The Roles that Outlive Us

The thing about cages is, most of them don’t have bars. Some are built out of Bible verses, pension plans, and polite handshakes in the church foyer. Others are held together by name badges, marriage vows, or political identities whispered like passwords. You don’t even know you’re trapped until you start breathing a different kind of air. That is when the old kind hits your lungs like mould.

I’m fascinated by how long a person can live in a costume before realising they never auditioned for the part. One day you put it on because it fit. People clapped. Someone handed you applause in the form of a paycheck or approval. You smile, nod, and carry on. Eventually the costume becomes heavy. You tell yourself this is normal. Everyone feels like this. You just need more prayer, or more focus, or more caffeine, or more gratitude. You try to convince yourself the weight is a blessing.

But late at night the buttons strain. You feel seams pulling against your chest. You polish the shoes anyway and take your place in front of the crowd because that is what you have always done. Somewhere along the way the role outlives the person inside it.

That is what I mean when I talk about role entrapment. Pastors who no longer believe in the sermons they preach. Doctors who no longer care about healing but have student loans that demand loyalty. Mothers who adore their children but ache because everyone stopped seeing them as anything else. Corporate soldiers who stare at spreadsheets while dreaming of building guitars. Patriots who love their homeland yet feel their slogans have turned into advertisements. You can spot it if you know what to look for. There is a flicker in the eyes, a softness in the shoulders. They reply with the correct phrases but their voices crack on certain words.

Sometimes I wonder how many people in any given room are secretly praying for an exit strategy.

I was lucky. I got out easier than most. I had a wife who believed in me more than the system. I had skills outside the pulpit. I could walk away without losing our home. I could step down without fearing starvation. So I walked. And the world didn’t collapse.

You would think that is where the story ends. Escape, freedom, sunrise. Cue the strings. Roll the credits. The man is liberated.

Except freedom is not a destination. It is displacement.

I am no longer trapped in a role I outgrew. Yet I am not firmly planted in a new one. I am somewhere between worlds. When you stop playing the part that made people comfortable, they look at you differently. Not with hatred, just confusion. You used to speak their language. Now your words come from a place they cannot name.

Leave Christianity, and the ex-Christian crowd tells you God is a fairy tale. Wander into spirituality, and you find people who treat political alignment like sacred ritual. Peek back at the political right, and they are still clutching their King James like it is a life raft. Where does that leave someone like me?

I still pray, though not the way I used to. I still believe, though belief has become less of a courtroom argument and more of a whispered awareness. I still seek mystery, though I no longer try to cage it with creeds. I still love my country, though I refuse to pretend any institution is above accountability.

That places me in a strange borderland. Too mystical for the atheists. Too grounded for the self-help sages. Too conservative for the activists. Too open for the fundamentalists. It is like belonging to every camp and none at the same time. A citizen of crossroads.

At first I felt lonely. Then I realised loneliness is not always a symptom of abandonment. Sometimes it is proof that you have chosen truth over echo chambers.

The interesting thing about this in-between place is that the longer you stay, the more faces you begin to see in the shadows. Men who stayed in the military long after their conscience began to ache. Women who kept wearing wedding rings long after they lost the right to speak their own opinions. Teachers who once lived for their classrooms but now walk hallways like ghosts. Farmers whose bodies crave new soil. Artists who drown in their own brands. Influencers who smile on camera while withering behind the lens.

You do not have to be religious to understand captivity. You just have to wake up one morning and realise you are living by a script you no longer remember agreeing to.

That is when you must decide what kind of courage you are willing to find. Because the world does not hand you a new identity when you leave the old one. It hands you silence. That silence is terrifying. It is also holy.

I sometimes imagine what it must be like for the pastor who stops believing but keeps preaching anyway. He stands there in front of people who trust him, and he hears his own voice reciting verses that no longer ring true. The words bounce back and echo inside his skull like marbles in a bucket. He smiles. They nod. Nobody knows his hands are trembling under the pulpit.

He goes home. He sits in his chair. He opens a Bible he no longer reads. He thinks about applying for normal jobs, but his resume says Pastor and nothing else. His wife says they need insurance. His children ask about missions trips. He sighs and rehearses next Sunday’s sermon. It is not hypocrisy he is living in. It is self-preservation.

I used to be the one giving the altar calls.

That is the twist some of you did not see coming. I was that man. I stood behind wooden pulpits and declared things I believed with all my heart. Until I didn’t. Until the ground shifted. Until I began to hear myself from the outside, as though I were listening to someone else.

The Sunday I stopped believing was not explosive. No lightning. No fallen idol. It was quiet. A moment of stillness in which the machinery of my faith simply powered down.

I did not fall into sin. I did not rebel. I simply stopped pretending certainty could exist inside a book. The world felt bigger. God felt quieter. My soul felt lighter.

I stepped down. No scandal. No press release. Just a choice. Then I stepped into the secular workforce. I managed teams. I enforced policies. I resolved conflicts. My collar was gone, but I was still shepherding people, just without stained glass watching me.

Now I write. I work. I lift heavy things. I wake before dawn. I pray in motion. I meditate in parking lots. I question everything. I trust what rises inside me when I listen without agenda.

Yet I still feel that ache. That familiar longing for a tribe that speaks my language. One that believes in mystery without demanding ideological paperwork.

I think that tribe exists. Scattered, quiet, waiting. Former believers who did not trade spirit for cynicism. Men and women who walked away from systems but never stopped seeking light. People who love logic yet sense something lives between equations. People who reject manipulation yet crave transcendence.

If that is you, then hear this clearly. You are not strange. You are not broken. You are simply honest.

Maybe I am not alone. Maybe there is an unspoken fellowship of wanderers. Former true believers turned mystical realists. Conservative-wallet, open-hearted. Spiritual without slogans. If that is you, then pull up a chair. This corner of the alley belongs to us.

Before I go, let me share what is coming next. My next book, Pure Evil, is on track to be released by Thanksgiving. I am finalising the formatting and working on the cover. If you have not read my first book yet, Nick Grayson: The Truth in the Lies, now is your chance. It sets the tone for what is heading your way.

And if you want to keep me writing from this strange in-between place, you can always buy me a coffee. It keeps the lights on while I chase the questions most people are afraid to ask out loud.

Subscribe. Share. Or forward this to someone you suspect is still living inside a costume that no longer fits. I will keep writing from between worlds.

Peace, and asking the big questions,
The Sage Wanderer