There is no god

As a fervent advocate for nature and a self-described pagan, my skepticism of religious narratives began early. At six, my disillusionment started with a seemingly benign lie about my great-grandmother's death. When I asked directly about her whereabouts—already aware of burial customs—I was told she had gone to heaven. This answer, contradicting my rudimentary understanding of death, seemed a glaring falsehood even to my young mind.
This early experience seeded a deep-seated skepticism. It's amusing, in retrospect, how readily we accept comforting narratives over harsh realities. Humans, unique in their self-awareness, rarely confront their consciousness deeply enough to acknowledge this discomfort. Consider this: If I were to convene with myself at six, sixteen, twenty-six, thirty-six, and my hoped-for fifty-six and sixty-six—what would that reveal about the 'real' me? If my life had ceased at thirty-six, who among these versions would represent me in a so-called afterlife? At forty-six, I often ponder the brain's ability to craft such a coherent sense of self—a notion easily disrupted by physical ailments that can alter one's personality entirely. This leads me to question the very concept of a soul. If our identity is so fragile, how can we claim an immortal essence exists within us?
The fear of death is intrinsic to human nature, yet it does not substantiate claims of divine benevolence. It seems more plausible that our minds conjure comforting tales to cope with the inevitability of our demise. What particularly irks me—as a woman who cherishes nature—is the disproportionate male dominance in the discourse on god and religion. Major world religions, predominantly established by men, often utilize the concept of a deity as a tool in power dynamics—effectively a spiritual measure of might. The historical confluence of religion and violence, where divine sanction was routinely invoked to justify warfare and oppression, highlights the practical uses of religious narratives in pursuing worldly gains.
I find solace in the progress Europe has made, where as a woman, I can openly challenge the sanctimonious deceptions and criticize the dogmas that once went unquestioned. The thought of my nonexistence does not trouble me. I did not exist before 1978, and there will come a time when I cease to be—this is merely the nature of existence. The notion that our fleeting, complex lives—a mere collection of information and experiences—could be preserved by some divine entity is, to me, a profound absurdity. It's comforting to acknowledge that in the grand tapestry of the universe, our individual stories are just that: brief narratives, not bound for eternal preservation. This understanding frees us from the burden of celestial oversight and empowers us to live fully in the here and now.