I cannot tell you how many times I have been to church with my family. Not because I’ve been too many times to count, but because I was so young that I don’t remember. 

My parents were raised Catholic. Catholic churches in the United States have lost 5 percent of their members in the last decade, according to the National Journal. The church has lost many members due to its anti-abortion, anti-divorce and anti-homosexuality stances, just to name a few. 

Although they have never completely explained to me why we stopped going to church, my parents have told me many horror stories of the nuns at their Catholic schools and the terrible cafeteria food. I assume their time in Catholic school, paired with their rigorous work schedules, left little desire or time to take my siblings and me to church. 

I have no problem with people who are religious. Indeed, religiosity is considered desirable here in North Carolina, the eighth most religious state according to a 2012 Pew Research Center study. It gives the impression of selflessness and commitment. Not only is Christianity accepted, it is praised in the South. 

Growing up, I often felt uncomfortable when my peers and teachers talked about religion. Although my family celebrated Easter and Christmas, I didn’t belong to a church. In elementary and middle school, my peers described church as “this place that makes me wake up early on Sundays so I can listen to old people talk and sing.” 

But in high school, suddenly everyone around me started liking church. In fact, some students elected to attend youth group services throughout the week because one morning a week wasn’t enough for them. But these youth groups, not coincidentally, were hubs for popular kids — kids whose values I questioned. I began to realize that a person’s religion does not guarantee that person has certain morals preached by that denomination. 

Because I was not raised to be a member of a certain religion, I’ve had a few flings with different faiths. Whenever I slept over at my best friend’s house on a Saturday, her parents took us to their Lutheran church the following morning. They let me wear jeans and sometimes there was free grape juice, so, as a middle school-aged girl, I was OK with it.

In another instance, while eating lunch at the Atrium last week, my roommate and I were approached by two girls from Texas A&M University who came here on their spring break to spread the word of God. The girls were perfectly nice, but rather aggressive — they shared my roommate’s phone number, without permission, with an N.C. State student so she could recruit her to join a church group on campus. I appreciate commitment, but we expressed no interest in learning more about the group.  

And then there’s my most memorable fling: Scientology. When I went to New York City for spring break this year, a stranger pulled me into the Scientology building to watch a film about dianetics. The rather dramatic film did not explain dianetics all too well, but I got the impression that it was anti-medicine. If it was a word in the dictionary, I could give you the real definition, but it’s not. I don’t trust words that Merriam-Webster doesn’t recognize. Nor do I trust Tom Cruise. 

Of these very few flings, I have found no true match. Whenever I went to church, I didn’t disagree with anything that was being said, but I just didn’t feel like I was missing anything by not going. Although at times I may have felt uncomfortable about my lack of religious identity, it has never felt like I was lacking motivation or morals or a purpose. My parents raised me in such a way that I don’t feel like I need a religion to tell me what is right or wrong — I know the difference. I still don’t know if I believe there is a higher being. I can see how people who were raised in poor conditions or by less-than-great parents would find refuge in religion, but I have felt no such desire so far in my life. Some might say I’m confused, but a lighter term might be “agnostic.”