Two weeks ago, I was on a plane from Oslo to Zurich, sitting at the emergency exit, right next to the window. To my right were two Swiss guys — maybe around my age, or probably in their thirties.

At first, I pretended I didn’t understand Swiss German. (I do this sometimes. It makes me feel invisible, free to just observe.) They probably thought I was Norwegian, and I let them. I listened quietly until the flight attendant came over to explain the emergency-exit procedure, how to open the door if something went wrong.

When she left, the guy next to me made a joke in English, something like, “Well, now you know how to open the door.”

I replied, also in English, “Yeah, sure. Actually, I used to be a flight attendant. I really do know how to open it.”

That caught his attention, so we started talking. Pretty soon, he asked me if I was going on vacation to Switzerland. I said, “No, I actually live there.”

His eyes widened. “Wait — you’re not Norwegian?”

And just like that, the spell was broken. I laughed and told him I was half Norwegian but raised in Switzerland. I could tell he was a little taken aback — like I was less interesting now that I wasn’t some mysterious Norwegian girl. After a short pause, the conversation went on.

He told me they were on a bachelor trip, canoeing through the wild. I told him I’d been visiting family and staying at our cabin for a while.

And then I asked him what he does in life. He’s a priest. And somehow, that turned into a conversation I didn’t know I needed.

I told him my story — the degrees I started but never finished, the months in Costa Rica, the 1.5 years as a flight attendant, the six months in Mexico, the heartbreak, the yoga course I never really connected to, and how I’m home again now, saving up, and planning my next trip. I told him I’m still figuring it all out — and that sometimes, that stresses me out. I’m scared of never finding my purpose.

When I asked about him, he told me he’s 29, married, with two kids, and that he loves his wife deeply. Loves her in a way that made my heart ache a little — the way he said he always asks himself how he can help her step into her fullest life, for her to reach her potential.

How different his life is to mine. Having a wife and kids. He said yes, you have more responsibilities, but the main questions in life stay the same.

And then we started talking about belief, which is something I’ve been circling around quietly for a while now. He asked me, do you believe?

I told him I grew up Catholic, but not in a very religious family. We did the usual stuff — baptism, first communion. But otherwise, we didn’t have the habit of going to church, not even on Christmas. There was a time as a child when I used to pray at night, quietly, just in case someone was listening. I remember making a whole ritual out of it: all my stuffed animals needed to participate, I wore old jewelry from my grandmother’s. It was really a thing of mine. At one point, I stopped.

Later on in school, we learned about the history of the Church — the greed, the corruption, the way they sold forgiveness for sins, the harm they caused. And I stopped believing. How could I believe in something like that?

For years, I didn’t believe in anything. Not God. Not a purpose. Not even in myself. There were times I didn’t want to live at all. I didn’t see the point of it.

I’m better now — believe me. Now, I do wish to live. There is so much to see and so much to experience. But the same questions circle in my head. What is the meaning of all of this?

It wasn’t until Costa Rica, three years ago, that I started to feel something again — something spiritual, not religious.

A friend gave me The Four Agreements by Don Miguel Ruiz, and it cracked something open in me. From there, it was The Mystery of Love, and then The Untethered Soul by Michael A. Singer. Those books sparked something in me. They made me curious again. They made me wonder if maybe there was something bigger — a higher intelligence, a thread connecting everything.

Since then, I’ve read more. Usually about spirituality. But still, I’ve kept my distance from religion. The word “God” feels heavy to me — tied to rules, shame, and power. I told him that. But reading more about beliefs in general, what I’ve found is that in all these religious manifestos, at their core, they’re all talking about the same thing: love, presence, connection.

On the plane, I told the priest that I wanted to believe, even if I didn’t know what to call it yet. That I do believe in something — something higher, bigger. Something that connects everything. Maybe nature. Maybe love. Maybe both. That maybe God isn’t something above us, but within us. Are we God?

At one point, he asked if he could pray for me. Right there, mid-flight.

I said, Yes.

I thought he’d do it quietly in his head, but instead, he spoke out loud, soft and sure, asking for guidance for me, protection, clarity. And I have to admit — it was beautiful. To feel someone offer up that kind of love, even if I don’t fully share his language for it.

We also talked about community, rules, and love. As he is part of a “free church,” I had some questions. I’m always very skeptical toward these kinds of institutions. It’s good that they bring like-minded people together to actually have a place to be and share. As for myself, I feel I lack those places. But I also see the risk of these communities, because they usually come with rules, with needing to be a certain way.

When I was traveling in Mexico, I came across a consciousness community in Mazunte. At first, I liked it — finally having open and like-minded people. But with time, I realized they were not so open, or “conscious,” as they preached to be. They excluded people, especially the locals, which I found horrible, as they live on their land. As you see, I find it a very difficult topic.

I later asked him about his church and its stance on queer love and marriage. But mostly, I wanted to know how he thinks about it (without the church identity). He hesitated, then said he has gay friends, that there are gay people in his church. But when I asked if they can marry, he admitted: not yet. Maybe one day, but not now.

I pushed back. I couldn’t help myself. How can you be part of something that preaches love, that says we should respect one another, but then not allow homosexual marriages? How can you then follow a God (or more, a constitution) that puts boundaries and rules on how and who to love? Isn’t the core of all teachings to love unconditionally? Isn’t love the most sacred thing that exists? In the end, aren’t we love ourselves?

And what I also find difficult is making God or Jesus Christ something outside of yourself. I agree, having Jesus as an idol and wanting to live by his example is something quite beautiful. But I see the danger of separating this godliness from yourself. Because, as the Bible says, “Look within. The paradise is within.”

So stop looking outside of yourself — you are a holy being. You are special, but that doesn’t make you superior (watch out for your ego talking). We are all special. Perhaps we appear different because we are distinct expressions of the Holy Spirit. But in the end, we are the same. We come from the same place, and we leave for the same place. I’m special, so are you. Let us treat each other as such, as equals, as beings of love.

That conversation stayed with me. I realized that I’m still searching for answers.

There are moments — in the forest, under a big open sky, walking home at night — when I feel one with everything. When I look around and think, how crazy is it that we created all of this? That same creative force that makes trees grow, that moves the wind, that makes waves crash — it’s in us too. For a moment, I can see everything — every light, every shadow, every leaf — and it all feels connected, like I’m part of something infinite and alive.

And I wonder: maybe faith is like the wind.

You can’t see it. You can’t hold it. But you can feel it. You can see the way it moves things — the trees swaying, the clouds shifting, the way the world rearranges itself.

And maybe that’s what I want for myself now: to stop being afraid of believing. To let myself feel it, without needing to define it or explain it or make it perfect. To trust that whatever this “something” is, it’s already here. I just need to dare to believe. Start trusting and let myself be surprised by the effects of it.

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What about you? Do you believe in something, even if you can’t name it yet?

I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments. Maybe, like me, you’re still learning to trust that the wind is moving, even when we can’t see it.

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I love you.

xx Eli

And remember to be gentle with yourself.