On December 27th, my daughter will be baptized.
On paper, it’s a date.
A ceremony.
A tradition many families follow without thinking twice.
But for me, it feels like a quiet revolution.
Because this isn’t just about her.
It’s about me.
In 2026, I plan to be baptized too — not out of obligation, not to please anyone else, but because I want to walk this path with her. I want religion to be something we share. Something that feels grounding, gentle, and alive. Something that lives in our home not as a rulebook, but as a refuge.
That wasn’t my experience growing up.
My parents were two different religions. My father was Muslim. My mother was not. And yet, I was forced to practice Islam — without either of them truly practicing themselves. Religion wasn’t modeled. It wasn’t explained. It wasn’t shared. It was enforced.
It felt like a chore.
Sometimes a punishment.
Never a source of beauty.
There was no one sitting beside me, helping me understand the why. No conversations about meaning. No warmth. No invitation into something sacred. Just rules, expectations, and confusion. And so religion became something I endured, not something I embraced.
I don’t want that for my daughter.
And I want to be very clear about something: I didn’t agree to baptize her because my husband wanted it. Or because my mother-in-law hoped for it. This wasn’t a box I checked to keep the peace.
I saw the value in it.
I saw the power in choosing faith intentionally, rather than inheriting it through pressure or fear. I saw the opportunity to give my daughter something I never had — someone to walk beside her, to ask questions with her, to grow alongside her.
I want her to see religion not as something imposed, but as something lived. Something that offers structure when the world feels chaotic. Something that teaches compassion, humility, and grace. Something she can return to when life inevitably hurts.
And maybe most importantly, I want her to know she’s not alone in it.
This is new for me. Tender. Sometimes intimidating. But also deeply hopeful.
As part of this journey, I added something to our registry that feels symbolic in a way I didn’t expect: the Hosanna Revival Notetaking Bible — Shiloh Theme. It’s beautiful, yes — but more than that, it feels like an invitation.
To sit.
To learn.
To reflect.
To engage with faith slowly and thoughtfully, without shame or urgency.
It’s not inexpensive, and I don’t take that lightly. But it feels like something I would cherish — something that would make this practice feel approachable and personal. Something that could grow with me as I learn how to hold faith gently, honestly, and with intention.
I share this not as an expectation, but as an opening. For conversation. For understanding. For those who’ve walked similar paths — or those who are quietly considering one of their own.
Because faith, when chosen freely, is powerful.
On December 27th, my daughter will be baptized.
And in choosing this for her, I am also choosing something for myself.
Not perfection.
Not blind belief.
But presence.
And that, to me, feels sacred.
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UPDATED BIO:
Hi, I’m Fiona — a writer in the midst of an unexpected chapter.
In April 2024, I lost my job. Since then, my husband and I have been getting by on his modest income as a medical resident. After stepping away from IVF, we were shocked — and overjoyed — to find out we were pregnant naturally. While it was the happiest surprise, it also brought new financial stress as we prepared for our growing family.
Then, our baby arrived early — on April 29th, 2025, instead of the expected due date in late May. With no paid maternity leave and no room in our budget for childcare, I’ve returned to part-time jobs and writing just a week after giving birth to help cover essentials like groceries, bills, and a few things for our 🌈 miracle baby.
If you’d like to support my writing — and by extension, our little family — your kindness would mean the world. Every bit helps: $1, $2, whatever you can give.
🍼 Baby Registry — Or if you’d prefer to help more directly, we’re also gratefully accepting support through our baby registry — every burp cloth, diaper and/or bottle goes a long way.
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Read also: Two Days After Bringing Our Baby Home, I Asked for a Divorce
Read also: Our Marriage Ended Before It Began: The Pregnancy That Shattered Everything
Read also: I’m Pregnant And Broke — My Cry For Help
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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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Photo credit: Aaron Burden on Unsplash
