When People Deconstruct

A well‑known Instagram creator (Rose Uncharted) has been posting about deconstruction and “Christ consciousness.” Rather than panic, it helps to view this as a thirty‑something navigating a complicated life chapter and trying to make sense of it. It isn’t automatically harmful, nor is it automatically helpful. It’s a process, and it deserves a calm conversation.

Here’s the context: Rose has written about “liberation from religion,” revisiting Scripture through a different lens, and exploring astrology. A popular commentator posted a lengthy critique raising theological concerns. Reactions ranged from support to skepticism, and the discussion became polarized. I’m less interested in debating a person and more interested in the pattern of public change and public reaction.

My read is boring and human. I don’t see a supervillain. I see someone overwhelmed. A lot of women who married young, had babies young, and lived inside tight communities (whether they’re religious or not) hit a crossroads in their early thirties. Identity creaks, beliefs wobble, and the persona they built online stops fitting their offline life. The “what now?” phase begins. That can look like trying on new language—frequency, energy, embodiment—dusting off old taboos like astrology, meditation, or therapy to see if they help, and pushing against the brand they once built because it suddenly feels like a box. Sometimes it’s faith reconstruction. Sometimes it’s grief. Sometimes it’s divorce. Sometimes it’s just… growing up with an audience.

We should also acknowledge a wider trend of relationships shifting in early adulthood. This decade is full of couples who’ve been together since high school, did the one‑or‑two‑kids script, and then realized around year ten to fifteen that they’re not a fit anymore. Creator @szafeczka (Karolina Przewroczka), who gave birth to her daughter Nikola at nineteen, split from her husband when Nikola was about twelve in 2020. That’s not a moral referendum—just a data point. It tracks with basic development: your twenties are identity soup; your thirties ask for alignment. If Rose ends up divorcing, that’s her choice, not the internet’s spectacle.

Deconstruction is not inherently negative. Questioning long‑held beliefs isn’t rebellion for sport; it’s routine maintenance. Some people circle back to earlier convictions with more depth; some don’t. Both outcomes occur. What matters is the work: thoughtfully examining your foundations, identifying contradictions, and deciding what still holds—without turning the exercise into a new identity or a campaign against your past self.

Here’s the part everyone skips because it’s messy: there are beliefs I still carry, but I’m not sure how much of them is actually mine. Do I truly care about this, or was I taught to care? That distinction matters. Deconstruction, for me, is measuring how much a belief belongs to me versus to my conditioning. I run a quiet audit: Who handed me this belief and what were their incentives. Who do I become when I live by it—kinder and braver, or smaller and performative. What I’m afraid will happen if I loosen it—community loss, identity wobble, social disapproval—and which fears are social, practical, or just habit.

In practice, I pause the reflex to defend the beliefs I inherited and ask for evidence, internal and external. I separate my own values from any brand voice that tried to claim exclusive rights to them. I allow grief for identities I performed because they kept me safe. I test new practices slowly—journaling, therapy, quiet reflection, reading outside my bubble—without turning any of them into a new doctrine. I’m not swapping one costume for another. I’m checking what still fits my conscience, my experience, and my best understanding of truth. That isn’t betrayal; that’s adulthood.

About astrology: I don’t think it’s a universal solution, and I don’t think it’s inherently evil. For many, it’s a vocabulary for moods, timing, and self‑reflection—often used clumsily, sometimes thoughtfully. If it helps someone organize their inner weather while they stabilize in therapy and real‑life support, fine. If it becomes fortune‑telling and the outsourcing of agency, not fine. Like any tool, it depends on use.

Why do online communities react so strongly when someone deconstructs? Often it’s discomfort with uncertainty. Communities built around shared answers can experience another person’s doubt as destabilizing. Personal identification with a creator also plays a role: when someone you follow changes, it can surface unresolved questions of your own. And platforms tend to amplify strong reactions over measured ones, which keeps conversations heated.

What I wish people would do instead is simple. Bless the pause. Not every phase needs a label, a diagnosis, or a spiritual war room. Encourage therapy—a neutral space to untangle grief, marriage stress, identity loss, and parasocial pressure. Hold paradox. You can love Jesus and ask hard questions. You can light a candle and still think critically. You can leave a church without leaving integrity. And mind your lane. Unless you share a dinner table with her, she doesn’t owe you a testimony arc on your timeline.

If you’re personally in this chapter, keep the actions low‑stakes and offline: drink water, take a slow walk, write three ugly pages, mute noisy accounts for a month, book a single therapy consult instead of promising yourself a grand overhaul, make one friend date a week with no theology debates—just soup and air. Small, steady, boring changes build an honest life.

Maybe Rose returns to earlier convictions; maybe she doesn’t. Either way, she’s a person working through a public transition. The rest of us can stop treating that as spectacle or crisis. Let people adjust without turning their uncertainty into your content. If you’re unsettled because a favorite creator changed, the most useful response is to spend a little more time with your own life.