Today was my first non-Easter. The day was quiet and happy – brunch with a couple of friends followed by some spring cleaning and a nice nap. Just a pleasant, normal Sunday.

The ordinariness of the day really struck me when I thought about past Easters, especially last year’s holiday.

When I remember Easters from when I was younger, I remember them being happy events where my siblings and I would get up and open our Easter baskets, eat tons of candy and hunt for hidden eggs and eventually go to church. I always used to tell myself that I was really excited about going to church, since that was the most important part of the day.

In truth, going to Mass felt like an inconvenience. My parents always included new movies and magazines in our Easter baskets and I would have much rather spent time reading or watching a movie than having to get all dressed up and sit through a service. But it would have been a sin to say that.

I even used to tell myself that Easter was my favorite holiday. I felt obligated to say that since Easter is supposed to be more important than Christmas. Halloween and Christmas were without a doubt more exciting, for obvious reasons, but I was trying to be a good Catholic girl.

When I got older, my dedication to being Catholic intensified and I became insistent about going to Easter Mass and even to seeing the stations of the cross on Good Friday. I would reprimand my little sister if she complained about having to go to church on Easter morning, even though she was just expressing the thoughts I had kept to myself as a child.

Last Easter was probably my most devout. Ironically enough, that was two months before I accepted that there is no god and became an atheist. This was a battle that had been going on inside of me for months, although I spent most of that time trying to suppress and explain away the increasing sense of uncertainty I had about Catholicism and the existence of God.

Challenged on the subject by a friend of mine, I was trying to address real questions and criticisms of religion for the first time in my life. This became deeply personal and I was terrified. I was trying to be honest about why I was a believer but couldn’t give any real answers aside from “this is how I was raised so it’s right” and “I just know.”

For months, the doubt grew but I kept it locked up and became more religious than I had ever been before. I prayed the rosary, attended Mass regularly, joined a Bible study group and prayed over Bible quotes and reflections almost every night. By Lent, I desperately tried to tell myself that I was really at peace and trusted God’s plan for me, regardless of my personal misery at the time.

Don’t get me wrong, there were a lot of good things going on around that time, too. But my spiritual life was in turmoil and I was very scared. I didn’t tell anyone what I was thinking or feeling about this. Looking back, I’m ashamed at how pious I made myself out to be to my friends and family. On some levels I really still believed but there was a serious doubt and frustration that I refused to access until later on.

I remember last year especially, I always tried to be especially reverent and “close to God” on Easter. I really willed myself to feel a deep, happy spiritual connection that deep down, I knew wasn’t there. I wasn’t connecting to anyone, it was just a story I was writing in my head. I reflected on this today and could actually feel the amount of emotional pressure I had put into the attempt to make last Easter a really important spiritual day.  Really, Easter Sunday never felt that different from any other day, but I haven’t been able to admit that until very recently.

Last Easter now seems to me like my last stand as a Catholic, and as a believer in general. I continued to go to Mass for about two months after that but eventually, it all fell apart. I never regained the ability to “feel close” to God. Going to Mass had once been a calming experience, but toward the end of last spring, I would leave feeling anxious and emotionally out of control.

I prayed to God to reach out to me, to let me know he was there, and I felt nothing. I’m sure I told myself that Jesus was with me and I’d feel God’s presence again soon, but it was over. It took a little while to admit it but somewhere along the way, I stopped believing. I knew it wasn’t real and I couldn’t find it in myself to pretend anymore.