It’s Christmas Eve. We’ve just spent a rather lovely day together as a family, all things considered. Sure, there are moments of heaviness and intense discussion – there always are – but for the most part we’ve just been comfortably together today.

We debated attending church tonight for many reasons. This year marked the first year I have been able to own my lack of religion. I have tried throughout my life to make it real for me. I chased Christianity hard for a while with a yearning and craving for the sort of certainty I sensed in friends who were solid in their faith. I put on a mask and made a good game of pretend, but it was always insincere.

The affectations of this faith always felt hollow to me. Even as a child, growing up as the oldest daughter of a Protestant minister, there was always something missing – a big hole where my faith was supposed to live. That hole was always filled with nagging doubt, suspicion, and distrust. I’ve think I’ve always known that this was not my truth, but was never strong enough to admit it aloud.

The idea of attending Christmas services seemed hypocritical to me, the same way I feel rather counterfeit everytime I gloss over the answer to a religion related question from my daughter. But still, we decided to attend, believing that there was a need for some sort of tradition and predictability in the midst of the constant uncertainty of our lives. We have not successfully managed to replace Christianity with other spiritual beliefs (because I have not yet managed to fully understand or articulate my own and because S. is still fairly solid in his Christian faith), but we’ve always attended Christmas Eve services, and so we planned to attend this year as well. I thought it would be okay, but from the moment we took our seats in the pew I vacillated between sensations of suffocation and hyperventilation.

I felt like an utter and total fraud.

It wasn’t just the lack of religion. The questions about my beliefs were not at all new; I’ve attended numerous services able to simply enjoy the comfort of ritual in the absence of faith. Despite my lack of strong beliefs, I have always been able to pull a sense of serenity from the predictability and tradition of the church, from knowing what words to say, what music I would hear; there is a simple beauty of being in a place where you know all the rules (even when you don’t believe them).

No, it was more than my lack of religion.

I could imagine the picture we presented to the world. Two young parents and two adorable, if rather noisy and ragamuffin, kids. A close family bonded by love, just like any other in that church. I try to see us as we appear to the outside. I imagine what the rest of our night might look like from that outside view. If I had seen us - sitting together in that church - I would probably imagine that we’d go home and tuck our kids into bed with promises of Santa and presents. Next we’d arrange the gifts beneath the tree, and then sit in front of the twinkling lights with our arms around one another, comfortable in the certainty of our lives.

What nobody in that church could have possibly known was that we are a family on the verge of breakdown. That S. and I often alternate between clinging to our past in desperation and turning away from one another completely. That even at the best of times our interactions are bordered by the sort of tentative uncertainty that makes me forget that we’ve been best friends for over a decade. An outsider could probably sense the love between us, to me it is still such a palatable thing, a clearly visible current of emotion. Yes, the love is there, but someone looking in would probably have no idea that this love isn’t enough, not near enough, to sustain us.

At one point during the service I noticed a couple in front of us. They looked about our age, the man was rugged and handsome, the girl fresh-faced and naturally beautiful. He had his arm around her, his thumb absentmindedly stroking her shoulder or twirling her hair. She looked up at him every few moments with a loving gaze, her eyes clearly transmitting all the faith and happiness in the world. I wondered how long they had been together. One month? Ten years? Were they married? Were they happy? They were clearly in love, and that is when it struck me what truly separated us from them. While the love between S and I is undeniable, we are no longer ‘in love’ the way we have been for so very long. We are not one any more; we have begun the long and convoluted process of growing apart and moving on.

I looked over at him, and he looked so achingly handsome that it took my breath away. I wondered, as tears threatened to fill my eyes, why on earth can’t I want him the way I always did? Why can’t the love, and the memories and the life we had built be enough? Why is it that I need something different? Something more? How can someone be so close, and yet so far away?

And perhaps the biggest question of all, how do I move from feeling like a fraud, to finally feeling as if I am just being me?