catholic guilt, seasonal

Wednesday, 18th February 2026. It’s Ash Wednesday, and the seasonal Catholic guilt rolls around. Today, I’m filled with immense guilt. A sense of dread brimming from my tingling toes to my aching head, it doesn’t help that there’s soreness lodged at the back of my throat and a runny nose. Mother had pinged my phone, “I’m going to the chapel later.” There was a small one at her workplace. My guilt grows, carving through my soul. I thought of going to our local church and attend too. Anticipation bubbles at the pit of my stomach as I scroll through the church’s website. 9:30. I just missed it. Next mass is… at 19:30. I pause. Should I go? It’s really late though. I should’ve gone this morning when I had the chance to. I don’t know. What do I do? My vacillation strains my brain and it starts to ache again. I put away my phone and told myself not to think too much about it, but I still thought too much about it. 

I think of the way I go to church, only when I feel like it. Or when there’s a big “thing,” like Lent, or birthdays, or Christmas. But even last years’ Christmas, I didn’t go. I felt so guilty, I did one decade of rosary on my bedroom floor. Half-awake and wine-drunk, my knees burned from kneeling too long and rushed through my Hail Marys as lover watched me from my bed. 

I think of my second year of uni, I had just moved to a new accommodation. More accessible to the centre, and to the campuses. I noticed there was a nearby church. But every time I tell myself I’d attend a mass, I don’t. A part of me holds me back like a force of a metaphysical being. It felt like The Devil holding a grip on me, Its scrawny fingers tightening around my throat. But that’s just all in my head. I think it was more so my fear of being seen. Standing out like a sore thumb. 

Ever since the pandemic, churches being closed off and quarantined from the rest of the world, it wasn’t too difficult to stray away from practice. With Mother and Father who weren’t as devout and strictly religious as my grandparents, skipping a couple Sundays didn’t feel as punishing. Sometimes I wonder if it was my fault. My willingness was lacking. If I had the strong will to go, I would’ve gone. 

I couldn’t understand where the eagerness went. That hopefulness to Him, the fear of Him. Has it been sucked out alongside my childhood? When I moved away from that pious household? Do you think I would have stayed the same if I chose to go to Catholic university? What if, what if, what if… 

I’m cast in a Christian short film, shooting starts next month. Surrounded by like-minded Christians, well, I don’t think about it that way and more so the spiritual connection. But guilt gnaws through my ribs and seeps through the amygdala. They feel His spirit, and hear His calling but how come… I don’t? 

Was this God’s way of punishing me somehow? Tormenting me, filling my head with uncertainty. Probably not. God Loves Everyone, they say. Anyway, that’s how my Wednesday have been. I’ll do my one decade of rosary before bed tonight. Probably.