THE SHAPE OF BELIEF

ABSURDITY OF FIXED BELIEF

A reflection on faith, mystery, and what it means to arrive within

When I first saw the reversed cross lying on a table at a curiosity fair, something inside me shifted. I was drawn to it instantly — not out of rebellion, and not because I reject belief or seek comfort in darkness. I wanted it not as a symbol of denial, but as a representation of something deeper, more complicated. It wasn’t about rejecting faith — it was about reclaiming it on my own terms.

I’ve always believed in something. I just didn’t always know what that something was.

I was raised Catholic, in a Poland where faith wasn’t an individual experience — it was a daily ritual, woven into the culture and identity of life itself. Church was not a place you visited, but a structure that shaped your entire existence. Still, even as a child, I questioned what I was told. The concept of a loving but punishing God never sat right with me. Heaven and hell, the binary of good and evil, the fear-based approach to morality — it all felt like a story designed to contain something far greater than it could explain.

My uncle was a theologian, and for years he tried to guide me through the traditional answers. We spent hours in discussion. But no matter how convincing his arguments, I always felt that the truth was bigger than doctrine. The questions I carried weren’t defiance — they were hunger. I wasn’t looking to destroy belief, I was searching for something vast enough to hold mine.

Over the years, I wandered through different belief systems. I looked into spirituality, read about philosophies, explored traditions and religions in search of something that felt like home. But every answer led to more questions. For every certainty, there was a counterpoint. Every truth felt temporary. I began to realize that this endless search was rooted in something very human — the desire to feel safe, to feel like we belong somewhere, and to make sense of what comes after all of this.

I live in a country now where even official documents ask you to declare your religion. A small checkbox meant to summarize something so deeply personal, so complex, so sacred. But belief doesn’t belong in checkboxes. It’s not a declaration we owe anyone. It’s a quiet, private thing. A space within ourselves. And that’s where it belongs.

For a long time, I didn’t know how to define my own belief. I knew I believed in something, but I couldn’t name it. Until I realized — that something was the mystery itself. The unknowable. The invisible thread that runs through everything. I’ve stopped needing solid answers. I’ve stopped needing one system to explain it all. Instead, I find peace in not knowing.

There’s a quote by Socrates that has always stayed with me: “I know that I know nothing.” And that, I think, is the only true wisdom we ever really attain. The only real freedom. Whether you're religious, spiritual, scientific, or something in between — we all come to the same edge of the unknowable. And it’s there, in that quiet space, where belief really begins.

I no longer search for one absolute truth. I take with me what feels true from different places. The compassion of Buddhism. The ritual of Catholicism. The poetry of Sufi mysticism. The logic of Stoicism. I’ve created my own small religion, one that teaches me how to live fully and die without fear. I don’t pray for forgiveness from an external god — I try to forgive myself and those around me, every day. I try to be good, not for reward, but because it feels right. I no longer fear the unknown. I don’t need certainty about what comes after this life. I’m not afraid of death. Because if it’s the end, then let it be quiet. And if it’s not — then I’ll find out in time.

What we call truth today may not be truth tomorrow. The world was once a disc — now it is round. And so it is with the answers to the great questions. What feels certain now may one day be untrue. Truth is a moving shape, and we are always catching up to it.

This is the closest I’ve ever come to peace with belief. Not in answers, but in the acceptance of not needing them.

“Believe those who are seeking the truth. Doubt those who find it.”

– André Gide

AND YOU — do you believe because you know, or because you hope?