In my hometown of Spartanburg, South Carolina, belief was not a choice, but an inheritance. I learned that the day my grandmother saw me burning in Hell. I was raised in an interfaith family, my mom's side agnostic and my dad's side Christian. I was never interested in reading the Bible or attending church, but neither was my Dad. I was never pressured to practice Christianity, a choice made before I knew how to question anything, yet I wrote about going to Hell in my diary every time I stuck my tongue out at a friend. One month, my nanny (grandmother) was invited to drive down from Ontario to "babysit" me (a poor excuse for a visit, as I was 15) while my parents went away for a week-long vacation. I was left alone with her, and she was sweet, as usual, fattening me up with brownies and pies, as if love were something you could bake. My best friend at the time was Jianna, a Christian much like my nanny. She asked if I attended church at all, and I told her I went to Jianna's youth group the other day. "Oh my goodness!" she'd squeal, her crow's feet ever so long, and she held my hands, proud of the granddaughter she raised. At the time, I was interested in studying anthropology as a nomadic journalist, so I found religions interesting solely for research purposes. So I said something along the lines of, "I'm agnostic. I just wanted to learn about her religion," laughing it off. Her smile vanished. I felt bad for telling her the truth, but I wanted to live with it. I didn't want to conform, I thought. I was about to apologize to her when her fingers dug into my shoulders, pulling me towards her. We were the same height, so I could only see the tears in her eyes. "What is wrong with you?" she asked me. "You are going to burn in Hell if you do not accept God." She said words I have never forgotten and did not let go. "My mom chose not to believe in God, and she is now burning in Hell. You are my only hope left, Tharyn. Don't disappoint me." Her voice was quivering, and all I could do was nod my head, terrified. The second she let go, I ran into my room, hid beside my bed, and called my mom, never leaving until they came back. I haven't seen my nanny since, and she will remain forever clueless about me, my religion, and especially my girlfriend; discovering I was queer gave my damnation a name. I was paranoid of all Christians for a chunk of my life, especially after practicing Hellenism publicly. But my nanny taught me that belief is my own choice. So, I began a new diary. This diary consisted not only of memories of relationships, but also of poetry, then short stories, and eventually the untold story of two fictional boys, one a Christian and one an agnostic, both deeply in love. Thanks to these boys, I now work with a local publishing company to bring their story to life. I write because I've witnessed fear of non-conformity. I know what it feels like to be told you are someone’s last hope. Through my stories, beliefs are not weapons, and love is not conditional. Writing is how I choose to reclaim authority over my own story. Now, all I can hope is to deliver that message to those wanting their own.