Unlearning is not enough.
Once the belief crumbles, emptiness arrives.
And in that emptiness, the mind searches for something to hold. A new truth. A new myth strong enough to hold the chaos.
Because yes, the chaos is real.
Losing a parent.
Having no income.
Carrying the weight of an entire family on your back.
Not knowing if tomorrow will be survivable.
I can’t pretend these experiences didn’t break me.
They fractured my sense of stability.
They planted seeds of anxiety deep inside my day-to-day.
They had very real, very tangible consequences.
Which is why trying to extract meaning from them often feels violent, dishonest, or both.
And yet, I can’t live suspended in a void.
I no longer want to cling to inherited dogma — but I need a language.
A compass.
An inner ground.
So I’m trying something else.
I no longer ask: What lesson am I supposed to learn from this hardship?
Instead, I ask:
What is this experience revealing? What part of me is trying to emerge through the pain?
What door is this crisis forcing me to face?
I’ve long felt trapped between two extremes:
On one side, religious fatalism — every hardship as God's test.
On the other, toxic positivity — every loss repackaged as a "lesson" with a smile.
I’m choosing the middle path.
One where I acknowledge the brutality of what I’ve lived through,
without letting it define me.
I believe in a spirituality that neither demands submission nor denies suffering.
A spirituality rooted in listening.
A spirituality of re-anchoring.
What I call spiritual re-engineering is not a new belief system.
It is an act of interior architecture.
A redesign of what holds me up from the inside out.
I am building a mental and spiritual space where hardship is not a punishment,
not a test,
but a mirror.
It shows me where I’m still waiting.
Where I need softness.
Where I need support, boundaries, or reinvention.
Sometimes, it shows me what I can no longer carry.
And in that collapse, it opens the possibility of something else.
A version of me less obsessed with control, more open to receiving.
A version of me that dares to ask, I need gentleness. I need help. I need rest.
I don’t know if God sends these experiences.
But I do know I refuse to live in a spiritual system that punishes grief, silences anger, or treats doubt like sin.
Today, I seek softer anchors.
Simple rituals.
Words that soothe.
Presences that lift.
I give myself permission to rebuild my faith like an old house:
keep what still stands, replace what has crumbled, let more light in.
And maybe that’s what spiritual re-engineering is:
refusing inherited narratives,
inventing my own,
and daring to believe that God, too, can be rewritten through me.