As we dove into the whirlwind exploration of First Holy Communion, we hit the topic of Confession, and let’s just say, my enthusiasm was somewhere near zero! The thought of sitting in a small, dimly lit room with my priest hidden behind a clover-patterned screen? Yikes! I was downright terrified. I mean, God knew my misdeeds—did I need to repeat them to someone else?

Picture this: it’s a Saturday afternoon, and we’re all lined up outside the confessional, looking like we’re about to reveal our deepest secrets, hoping for a not-so-scary penance. “What did you get?” we’d ask each other like kids trading baseball cards, trying to decode who was the “bad egg” of the group.

For years, it felt like a ritual of embarrassment as I ticked off my list of sins, questioning if I was a bad person or just, you know, human. Fast forward to my teenage years, and I started distancing myself from church life. No more dance groups or choir—everyone else was off to college while I felt like I was stuck in a time warp!

 Every time I stepped into the church, I felt like I was being judged for everything from my weight to my tomboyish style. I was lost in a sea of sameness, wondering if I’d ever confess to myself—and whether God was listening at all.