It was meant to be a quick trip to the corner store for some beverages. There I was, trying to manage a lively toddler, a soda, a bottle of water, my phone, keys, and my wallet. I flashed a smile at the cashier and encouraged my little one to say hello—this usually gives me just enough time to get everything sorted out. Normally, the cashier would coo at my child, who would beam back with a shy smile, and we’d be on our way.
But this time was different.
The cashier’s gaze was fixed on my chest, and her expression was anything but welcoming. With a severe look, she pulled the bottle of water away and dropped my soda into what I presumed was a trash bin nearby. I could feel the stares of the people queued behind me, their eyes piercing through me, eager to see what had caught the cashier’s attention.
“This is a Christian store. We don’t serve devil worshippers here.”
For a moment, I was taken aback. It dawned on me that my pentacle had slipped out from under my shirt amidst all the commotion. It felt as if icy water had been poured over me, rendering me speechless. I stood there, frozen in shock, unable to process what was happening.
“That baby needs Jesus,” she declared.
I didn’t respond. Instead, I turned and left, my head held high, though my thoughts were racing and my heart felt like it might burst. My hands trembled as I fastened my daughter into her car seat. Tears threatened, but I refused to let them fall—not in front of the onlookers still watching from the store.
In that moment, I was transported back to being a teenager, recalling the pain of coming out as who I truly was. I remembered the principal telling me my artwork couldn’t be displayed because it might expose younger students to my so-called “wickedness.” I could still hear a once-beloved family member hurling insults as they snatched my pentacle necklace from my neck, the very same one I had been told I couldn’t wear in school. I had learned to stand up for myself in those lonely moments when no one else would.
But I wasn’t that scared teenager anymore, and I certainly wasn’t alone. Although this wasn’t the first time I’d encountered discrimination based on ignorance surrounding my beliefs, it was the first time it had happened in front of my daughter.
When I discovered I was pregnant, I began to worry about navigating my faith while raising a child. Living in a rural area of the Bible Belt, the clash between paganism and local beliefs felt explosive—like mixing nitroglycerin with a gentle shake.
Being different can be challenging, and I questioned whether I had the right to introduce my daughter to such difficulties. Then I realized it wasn’t about being different; it was about ignorance. If people took the time to understand us, they would see that we’re not so different after all. We all strive to be the best versions of ourselves, concerned with nurturing our children to thrive.
If I could speak to that cashier now, I would explain a few things about myself and my faith. Paganism isn’t about devil worship; the concept of Satan has no place in my beliefs. I cherish balance, nature, and the divine (both a god and goddess), and I aim to achieve harmony in all areas of my life. I genuinely believe each person chooses their own path to the divine, and as long as no harm comes to the vulnerable, every path is equally valid. Pagans are not evil; we are just like anyone else you may know. In fact, you might already know someone who identifies as pagan—they just haven’t shared it yet.
I’d also express that I don’t believe my child needs Jesus, but if she chooses to embrace Christianity later in life, I will fully support her.
The real issue isn’t about being different or living in a small town; it’s about overcoming the fear that prevents understanding. While our backgrounds and beliefs shape us, they do not define the entirety of who we are. People are complex and multifaceted, and judging someone based on one aspect blinds us to their many other wonderful qualities.
Yes, I am pagan. But I’m also a wife, a mother, a sister, a cousin, a friend, and a dedicated college student long after my high school days. I hail from a small Southern town, with a family steeped in farming traditions. I have a collection of books rivaling a small library, a penchant for crafting, a cat I adore more than most humans, and an unwavering love for cookie dough. In many ways, I’m probably just like you.
That’s the beauty of humanity. When you take the time to really know someone, you often discover that you share more in common than you ever imagined.
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In summary, it’s crucial to foster understanding and compassion among those who worship differently. We are all striving to be our best selves while nurturing the next generation, and it’s time we embrace our shared humanity.