyond explanation. Was that God? Or was it just the mind’s way of assigning meaning to randomness?

And then there are people. I have seen godliness in them—not in the ritualistic sense, but in the way they extend kindness with no expectation of return. In my darkest moments, strangers have lifted me when I thought I would crumble. And I wonder: if God exists, is He a being, or is He simply the collective goodness of humanity?

But this belief—this fragile, conditional belief—collides head-on with the brutal reality of suffering. I have seen innocence punished, cruelty rewarded, justice trampled. The idea of a just God wavers when you witness the randomness of pain. If there is divine justice, why does it operate with such agonizing inconsistency? There is an old saying: “If you do wrong, the king will kill you instantly. But God—He will break you slowly, piece by piece, until you beg for death.” That aligns well with karma, but reality often defies even karma. Evil men thrive. Good people perish. Where is the grand equation in that?

And then there’s my own hypocrisy—because when I suffer, I still call out to God. When pain grips me, I plead for divine intervention. But once the storm passes, I slip back into indifference. God, for me, is not a constant presence but an emergency exit. He exists only in my suffering.

So now, I face the question I’ve long avoided: Am I a believer, or am I an atheist?

I do not know. I exist in the gray space between conviction and skepticism. Some days, I lean toward faith, sensing an unseen order in the universe. Other days, I see only chaos, indifferent and cold.

Perhaps belief is not a rigid structure but a shifting tide, rising and receding with experience. Perhaps God is not a figure watching from above but a reflection of our hopes, fears, and unanswered questions. Or perhaps there is no God at all, and we simply project meaning onto an indifferent cosmos because the alternative—true randomness—is too terrifying to bear.

I may never have an answer. But maybe that’s the point.

Maybe faith isn’t a solid ground, but the act of walking in the fog—unsure of the next step, yet moving forward anyway.