Names have been changed.
My parents both emigrated from South Korea when they were young and met during college at a Pentecostal church in Queens. They took missionary trips to Africa and Guatemala to spread the word of God and got married at the same church where they met and we still attend all together today. My father is a ministry leader, and my parents’ relationship remains deeply centered on Pentecostal Christianity.
Their parenting of me and my younger brother follows the same pattern. Faith is the most important value in our household, shaping not only our morals but our daily routines, our social circles, and our education.
Before I was born, my parents were warned about the “horrors” of New York City’s public schools, places they believed would foster bad behavior and expose children to harsh realities too soon. So, from preschool onward I was enrolled in a Pentecostal Christian private school. Every school day began with two hours of Bible study, and every Friday was a schoolwide sermon.
Even our school holidays revolved around faith: summer meant Vacation Bible School, where I spent time with my church friends, singing worship songs, and taking part in themed activities that related to the Bible lesson of the day. During winter and spring break, we often went to retreats at a sleepaway camp where God was top priority.
In elementary school, faith just wasn’t something I questioned. But now, as a junior in high school, I look back and realize my doubts didn’t come from one single moment. They built up over time.
One of my earliest conflicts with my faith appeared every October. In the lunchroom in elementary school, kids planned their costumes and mapped out their trick-or-treating routes. But Halloween was a forbidden holiday in my house, because my parents believed it honored Satan himself. No costumes, no trick-or-treating, no wandering outside after dark on October 31st. They told me the holiday was sinful and that the candy could be poisoned.
New Perspectives
Then, in 7th grade, I transferred to public school. Middle school was my first real exposure to perspectives outside of my Korean church bubble. My school was still 80% Asian and largely Christian, but suddenly I was meeting people with different backgrounds, different ideas, and different upbringings.
I made my first Black friend. I sat next to a girl who openly identified as gay. I overheard kids talking about astrology and feminism. We learned about Buddhism and Islam in my history classes, topics that had not been discussed in my Christian school.
Halloween became even more alluring. That October, I asked my parents if I could trick-or-treat, just once. Their answer was firm: “미쳤어”? (Are you crazy?)
So, on Halloween night of 7th grade, I sat at my desk, staring at my Go Math workbook and listening to the laughter and excitement outside. I sneaked glances out the window, watching costumed children run across the street and ring doorbells, their parents trailing behind them. At one point, I stood in front of my bedroom mirror and whispered, “trick or treat,” just to hear the words come out of my mouth.
But I slowly started embracing my American identity in other ways. I watched Cartoon Network instead of just Korean animated shows. I learned about other secular holidays like Thanksgiving and the Fourth of July. The rigid structure of my upbringing started to feel restrictive rather than comforting.
In high school, the questions really began.
I still went to church every Sunday. I’d wake up early, drag myself out of bed, and try to look presentable. By sophomore year, the routine had become exhausting. One morning, I told my parents I was too tired to go.
“Sleep during service if you’re tired,” my dad said. “Your presence there is what matters most.”
To me, that made no sense. Why did physically being there matter more than actually listening? More than actually believing?
I’m learning to hold onto the parts of my faith that still comfort me while also giving myself permission to question. To disagree. To explore.
Even after service, the demands don’t stop. In the church cafeteria, we’re expected to bow our heads to every adult as a sign of deep respect, a gesture rooted in Korean culture. “Annyeonghaseyo” (hello), we say over and over again. My friends and I started sneaking off to eat in the stairwell, just to avoid the endless cycle of formalities.
By the time I get home on Sundays, it’s late afternoon. I go to a competitive high school, and I need that time to study. But in my parents’ eyes, church comes first.
One time, I visited my friend Catherine’s church (also Korean Pentecostal), and told my mom that it was more fun than ours. Her church had young Bible study teachers who asked me about my life, and everyone got Chinese takeout together afterwards.
To my surprise, my mom said I could switch, as long as I still went to church. But to leave my church feels impossible now, while I’m still at home. It’s my family’s entire world. Plus, all my childhood friends are there, and church on Sunday is the only time I see them.
Crisis of Faith
And then there’s the issue that weighs on me the most: my church’s condemnation of LGBTQ+ people. Many of my closest friends at school are a part of the LGBTQ+ community, including my best friend, Patrick.
In freshman year, I was still the kind of teenager who shared everything with her mom—life struggles, boy drama, friend gossip, all of it. One day, I blurted out, “On Tuesday, Patrick is going on a date with this other guy in Long Island.”
My mother went quiet. “Patrick is gay?”
I felt a sudden chill down my spine. How could I have forgotten not to tell her that?
She started lecturing me about how anything gay goes against Christian values. Girls are supposed to marry boys, and God created Eve for Adam. Then she said, “I don’t think you should hang out with Patrick anymore.”
With the intensity of puberty, I yelled at her, “How could you say that about Patrick? He’s literally the best person I know…who cares if he’s gay?!”
She repeated that I should not spend time with him, but I think she knew I wouldn’t listen.
A year later, I still hang out with Patrick. I don’t tell my mom much about my high school life: my friends, my crushes, and definitely not my Capstone project on abortion rights.
In our church, teenagers often get baptized a second time, when they decide they’re ready to accept God as their true savior. My parents want me to get baptized before college. But how can I make that commitment when I’m so conflicted?
Now that I’m a junior, my dad often asks, “Have you thought about baptism?”
I nod and I force a smile. I say something vague about needing more time. I don’t know what else to do. This is how it always goes. I keep faking it, playing the role of the obedient daughter, because questioning anything too openly leads to arguments.
Making My Own Path
No matter what I say, my parents won’t listen to other viewpoints. So I talk to my Christian friends from school or with my student advisor, who is a pastor for a youth ministry. I’ve visited Black churches, White churches, even non-denominational churches. They all felt warmer and more welcoming than the one I’ve been attending for 16 years.
I am trying to figure out how to stay true to myself while remaining respectful of my parents in our home. I wonder if there’s another kind of Christianity that aligns more with my values, like my acceptance of the LGBTQ+ community.
Because there is a lot in Christianity I like. I find comfort in Christian music like the song “Quiet” by Elevation Rhythm. Certain scriptures empower me, like Philippians 4:6: “Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God.” I write prayers or messages in my journal, even if I’m not always sure who they’re meant for, simply because the idea of a higher power listening to my thoughts brings me peace.
I’ve talked to friends who’ve gone off to college and gone to new churches. I’m not sure if I want to do that. I’m not even sure if I’m really Christian. I am interested in Buddhism and other religions. Perhaps I’m agnostic.
I’m learning to hold onto the parts of my faith that still comfort me while also giving myself permission to question. To disagree. To explore.
I don’t know what I believe yet. But I do know that once I go to college, I’ll finally have the freedom to figure it out for myself.