Finding My Way

I should have written about my faith a long time ago. I didn’t—not because it wasn’t important, but because it mattered too much. Faith is difficult to put into words when it lives so deeply within you. It is personal, almost private, and so tightly woven into who I am that sharing it can feel like exposing something fragile.

Since moving to Taupo almost three years ago, returning to church has reshaped my relationship with faith. And now, the urge to write about it feels stronger than the fear of sharing myself.

A bit of background: I grew up in a small province in the Philippines, in a Catholic family. Our house stood right beside the church, so faith was never something separate from daily life—it was part of it. I joined the choir when I was little, learned to play the piano on the church organ, and would arrive hours before Mass to rehearse. The Church's staff became my friends, learned the quiet rhythms behind the scenes, and on weekends I was at Mass twice a day, singing for different choirs. I knew the church not just as a place of worship, but as a community, a home.

Then life moved forward, as it always does. University happened. I was consumed by lectures, deadlines, and the pressure of completing my engineering degree. Missing Mass became occasional, then more frequent. After graduating and moving to the city for work, church slowly slipped out of my life altogether.

The pace of the city was relentless. I worked two jobs, barely rested, and weekends became less about renewal and more about recovery—sleeping in, catching up on chores, preparing myself for another week. They were excuses, perhaps, but at the time they felt necessary. Life blurred into a long list of responsibilities. Days passed not as moments to be lived, but as tasks to be completed.

Then life shifted again. An opportunity to move to New Zealand came along, and my husband and I took it. Taupo became our first home here, and we fell in love with it almost immediately.

In 2023, we began attending Mass at Tongariro Catholic Church on special occasions. There were no plans—just whenever it felt right. But by 2025, without even realising it, Sundays naturally began to include church. We simply found ourselves on our way to church, week after week.

Going to Mass felt like relearning a language I once knew by heart. The scent of candle wax and incense, the quiet hum of people settling into the pews, the first notes of the opening hymn—it all felt achingly familiar. Like stepping back into childhood—those early years when going to Mass was a part of life, woven into every week.

Over the past few years, even during the times I wasn’t attending church, I never truly stopped praying or believing. A prayer before going to sleep, another upon waking, a quiet “thank you” whenever we’re blessed with a good meal, a desperate plea when I’ve needed help. Treating people with kindness, asking for forgiveness, seeking guidance when I’m unsure what to do. But Mass has given me more—it has given me a full hour to reflect, to listen, and to learn.

Life moves fast, and sometimes even an hour of silence feels impossible. Yet at church, I found that hour—a space to pause and simply be still. An hour to listen as Father Danny’s homily connected Scripture to everyday life. I began to look forward to the day’s readings, not just as stories from the past, but as guidance for today—reminders of how God’s words can shape the way we treat our families, face daily challenges, or navigate uncertainty.

I’m but a normal person. I don’t have all the answers, and I certainly wouldn’t call myself a model Catholic. I hope I’m a good person, but I know I’m far from perfect. What I think I know now feels small compared to everything I still have to learn. I haven’t figured everything out, and my life didn’t magically fall into place. But I’ve learned that by showing up every Sunday, that hour of stillness feels like healing. It feels like finally exhaling after holding my breath for too long. Faith doesn’t always return in grand gestures. Sometimes it comes quietly, like a gentle nudge to sit and be present.

Showing up every Sunday at church became my way of reconnecting with something bigger than myself—with gratitude, humility, and a part of me I didn’t realise I’d been missing. Faith is a journey, not a destination. And every time I take my seat in church, I feel steadier, certain that I am exactly where I’m meant to be.