It can be a touch alienating; there’s a swath of rituals you’re now not a part of, either because you’re actively excluded or because you just no longer fit there (talking about church events and the like).
Conversations change just a little bit too–in the same way monotheists look at polytheists funny when they invoke more than one god, atheists wind up looking at any theist in the same fashion. By that token, when people realize you’re atheist, they look at you as a bit damaged–my bestie’s cousin blurted out “tf is wrong with you?” when I admitted I was atheist, for instance. In the US it only takes a look at some states’ laws on eligibility for public office to see that for some, the only thing worse than having a different faith is having none at all.
It can also be kind of disorienting; you spend quite a bit of time recalibrating your moral framework–what you consider right/wrong and why you take those positions. In this regard, it can be a bit draining too, dedicating so much of the processor sitting on your neck to a kind of reconfiguration.
Lastly and perhaps the worst drawback is how limiting it can feel: when there’s no longer a higher power to feel guarded by, you’re left with the realization that there’s just your own little mortal self and it’s depressing lack of influence.
But ultimately, I’ve found it kind of rewarding: ditching the need for a creator figure (and later, the concept of an afterlife altogether) has freed me of that dissonance that occurs when injustices or random tragedies occur. When you no longer lean on the idea that there must be an inherently just or attentive higher power, those bad things become a little less nerve-wracking.
And while I lose a some rituals and venues through which to connect with others, it’s a drop in the ocean compared to what’s still out there.
And that powerlessness we’re left behind with eases when we recognize there’s other kinds of power that come through community (nebulous as that concept feels right now).
It can be a touch alienating; there’s a swath of rituals you’re now not a part of, either because you’re actively excluded or because you just no longer fit there (talking about church events and the like).
Conversations change just a little bit too–in the same way monotheists look at polytheists funny when they invoke more than one god, atheists wind up looking at any theist in the same fashion. By that token, when people realize you’re atheist, they look at you as a bit damaged–my bestie’s cousin blurted out “tf is wrong with you?” when I admitted I was atheist, for instance. In the US it only takes a look at some states’ laws on eligibility for public office to see that for some, the only thing worse than having a different faith is having none at all.
It can also be kind of disorienting; you spend quite a bit of time recalibrating your moral framework–what you consider right/wrong and why you take those positions. In this regard, it can be a bit draining too, dedicating so much of the processor sitting on your neck to a kind of reconfiguration.
Lastly and perhaps the worst drawback is how limiting it can feel: when there’s no longer a higher power to feel guarded by, you’re left with the realization that there’s just your own little mortal self and it’s depressing lack of influence.
But ultimately, I’ve found it kind of rewarding: ditching the need for a creator figure (and later, the concept of an afterlife altogether) has freed me of that dissonance that occurs when injustices or random tragedies occur. When you no longer lean on the idea that there must be an inherently just or attentive higher power, those bad things become a little less nerve-wracking.
And while I lose a some rituals and venues through which to connect with others, it’s a drop in the ocean compared to what’s still out there.
And that powerlessness we’re left behind with eases when we recognize there’s other kinds of power that come through community (nebulous as that concept feels right now).