13 Years A Atheist: How It Began

It’s been nearly 13 years since I became an atheist. As I sit here writing this, I had to pause and think—yeah, it really has been almost exactly 13 years to the day since I first began to question my beliefs.

To be honest, I can't pinpoint the exact piece of media or content that initially sparked my disbelief. But I can say that even during my upbringing as a Jehovah’s Witness, I never had strong faith. I remember being 13, doing everything I could to prove I was a genuine believer within the congregation. But truthfully, I was lying to others—and to myself.

That said, I don’t think it’s fair to say I was an active liar. I was just playing the role expected of me—the part of the “good Jehovah’s Witness.”

Looking back, I believe the first step on my journey away from faith started around then. If you’ve ever been part of the Jehovah’s Witnesses, you’ll know there's a kind of social hierarchy within the organization. If you want to be "in," there are unspoken metrics you have to meet. Thinking about it now, it’s very similar to the cliques and social ladders you see in high school or on a college campus. The difference is, those hierarchies are usually filled with young people trying to figure themselves out—not adults claiming to be guided by God.

And yes, I’m being sarcastic when I say "men supposedly guided by God." Even back then, I never once felt that the men in my congregation were led by a higher power or had divine wisdom.

The moment that truly changed everything for me came after I had spent nine or ten months pursuing what was known as “regular pioneering”—essentially committing to 40 to 100 hours a month of door-to-door preaching. I took it seriously. But then something happened that broke my trust entirely.

There was a son of one of the elders—the so-called spiritual leaders—who committed what was clearly a serious offense, both by the congregation’s standards and by any rational moral metric. But he received only a mild slap on the wrist. Meanwhile, others had faced harsh punishment for doing the same or even less.

One example stands out. There was a guy I knew briefly in high school, who I’ll call Ryan to respect his privacy. From what I remember, Ryan was publicly reprimanded and branded as a bad influence because he had used drugs. His family situation was already difficult, and the congregation's rejection made it worse. Even his own parent, the one who was a Witness, began to treat him like an outsider.

Now here’s the kicker: around that same time, there was another person—a peer I knew far more closely, someone I went to school with for two years—who was the son of an elder. For privacy, I’ll call him Peter. At our high school back in 1996, there was a nearby park where students would often ditch class. I personally saw Peter there on multiple occasions, doing drugs. I wasn’t guessing—I knew exactly what I saw because I had experimented with marijuana myself.

I took this information to an elder during one of our midweek meetings. I told him what I saw, and even mentioned others who could corroborate it. I wish cell phones with cameras had existed back then—that would have changed a lot. But even without evidence, I believed the truth would matter.

According to Jehovah’s Witness doctrine, things like drug use, smoking, and excessive drinking are grounds for disfellowshipping—excommunication—especially if the person shows no remorse. I waited for weeks to see any action taken. Nothing happened. I followed up with the elder I had spoken to, but still—silence. That shook me. Deeply.

I realized right then how broken the system was. It was the hypocrisy that started to open my eyes.

There was a close family friend—someone I’ll call Dick (a name that is, quite frankly, fitting in hindsight). I confided in him, thinking he’d listen. His response? He said I must have been mistaken or lying, because someone from a family “so close to Jehovah” couldn’t possibly do such things.

That moment lit a fuse in me. It destroyed my respect for him. Soon after, people in the congregation began treating me differently, but what hurt most was how Dick—someone I trusted—turned on me.

Years passed. I went into the military. I lost touch with Ryan, but I continued to hear updates about Peter. Turns out, I wasn’t the only one who reported his behavior. Others had come forward with the same information. Still, nothing changed. Peter remained in good standing. And the irony? He eventually went to Bethel—the Jehovah’s Witnesses’ headquarters in Brooklyn—and became a ministerial servant.

Getting into Bethel is no small feat. It requires an impeccable reputation. A spotless record. An image of total dedication. The fact that Peter, of all people, achieved that position solidified everything for me.

That was the moment I knew: I no longer believed.

Over the years, my atheism has been further solidified—not just because of personal experiences, but through learning about evolution, the philosophy of science, and diving into critical thinking. I studied, went to school, and challenged ideas I once blindly accepted. All things I probably wouldn’t have done if I had stayed a believer.

So, to recap: it started with my trust in a close family friend named Dick, who dismissed my truth; it continued with the hypocrisy of the elders who protected one of their own while punishing others; and it ended with the realization that someone who should have faced consequences was instead elevated to the highest ranks.

You might think I’m bitter. But the truth is—I’m not.

In many ways, I’m grateful. Those people, and those experiences, led me to the truth. What truth, you ask?

That it’s okay to say, “I don’t know.”
That it’s okay not to have all the answers.
That pretending otherwise is not just dishonest—it’s irrational.

So thank you. I'm still learning every day. But it was those small, painful moments that led me to the clarity and peace I enjoy today.