It was meant to be a quick trip to the local convenience store for some drinks. Juggling a wiggly toddler, a fountain drink, a bottle of water, my phone, keys, and wallet, I flashed a smile at the cashier and encouraged my little one to say hello. This usually distracts them long enough for me to sort everything out for checkout. Normally, the cashier coos at my child, who flashes her adorable smile and maybe shyly responds with a “hi,” and we’re on our way.
But this time was different.
The cashier’s eyes were fixed on me, more specifically, on the necklace I was wearing. With a disapproving frown, she pulled the bottle of water out of reach and casually tossed the fountain drink into what I presumed was a trashcan at her feet. I could feel the stares of the customers behind me, piercing through me, as though they were trying to uncover the mystery of what this woman had seen.
“This is a Christian establishment. We don’t serve devil worshippers here.”
For a moment, I was taken aback. Then it struck me—amid the chaos of handling my belongings and my squirming toddler, my pentacle had slipped out from under my shirt. It felt like a bucket of ice-cold water had been poured over me, rendering me speechless. I stood there, frozen, staring in disbelief at this woman.
“That child needs Jesus.”
I didn’t respond. Instead, I turned and walked out, my head held high but my mind racing and heart pounding. My hands trembled as I tried to buckle my daughter into her car seat. Tears welled up in my eyes, but I refused to let them spill—not in front of the onlookers still watching from inside the store.
In that moment, I was transported back to when I was 16, recalling the hurt of finally embracing my identity, only to face rejection. I remembered my principal telling me that my self-portrait couldn’t be displayed alongside others, that younger students shouldn’t be exposed to my supposed wickedness. I could hear echoes of a once-beloved family member hurling vile insults at me while yanking my pentacle necklace from around my neck—the very piece that had already been deemed unacceptable in school. I felt alone and scared, learning to stand up for myself when no one else would.
But I wasn’t that scared teenager anymore, and I certainly wasn’t alone. While this wasn’t my first encounter with discrimination based on fear and misunderstanding, it was the first time I experienced it in front of my daughter.
When I discovered I was pregnant, I began to worry about how to raise my child within my faith. Living in a rural area of the Bible Belt, the idea of paganism coexisting with this environment felt as volatile as mixing nitroglycerin with a gentle shake.
Being different can be daunting, and I questioned whether I had the right to expose my daughter to such challenges. Then I realized—it’s not about being different; it’s about ignorance. If people took the time to understand me and my family, they would see that we aren’t so different after all. We all aspire to be the best we can and are concerned about raising our children with the same values.
If I could revisit that encounter with the cashier, I would share a few insights about my beliefs. First, paganism is not synonymous with devil worship. Satan has no role in my faith. I believe in balance, nature, and the divine—both a god and goddess—striving daily to find that harmony in my life. I hold that everyone should choose their own path to the divine; as long as no harm is done to the innocent, every path is equally valid. Pagans are not evil; we are simply like anyone else you know. In fact, it’s likely you know someone who is pagan—they just may not feel comfortable sharing that part of their identity yet.
I would also explain that while I don’t believe my child needs Jesus, I will wholeheartedly support her if she chooses to follow that path in the future.
Being different is not the issue—it’s the fear that prevents growth and understanding. The challenge lies in overcoming ignorance and learning about those who worship, believe, or express themselves differently. While our backgrounds and beliefs shape us, they do not define us entirely. People are complex and multifaceted, and judging someone based on a single aspect blinds us to the richness of their full character.
Yes, I am pagan, but I am also a wife, mother, sister, cousin, niece, friend, and a college student pursuing my education long after high school. I hail from a small Southern town with generations of farmers in my family. I possess a love for books rivaling that of a small library, a creative passion for crafts, and an affection for my cat that surpasses my fondness for many humans. I have an unwavering love for cookie dough. At the end of the day, I am probably much like you.
The beauty of humanity lies in our connections. When we take the time to understand one another, we often discover we share more common ground than we ever imagined.
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Summary
This article explores the challenges of being a pagan mom in a predominantly Christian environment, recounting a personal experience of discrimination and the importance of understanding and acceptance. It emphasizes that being different is not the issue; ignorance is. By sharing experiences and fostering connections, we can bridge the gap between diverse beliefs and lifestyles.
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