I’ve been thinking a lot about how organized religion and science have something in common.

Both often insist there’s only one right way to the truth.
Only one path worth following.
Both can refuse to acknowledge that life—and the universe—is so much bigger than them.

Lately, I’ve been working with the energy of fire.
What it means to embody it.
And the more I sit with that, the more I realize how much fire has shaped me—both the wild, untamed flames of my younger years and the steadier light I’m learning to hold now.

I’ve been reading Becoming Supernatural by Dr. Joe Dispenza. It’s fascinating—he talks about how our thoughts create our reality, how energy shapes matter, and how we can literally heal ourselves through intention and focus.
And while a lot of it resonates with me, I kept catching myself thinking…
People have known this.
We’ve understood these things for thousands of years.
It’s not exactly new.
But I still felt that old flicker of irritation.
That spark of anger when scientists present these ideas like they’ve just discovered them—as if no one really knew until science came along to explain it.
As if science is the only way to make something real.

And there it was again—my fire.
That same intensity I’ve carried for years.
The need to stand for something, to defend what I know, to burn through what feels wrong.
But I sat with it.
Why does this still bother me? Why does it ignite something in me?

And then it hit me.
It’s the same kind of closed-mindedness I used to feel in church.
That attitude, whether it comes from religion or science, where people believe they’ve found the truth—and everyone else is lost.
They think they have the answers.
They act superior.
And really, it’s just one perspective.
One path.
What gets to me isn’t that they have their way—it’s the belief that theirs is the best, or the only, way.

When I was in middle school, I had a friend named Angie.
We used to hang out after school, and one day we ended up talking about religion. She was a Seventh-day Adventist—or something close to it. I don’t fully remember. But I do remember how I acted.
I told her about my beliefs. About Jesus. And I was so sure of myself.
Like my religion was the only true path.
Like I was somehow more righteous, more “saved.”
Looking back, I can feel the heat of my own certainty.
The fire in me that wanted to be right.
I thought I had the truth, and I wanted to light the world on fire with it.

And then there was that summer when I was ten, visiting my dad’s parents in Ukraine.
They had converted to a different branch of Christianity.
As a Catholic kid, anything outside of the Roman Catholic Church felt strange to me.
And honestly, back then, I was worried it was something extreme—maybe something like Jehovah’s Witnesses.
I realize now it wasn’t, but at the time, all I could feel was the discomfort of something unfamiliar.
Something that challenged my view of the world.

One afternoon, while we were talking about Jesus, my grandma said, “Jesus wasn’t Catholic. That came later.”
And I, with all my fiery pride, said, “Well, Catholicism follows his true teachings.”
I thought I was making a point.
Later, I told my Babcia about the conversation, feeling proud of myself, like I’d won something.
But now? I feel a little ashamed.
Ashamed that I was so quick to shut the door.
That I let my fire burn too hot, without making space to listen.
I wish I had asked my grandma more about her faith.
I wish I had been curious about her experience.
Instead, I wanted to prove something.

Those moments taught me about fire.
How powerful it is.
How it can bring warmth and light—or destroy and divide.

Back then, my fire was all about proving I was right.
Defending my beliefs.
Burning through doubt with certainty.
But now I’m learning a different kind of fire.
The kind that stays steady.
That offers light without scorching.
That makes space for others to gather around.

So why am I judging now?
Why am I getting frustrated with scientists for doing exactly what I used to do—believing their way is the way?

Maybe this is another lesson in how to tend my fire.
Not to snuff it out—but to let it glow, steady and open.
To stay curious.
To remember that there’s more than one path.
More than one truth.
And that my fire doesn’t have to prove anything to anyone.
It just has to burn true.