The Weight of Performance: Finding Peace Beyond Prayer

Yesterday, as my son underwent surgery, I felt a profound sense of peace—a peace I never experienced when I was a Christian. Sitting in that hospital waiting room, I realized just how much of my anxiety in moments like this used to stem from the subconscious pressure Christianity places on parents, especially mothers.

In my former faith, I believed in a God who was both loving and sovereign, but also one whose favor could seemingly be influenced by my actions. The unspoken, and often spoken, message was that if I prayed hard enough, lived righteously enough, or had enough faith, I could secure not only God’s favor on my own life but also on my child’s. It was performative spirituality in its most consuming form—a belief that I could somehow “earn” divine intervention.

This pressure wasn’t always overt, but it was always there, woven into the fabric of my daily life. If something went wrong, I would replay every perceived spiritual shortcoming in my mind. Had I been praying enough? Was I being disciplined enough in my walk with God? Had I somehow fallen out of favor? Worse yet, I worried that my spiritual inadequacies could impact my child’s safety, health, and future.

The weight of this belief system is crushing. It subtly reinforces the idea that we, as parents, are not only responsible for our children’s physical and emotional well-being but also their spiritual protection—something entirely outside of our control. It turns moments of uncertainty, like waiting during a surgery, into an internal struggle to “perform” for God in the hope of changing an outcome.

Deconstructing these beliefs has been liberating. Yesterday, I didn’t feel the pressure to pray the “right” prayers or question whether I had done enough to earn God’s favor. I didn’t feel like my son’s fate was tied to my ability to perform spiritually. Instead, I found peace in knowing he was under the care of skilled medical professionals—people who had dedicated their lives to helping others, guided not by divine favor but by their own expertise, education, and humanity.

This shift in perspective has been one of the greatest gifts of embracing secular humanism. I no longer live with the burden of trying to control the uncontrollable through spiritual performance. I no longer see life’s outcomes as a reflection of how “good” or “faithful” I am. Instead, I trust in the people around me, the science that empowers them, and the randomness of life itself.

The peace I felt today didn’t come from faith in an external force; it came from letting go of the need to perform. It came from accepting that I can’t control everything, and that’s okay. My role as a parent isn’t to be perfect or to earn some divine favor—it’s to love, support, and show up for my son in the ways that matter most.

As I reflect on this experience, I’m more grateful than ever for the clarity that comes with deconstruction. Christianity, with its emphasis on performance, often left me feeling inadequate, like I could never do or be enough to protect the ones I love. But today, as I sit beside my son in recovery, I feel lighter, freer, and more present than I ever thought possible.

There’s no pressure to pray harder, to be better, or to beg for favor. There’s only love—love for my son, gratitude for the people who cared for him, and peace in knowing that life is messy, unpredictable, and deeply human. And that is enough.