Part One: Where I Come From | A Story of Family & Estrangement

I was born in a small village on France’s Atlantic coast.

My father insisted that my name be short, simple, and easy to pronounce worldwide — and, most importantly, shaped by his own life experience, free of any ties, religious or otherwise. He chose Claire, from clarus in Latin, meaning bright and clear. My mother agreed. “Claire” was classic and neutral.

August 1989 — The last picture before I left their home for good, posing with my little cousins. That was the final year I saw my parents. We were not meant to be.

My mother came from a close-knit Catholic family, all living within an hour or so of one another. A few weeks after I was born, she organized my baptism, and my father went along with it. For her — and for them — it felt inevitable that I would follow Jesus. All of my cousins had been baptized. That was simply how things were done.

My father’s side of the family was the opposite: scattered across the world, strained, and shaped by trauma, divorce, and abandonment. His relationship with religion had been broken early, after a frightening wartime childhood in Paris followed by abusive years in Catholic boarding schools. As soon as he could, he joined the navy and remained there until retirement.

As the firstborn in a family slowly headed toward dysfunction, I like to believe my parents began with the best intentions: to create a warm, loving home. But their differences — clashing personalities, opposite upbringings, and the scars of war — gradually strained everything. His long absences at sea, her deep ties to her family, and his attempts to reclaim authority once back on land all created tension. 

When he returned, sparks flew. He believed discipline meant control, and control meant safety and obedience. I learned early to stay quiet, to read his moods, to make myself small.

I was scared of him.

I know now that he meant well. He carried demons of his own. But when his controlling behavior became unbearable, I cut ties completely. I was almost twenty-one. Even then, I knew it had been building for years.

Estrangement is never simple. It’s often judged and misunderstood. But for many of us, it becomes a necessity — a last resort after years of emotional strain. It’s choosing survival when connection turns harmful. Estrangement isn’t the absence of love; it’s a painful state we’re reminded of regularly. It brings shame, too. And for some of us, it doesn’t heal. We simply learn how to live around it.

Where I come from explains how far I was willing to go to feel safe, seen, and accepted.

The “how far” meant agreeing to convert religiously.

The cost was high. There were no guarantees. But it offered something I had been missing for a long time: the possibility of a second family.

And how often does one get that?

In Part 2, I’ll share my experience with religion, which began at age five. It didn’t work out — but you already know that.