It was early on April 21 when I first saw the headline announcing Pope Francis’ passing. I was scrolling through my phone while waiting for my tea to steep—just another busy morning in London. But the moment I saw the news, I felt a strange pang in my chest.
It was unexpected, a little jarring, and I found myself momentarily frozen. I hadn’t set foot inside a church for anything other than weddings, funerals, or christenings in years. Yet the loss of this particular Pope struck me in a way I couldn’t ignore.
In that moment, I realized just how much of an impact he’d had on me, even from a distance. And honestly, it left me a bit conflicted. I used to think that once you leave the Church, you’re cut off from caring about its day-to-day happenings. Turns out, that’s not entirely true.
I remember a friend texting me later that morning to ask, “Have you heard about Pope Francis?” We both grew up in Catholic families, and while she remained deeply rooted in her faith, I’d drifted away. I assured her I’d seen the news, and we spent a good half hour texting back and forth about how weirdly sad we both were. My friend’s sadness made sense—she still attends church every Sunday. But why was I so affected? I’m the one who left, who had no real connection to the Vatican or the clergy anymore.
I’ve been divorced for years. I’m a single mother with a busy life, juggling my writing with time for my son, and balancing all sorts of day-to-day chaos. My life doesn’t revolve around Catholic doctrine or Sunday Mass. So it caught me off guard when I started tearing up reading the tributes. It felt like losing a distant relative—someone you don’t see often but who remains a nostalgic figure in your life.
A distant yet familiar feeling
If I’m honest, leaving the Church was a gradual process for me. There wasn’t one big dramatic moment of exit—more like a series of smaller, quiet decisions that ultimately led me away.
Maybe you can relate. Life changes, personal beliefs shift, and suddenly you realize you’re living in a world that doesn’t neatly fit into the framework you were taught as a kid.
But Pope Francis had this way of speaking that reached people, whether they were practicing Catholics or not. There was a gentleness in his tone and a sincere openness about the world’s complexities. I used to follow some of his homilies online, even though I wasn’t part of a parish. It was a bit like keeping tabs on a favorite teacher after you’ve graduated—there’s no requirement to do so, but you do it because part of you is still curious.
Reconciling my past with his legacy
One of the reasons I drifted from the Church was the sense of judgment I felt as a divorced woman. I know the official stance changed over time, and certain parishes became more welcoming. But by then, I’d already embraced a new chapter in my life, found my own sources of spiritual fulfillment, and created a fresh path forward for my son and me. Still, Pope Francis’s more inclusive viewpoints gave me a pang of “What if things had been like that sooner?” Maybe my journey wouldn’t have felt so isolating.
He was by no means perfect—no human is. Yet he opened doors for conversations about acceptance, environmental responsibility, and the plight of the marginalized. For someone like me, who’d grown disillusioned by the Church’s rigidity, it felt refreshing to see him acknowledge that the world is changing. He seemed to be a leader willing to acknowledge the humanness of everyone, including those living on the periphery.
I’d always admired how he spoke about caring for our planet. He wrote an encyclical on the environment—something I remember reading snippets of while I was on a tea break one afternoon. There he was, a Pope, urging the world to take better care of nature and one another. How could I not feel a spark of respect for that?
His approach to social issues also had an impact. He was never shy about urging compassion for immigrants, the poor, or those sidelined by society. Even if I no longer regularly engaged with Catholic teachings, I found resonance in his calls for empathy. He made religious faith seem less about guilt and more about service—something I think we all could learn from, regardless of our spiritual beliefs.
Reflecting on faith and belonging
When I first heard the news of his passing, I wasn’t sure if I even had the right to grieve. After all, I hadn’t been part of the “flock” for a long time. But faith is not a neat, clear-cut thing. It intertwines with culture, family traditions, and personal history.
And no matter how far I drifted, a piece of me was shaped by that upbringing—Sunday Masses in my teens, the hush of prayer in a candlelit chapel, and the sense of hope that ceremonies could bring.
Pope Francis, whether intentionally or not, invited those of us on the outside to keep listening. Even if you disagreed with the Church on multiple levels, there was something about his kindness and humility that made you feel maybe all wasn’t lost. Maybe there was still room for conversation between those who remain and those who left.
A sense of grief I didn’t expect
Grief comes in many forms. It’s not just about losing someone you were close to; sometimes it’s about losing the potential of what could have been. His death feels like the end of a papacy that strived—albeit imperfectly—to bring more compassion and dialogue into a historically rigid institution. It makes me wonder what comes next and whether his successor will carry on his more open-minded approach.
I’ve talked about it with a few friends who also left the Church. Several admitted to feeling a twinge of sadness and, like me, not entirely understanding where it came from. But maybe grief doesn’t always align with logic. Sometimes, it’s about acknowledging that while you’ve moved forward, a piece of your past is still woven into who you are today.
I’m not about to rush back to the pews. But that doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate some of the good that Pope Francis did during his tenure. I can pay homage to the way he tried to make the Church more accessible and less intimidating for those who felt like outsiders. I can admire his stance on helping the poor, acknowledging climate change, and encouraging dialogue over condemnation.
By giving space to my sadness, I’m not betraying my decision to leave. Rather, I’m honoring a complicated piece of my identity—one that includes growing up Catholic. There’s a part of me that will always relate to the rituals and the sense of community I once had, even if I don’t actively participate anymore. Pope Francis represented a gentle nudge toward bridging gaps, and that’s something I’ll remember him for.
I may not be part of the Catholic Church anymore, but I can still carry forward what I found compelling in Pope Francis. His focus on compassion, humility, and responsibility for the less fortunate resonates across all faiths and walks of life. Whether we call it kindness, social justice, or simple human empathy, it’s something our world desperately needs, and it’s a legacy worth preserving.
As I grapple with my own conflicting feelings, I’m reminded that life is rarely black and white. We can leave behind certain structures or traditions without completely discarding the values they instilled in us. Pope Francis, in many ways, stood for a more inclusive and caring perspective, and that’s something I can get behind—even as a woman who no longer identifies with the Church.
I’m learning to accept that it’s okay to have mixed emotions about religion, especially when it shaped a big part of your early life. Maybe you, too, have felt a bit torn in moments like this—mourning a figure from a faith you no longer practice. It’s natural. We’re complex human beings with layered pasts.
What matters, I think, is being honest about it. For me, that meant admitting I felt surprisingly moved by the death of a Pope I’d never met. It also meant recognizing that leaving the Church didn’t erase the influence it had on me. Pope Francis’s passing was a reminder of that influence—and of the power a single individual can have to shift the tone of a centuries-old institution.
Carrying the lessons forward
As I wrap up these reflections, I feel a gentle nudge toward gratitude. I’m thankful for the compassion Pope Francis tried to cultivate in the Church. I’m thankful for his willingness to address uncomfortable topics and let people like me feel a sense of connection—even if from the sidelines.
His death might mark the end of an era, but I’d like to think it could also spark new conversations, both within the Church and beyond it. Maybe it’ll inspire more people to focus on our shared humanity and less on our divisions.
I won’t be joining a congregation again, but I’ll be holding tight to the lessons of empathy and humility that he championed. Because in the end, we’re all just trying to make sense of our place in the world, faith or no faith.
I left the Church a long time ago, yet here I am, touched by the passing of a Pope who symbolized a bit of hope and gentle change. It feels bittersweet, a reminder of where I came from and why I chose a different path. But it also reminds me that it’s never really about completely severing ties with your past. It’s about choosing which pieces of your story you want to carry forward—and for me, Pope Francis’s message of compassion is definitely one worth holding onto.
