Worship was the hope of “Amazing Grace,” the calm after a heartfelt prayer, and church on Sundays.

It was also the Justin Bieber concert I went to in my early twenties.

Through the years, worship has taken on a couple of different meanings for me: In one sense, it represents loyalty and submission to a god-like figure—a bowing of the head. In another sense, it represents an experience of connection, awe, and understanding—an opening of the heart.

I used to listen to the Biebs because it was difficult not to. He was everywhere, but I didn’t care much for his music. That is, until I was offered a free ticket to a girls’ night out Bieber concert at the Delta Center, private suite and all. I went, of course, but I did not leave the same.

That night, I was surrounded by thousands of hearts all beating to the same sultry drum. And I was baptized.

Whether it’s music, literature, film, or a gallery, I’ve always loved the arts. Their ability to shape my worldview, expand my understanding, and allow me to experience a story that isn’t mine is incredible.

While my church has sometimes stirred similar feelings in me, it often seems to get in the way of my inspiration with all of the lectures and divine regulations. I’ve found it normal practice for members of the faith to exchange authentic enlightenment for the exaltation of a leader or a book of scripture. We defer our critical thinking and our personal feelings to another whom we deem as more worthy of divine guidance. But a spiritual life doesn’t have to mean blind loyalty or changing our uniqueness to fit into a mold.

It’s taken me a few years of deconstructing my Mormon beliefs to realize something about myself that hasn’t changed—I love the art of worship. It’s creative, it’s alive, it tells a story, it’s a connection. It’s like being at a concert and feeling the music without having to model your life after the artist, because nine times out of ten, that would be a bad idea.

In the LDS church, it sometimes felt like I was in a paint-by-numbers class that I was never allowed to graduate from. Worship was all about sacrifice and exact obedience. I went to church for three hours every Sunday. I knew what clothes to wear, what I was allowed to drink, what underwear to buy, who to spend time with, how to date, and what kind of man to marry. I knew what to read, what to watch, what to listen to, how to pray, and who to pay.

The church gave us the tools and expected us to paint the same picture. Rinse and repeat, week after week.

I always thought that if I left the church, it would feel like sinking. Like I wasn’t good enough or strong enough to try anymore.

Now, almost six years after my deconstruction journey began, I’ve been surprised at how much this feels like the opposite of sinking. Sinking was what happened when I was a true-believing member. When all my efforts couldn’t keep up with the holes in my boat. But my journey of differentiation? This feels like growth.

When someone asks if I’ve left the church, my best answer is to say it’s complicated. I have left the church in the sense that I’ve left the church as my authority. But at times, I still use church as my studio, the same way I use the arts to feel connected to myself and others. My beliefs have changed, but I still find beauty in a song, a prayer, or a story that opens the heart. I am not loyal to creating a prescribed image anymore. I still use some of the same tools, but I’m no longer compelled to stay within someone else’s lines. I let my heart guide the brush.

This means I might attend a relief society activity one week, a non-denominational church the next, or a theme park with my family the next. I might sing along to “You Say” by Lauren Daigle in the car, hike a mountain trail, or get lost in a beautiful film. There are so many ways to worship. The point is, I don’t have to bow my head anymore; I can worship in ways that open my heart.

It’s no longer about obedience. It’s not about rebellion, either. It’s about creation and connection. It’s the art of worship.