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From Atheist to Believer: My Unexpected Journey to Faith

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If you had told me a year ago that I’d be sitting down to write about my faith, I would have thought you were crazy. Religion was never part of my life, never something I talked about, and certainly never something I thought I needed. For 42 years, I identified as an atheist, confident in the belief that morality and values could exist without the presence of God.

But as I sit here now, with a brand-new custom Bible in my hands, I realize how much has changed. This is the story of how a lifelong atheist found faith, and how the journey—filled with loss, fatherhood, and unexpected friendships—led me to God.

Growing Up Without Faith

I grew up in a household where religion simply wasn’t part of the conversation. My parents, both good and decent people, believed that a strong moral compass was enough. We didn’t need church to tell us how to be kind, honest, or hardworking. Instead, weekends were filled with sailing trips, swim meets, and time with friends. Sundays were just another day, never marked by sermons or scripture.

And honestly? I never felt like I was missing anything.

As I got older, I continued on that path. I built a successful career as a firefighter and later pursued higher education, earning a master's degree from the Naval Postgraduate School. Life was good. I had a loving wife, amazing kids, and a job that gave me purpose. Faith, in my mind, was for other people—those who needed something to believe in, those looking for answers. I thought I had all the answers I needed.

A Moment That Changed Everything

Then, my father was diagnosed with cancer.

It was a gut punch. The man who had always been my rock, my guide, my example of what it meant to be a man, was suddenly facing the end. And even then, I didn’t turn to faith. Instead, I did what I had always done—I leaned into logic, into science, into the comfort of facts. But as the years went on and his condition worsened, I started to feel something I hadn’t before: a deep, gnawing sense of loss, not just for my father, but for something greater that I couldn’t quite define.

In the final days of his life, my dad would ask me, “How much longer until Kalen is born?” My wife was pregnant with our second child, and my father had set his sights on meeting his grandson. That became his goal, his anchor in a body that was failing him.

And somehow, miraculously, he made it. Kalen was born, and we rushed from the hospital to see my father in hospice care. He held my son, patted his tiny bottom, and with a tear in his eye, he smiled. Less than 24 hours later, he was gone.

The juxtaposition of life and death in that moment was overwhelming. The joy of bringing a new child into the world was instantly met with the devastation of losing the man who had shaped me. And for the first time, I found myself wondering about things I had always dismissed—about purpose, about eternity, about whether there was something beyond what we could see.

Moving North, Moving Closer to Faith

Life kept moving forward. After the pandemic hit, my family and I left Denver and moved to Fort Collins. The shift was immediate. The people we met, the community we became a part of—faith was everywhere. And for the first time in my life, I was surrounded by people who not only believed in God but actively lived out their faith.

Two of our closest friends, Michael and Gabrielle, gently started nudging us toward church. “You’re always welcome,” they’d say. “We’d love to have you join us.”

At first, we resisted. But then, on Christmas Eve, we decided to go.

The First Steps Into Church

I hated it.

The moment we walked in, I felt like I didn’t belong. The singing, the worship, the raising of hands—it all made my skin crawl. I felt out of place, like an outsider who had accidentally wandered into someone else’s deeply personal experience. But I stayed. And when the music stopped and the sermon began, something shifted.

For the first time, I wasn’t hearing about religion—I was hearing about life. About marriage, about fatherhood, about the kind of man I wanted to be. It wasn’t abstract theology; it was practical, real, and deeply relevant. And it made me want to come back.

So we did.

At first, it was just once in a while. Then it became more regular. And with each passing week, I found myself drawn in—not by the rituals or the tradition, but by the message. By the way faith was making me a better husband, a better father, a better leader.

Finding Meaning in Faith

I won’t pretend that this journey has been easy. Faith doesn’t come naturally to me. I still struggle with doubt, with questions, with the discomfort of it all. But here’s what I do know:

Since stepping into this new chapter of my life, I feel more grounded. More present. More aware of the bigger picture. My Sundays aren’t just another day anymore—they’re a reset. A chance to refocus, to recenter, to prepare for the week ahead with a clearer heart and mind.

Fatherhood, in many ways, is what led me here. Losing my own father, becoming one myself, and wanting to be the best version of me for my kids—those are the things that opened the door. And once it was open, I couldn’t ignore what was waiting on the other side.

A New Chapter

If you’re someone who has spent your whole life questioning faith, I get it. I was there. For more than four decades, I thought belief in God was unnecessary, even illogical. But I’ve learned something along the way—sometimes, the things we resist the most are the very things we need.

I don’t have all the answers. I probably never will. But I do know that this journey has made me a better man. And if sharing my story helps even one person take a step toward exploring faith, then it’s a story worth telling.

For now, I’ll keep going. Keep learning. Keep questioning. And most importantly, keep growing—both as a father and as a man of faith.

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