Faith. I swear I didn’t see that coming.

I used to call myself spiritual. I wasn’t really. It was simply better than believing I didn’t have anything concrete to believe in.

Unlike my paternal grandma who found God, thanked him daily (I’ll stick with him purely for simplicity), and lived to the ripe old age of 103 despite having had the odds stacked highly against her at times, I had no faith to speak of.

I was raised by a Jewish father and a Christian step-mother.

My Jewish birth mother passed away when I was three. Neither of the parents that raised me was religious. While I can’t be sure, I always assumed it was my lack of any religious upbringing that resulted in me having nowhere concrete to invest my faith.

I’m not blaming my parents, of course. There are lots of kids with non-religious parents who have found God by seeking out faith on their own terms. I just never felt compelled to look for it. This probably had a lot to do with my having concluded as a young teen that if my mom could die at the age of 29, God couldn’t possibly exist. So why waste time searching?

Flash forward to my forties.

The man who swore he loved me left me.

We’d been married for nine years and had a seven-year-old daughter at the time. It wasn’t an easy marriage but (I assumed) we were committed to one another. And I was deeply committed to keeping our family of three intact.

At those times when our relationship was less than stellar, I was the one who raised my hand and said let’s get help. He always complied willingly. It was comforting. It allowed me to believe that I had control over our marriage. If it was turning sour, I had the power to turn it around. Until one day, I didn’t.

He met someone else and that was that. My marriage had failed. I found myself utterly powerless. I had two options. I could cry and fall to pieces or I could cry, suspend my disbelief, and just trust that everything would eventually be alright. I chose to do the latter.

That’s when I found ‘it.’

It happened slowly. And subtly. I began to put my faith in the Universe. I surrendered to that elusive thing that was greater than me and made a conscious effort to take life day by day — a big shift for a planner like me.

I trusted that the financial strain resulting from me having bought out his share of our house would eventually subside. And that I’d rise to the challenge of being a single parent. And that, despite my broken heart, I would love again. I trusted that the Universe would make everything so. And it did.

And it began to dawn on me, I wasn’t that different from my grandma after all. We both believed in a higher power. She simply called hers God, while I called mine the Universe.

It’s not the name of the source we look to that matters but rather, the light, guidance, and comfort it brings. The Universe brings me that light, guidance, and comfort. I believe, like never before, that wherever life takes me, I will be just fine. Of course, I don’t know this as a fact. How could I? I don’t yet know what life will throw at me so how can I be so sure that I am equipped?

Faith is the only explanation I can come up with—faith in a God with no gender, temple, or doctrine. One who is in me and around me; who steadies and guides me. And whether a similar presence reaches you through a higher power, a partner’s hand, or a friend’s comforting voice, I hope you breathe easy, land softly, and walk in peace.