Most mornings, I wake up and put on my cross necklace. It’s become a habit, but recently I’ve started to ask myself what it really means. Is it a symbol of identity? Do I wear it for comfort, or is it something else?
Raised in a Christian household, one of my mom’s biggest concerns when I left for college wasn’t my grades. It was my faith. At a primarily STEM university, she worried my belief might quietly dissolve under the weight of peer pressure, packed schedules and late-night lab reports.
She’s not alone in that fear. College campuses, especially those centered on science and technology, often feel like places where religion fades into the background. Many students drift away from religion during these years. In many spaces, faith isn’t just absent; it’s treated as outdated and irrational. Sometimes it’s mocked.
One research group found that roughly 70% of high school students who enter college as Christians will leave with little to no faith. Most of the time I bring up religion, I’m met with an “I used to be religious” or a vague label without real practice.
The reality is that just saying you’re a Christian doesn’t make you one. Belief isn’t the default; it’s deliberate. It’s easy to inherit a label but much harder to actively live it out. Faith takes intention, and in an environment that rarely reinforces it, I know that’s not always easy.
When I first arrived on campus, I tried finding where I fit. I visited different churches, joined campus ministries and met a wide range of people who identified as Christian. Some were deeply committed, and others were more lukewarm.
It took time, but I eventually found a sense of belonging. I found people willing to have difficult conversations, making a space for both conviction and questions.
Even in religious groups, there can be pressure to conform to a certain version of faith. Too outspoken and you risk being dismissed or labeled a certain way. Too quiet and you feel invisible.
At a place like NC State, where the College of Engineering alone makes up almost 30% of the student body, that pressure can feel amplified. STEM students are trained to question, test and demand evidence, and many people use this as a reason to reject religion.
But that assumption doesn’t really hold up. Faith and science aren’t mutually exclusive. They’re complementary, not contradictory. In fact, some of the greatest scientific minds, including Isaac Newton, Louis Pasteur and Gregor Mendel, were people of faith.
Science and faith often begin with a desire to search for truth. While science seeks to understand the mechanisms of the natural world, faith speaks to meaning and purpose. When understood in this context, they build upon each other.
Realizing this made me start paying closer attention to what faith actually looks like here, and despite the narrative that faith is disappearing, I’m still encouraged by what I see on campus.
A few weeks ago, I was walking past Talley after work. Headphones in, ready to be home, I honestly didn’t want to be bothered, but someone called out to me. It was another student who asked if she could pray for me. She wasn’t pushy, didn’t try to recruit me into any organization or make any point. We exchanged names, I told her my prayer request and then we both went on with our day. It was simple, but it stuck with me.
It’s easy to fall into the trap of thinking that we’re living in a lost, faithless generation, but this is far from the truth. While religiosity in the U.S. has declined in recent years, especially among young adults, it’s remained relatively stable on a global level. Belief remains widespread and deeply influential.
I’ve been prayed over in the Brickyard, walked past Bible verses written in chalk near the dorms and seen countless groups studying Scripture in Talley, Witherspoon and even coffee shops around campus. These are quiet, consistent reminders that faith hasn’t disappeared, even if it isn’t always outwardly visible.
Faith isn’t automatic. It’s a choice that happens daily. For me, it’s in the questions I wrestle with, the conversations I have and the moments I decide whether to stay silent or speak up. Most mornings, it begins the same way: as I reach for a cross necklace, I’m reminded of a belief that I refuse to let fade into the background.
