I don’t believe in God anymore.
It’s not a crisis. It’s a clarity. And it took me fifty-three years, a diagnosis that was supposed to kill me by five, and a brain that refuses to stop questioning how I got here.
For most of my life, I negotiated with God. Struck deals. Prayed during CF exacerbations. Promised to be better, do better, live better, if only I could breathe without drowning. If only my pancreas would work. If only I’d get more time.
God never answered. Medicine did. Science did. My own determination did.
And recently I realized: I’ve been asking the wrong question. Instead of being angry with God for all the suffering and abhorrent treatment of innocent humans, cancer in children, tsunamis that take 100,000’s of lives and other unexplained atrocities, I decided that if there were a God, he would not allow what he has allowed. That evil would not wipe out all the good in the world. If there is a God, where is he, while the world falls into an abyss of death and destruction?
Evolution Explains the Design
We’re taught that the complexity of life requires a designer. The intricate machinery of the human body proves divine creation. That we’re too perfect to be accidents.
Here’s what that misses: We’re not perfect. We’re adapted.
Evolution isn’t about perfection—it’s about survival. Organisms that survive long enough to reproduce pass their genes forward. The ones that don’t die out. Over millions of years, this creates complexity that looks designed because the failures disappeared. But let’s look closer. Look at my body. I have cystic fibrosis because my CFTR gene is defective. It’s broken. A “perfectly designed” human wouldn’t have genetic diseases. A “perfectly designed” human wouldn’t have an appendix that serves no function. A “perfectly designed” human wouldn’t be born with sickle cell disease or cystic fibrosis.
We’re not perfect. We’re successful. There’s a difference.
And here’s the thing: I fixed what God couldn’t.
My lungs don’t work the way they’re “supposed” to. The thick mucus that CF produces would have killed me by now without intervention. So I invented ways to clear it. Science developed enzymes, antibiotics, and airway clearance techniques. We extended my life not through prayer, but through science. Through observation. Through human ingenuity refusing to accept what nature handed us. Treatments improved, extending life expectancy. But I had to do a lot of work. I had to maintain a military-style routine. No deviations, or I would pay the price. I had to incorporate exercise, not because I wanted to, but because I had to.
Medicine is what keeps me alive. Determination is what makes me functional. My own choice to fight is what creates my future. Where is God in that equation?
The Two Races
When you have a diagnosis like mine, you become aware of your mortality in a way most people aren’t. And for years, that awareness drove me into a frenzy.
Race #1: Do Everything Before I Die
Get the degrees. Start the business. Build the foundation. Travel. Fall in love. Accomplish. Accomplish. Accomplish. Every moment felt like it could be the last, so every moment had to be productive. Had to matter. Had to count.
It was exhausting. It was also coming from a place of fear—fear that if I didn’t do enough, my life wouldn’t have been worth the struggle to keep it going.
Race #2: Find Meaning While I’m Alive
When I got access to Trikafta, the drug that helps make my defective gene work better, I was bewildered. I was in shock at how well it worked, how well I felt, how easy the mucous came out of my lungs. I stopped feeling like I was drowning. Then I became very lost. My entire life was spent planning for my death. I would never plan more than 6 months in advance, because I wasn’t sure I would be alive. So, in the last few years, the question shifted. It’s no longer “What can I accomplish before I die?” It’s “What am I actually trying to say? What do I actually stand for? Why does any of this matter?” And here’s the profound part: that question only makes sense if no God is handing me the answer.
If God exists, your purpose is predetermined. You’re fulfilling a divine plan. Your meaning comes from outside you—from scripture, doctrine, authority. You’re following instructions that were written long before you were born. But if God doesn’t exist? Then you have to create your own meaning. And that’s either the most terrifying thing or the most liberating thing, depending on how you look at it.
I am choosing liberation.
What Replaces God
The question people ask when you stop believing is always: “But then what? What gives you purpose? What makes you moral? What happens when you die?” They’re afraid of the answer. They think it’s emptiness.
It’s not.
Science replaces God. Not as a deity—as a method. The honest observation of reality. The willingness to follow evidence where it leads, even when it’s uncomfortable. Evolution doesn’t need an architect because physics explains it. My body doesn’t need a creator because genetics explains it. The universe doesn’t need a prime mover because causality explains it.
Medicine replaces God. Not as a saviour—as a practice. The application of knowledge to reduce suffering. When I’m sick, I don’t pray. I take enzymes. I do airway clearance. I see a pulmonologist. Humans figured out how to keep me alive. Humans will figure out how to keep me alive longer. That’s not divine—it’s human. And it’s so much more powerful.
Determination replaces God. The refusal to accept what the universe hands you. My CF diagnosis was supposed to end me. I’m still here. Still fighting. Still refusing. Not because God gave me strength—because I chose strength. Every day. Every breath. Every decision to keep going despite the odds. That’s agency. That’s power.
And purpose? I create that. You create that. We create that.
My purpose isn’t to fulfill a divine plan. It’s to do good. To build things that matter. To use my platform and my brain and my lived experience to help people think more clearly, live more fiercely, and refuse to settle for less than they deserve. I’m not doing it because God commands it. I’m doing it because I choose it. Because it aligns with who I am. Because the world needs people who won’t look away from hard truths.
And you know what? That purpose feels infinitely more real than anything a church ever taught me.
The Honest Choice
I know this won’t sit well with everyone. Faith is comforting. The idea that someone is in control, that there’s a plan, that everything happens for a reason—it’s beautiful. It’s peaceful. I used to say, ‘let go let God’. That’s preposterous. We have to trust in ourselves that we will be okay. That we have the strength to handle whatever comes our way. We have to have faith in ourselves.
I’m not here to convince you to stop believing. I’m here to say: I can’t believe anymore. Not honestly.
And I’m happier for it.
Because now I know that my life is my responsibility. My meaning is my creation. My purpose is my choice. The universe doesn’t care about me—and that means everything I accomplish is mine. Every breath I take beyond what CF should have allowed is a victory I fought for. Every person I help, I helped because I decided to. Every boundary I set, every standard I hold, every fierce thing I am—that’s all me. Not a deity. Not a plan. Not destiny.
Just me. Conscious. Choosing. Creating meaning in an indifferent universe.
If that’s not worth living for, I don’t know what is.
If anything I have confessed or created resonated, please let me know