Five days ago I dug my temple bag out of my closet and rushed to the 7:00 endowment session while my husband cleaned up dinner. I’d had this secret little ambition to attend the LDS temple one more time before my recommend expired, and this night was it.

I hadn’t walked inside those temple doors in over two years. Every time I thought about going again I got an instant ball of anxiety in my chest. I had never loved the temple, even in my orthodox days. Sometimes I liked the quiet. I used to like the banana cream pie back before they canceled the cafeterias. But never the rituals. The night I went through the endowment session for myself at age 24, I left a string of level-one curse words in my wake. “What the hell was that?” I had just put on some much-too-complicated clothing, received a new name that I would rather soon forget, promised to submit to a husband I didn’t yet have, and watched a film about earth's creation that was supposed to be made by God— Only it turned out that God was a terrible director, screenwriter, and casting director. But nobody else seemed to notice. Still, nothing bothered me more than the character Eve. Why were her eyes always so glassy? Like she was constantly in this state of wanting to cry out her sickening sweetness but never quite getting there. And her voice bugged me—what was it about her voice? Was it that tone of submission?

I left that night twelve years ago disappointed to say the very least. I went back, though—Many times. I never gave up on making the temple feel like the heavenly escape it was supposed to be. Eventually, I learned to enjoy the beauty and the stillness. I even learned to pretend to enjoy staring at a chandelier for a whole five minutes, and to stash candy in my pocket to keep myself awake through the creation film. But I never could bring myself to shake my aversion to that endowment session. And then, for reasons completely aside from my temple experience, my faith shifted.

It has been over two years since that faith shift. And over two years since I last attended the temple as a true-believing Mormon. I dreaded going back, but there I was, curiosity getting the better of me.

And the verdict?

I didn’t hate it. :)

I know, I know—not at all what I expected, but it’s true. I actually had a fairly pleasant night. And I know what you might be thinking: it’s because of the changes! And there were changes. For instance, I didn’t have to veil my face this time, I didn’t have to repeat a vocal submission to my husband (an improvement, for sure), and the whole session was thirty minutes shorter (thank my lucky Life Savers). But honestly, none of that made much difference to me. The heart of it all was still the same. Specifically the covenants—those laws we must promise to live or “face God’s judgment”: obedience, sacrifice, chastity, consecration… am I missing one? Well, anyways, just the kind of laws that make me think, “Damn, someone up there is suffering from anxious attachment. You know, that need for constant reassurance and oversight in order to calm their insecurity and fear of abandonment?” Yeah… that one.

No, the most notable change in the room wasn’t anything to do with the temple itself. It was me.

The former version of me who fasted and prayed for that temple experience years ago hated the temple because she felt trapped by it. Trapped by the belief that this whole thing was from God, and so the submission of women must be too. That this whole thing was from God, and so the self-abasing rhetoric, the controlling covenants, and the cringey script must be too.

But this time I was free from all of those walls of belief. And so I was free to notice the parts I don’t agree with and feel unthreatened by them.

I was free to notice the things I like as well:

The nostalgia I felt from putting on the dress again that I was married in eight years ago.

The woman’s name on my card whom I was symbolically letting into Heaven. Her name was Annie. I’ve always loved that name.

The soft music in the waiting room—that time to hear myself think.

The kind atmosphere. Everyone around me was so kind and calm, without a hint of rushing. And I found myself wanting return their kindness.

The beauty of the building itself.

Now, I’m sure I would enjoy the temple more and even find it an easier source of inspiration if the people in charge let up on the “binding” part of our relationship with God, or if they didn’t require 10% plus everything you own in theory to enter, or if they just listened when a town said “please build your steeple a bit shorter.” But despite the politics of upper management and my assumed unworthiness to be there in the first place (I enjoyed a spiked eggnog sample the night before), I felt the peace of the temple on Saturday night. It didn’t come from the structure, or the clothing, or the words (heavens no, not the words). It came from the people. From the temple workers who were eager to help when I lost my phone, or when I needed directions to the dressing room. And Annie from Nottingham, who probably hadn’t been thought about in a long time.

I don’t plan to renew my recommend. But who knows, maybe someday. For now, however, I’m glad I finally got to enjoy the temple. It’s just funny that I had to stop believing in it to get there.

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Staying and Staying is back for the religion themed posts only.

Thanks for your patience while I test the waters!

Wishing you all the best!

6’ 1” male

Tousled hair

Wry smile

That look in the eyes of someone who’s always overthinking things.

You may have guessed it. I’m not Zendaya in this story. I am Robert Pattinson all the way. Correction! Was Robert Pattinson.

Unlike the film, my story did not end with a wedding; it started with one.

Two, actually. The first was my own.

Let me catch you up with a run-on sentence: I met R when I was 27 and he was 26 and we hit it off instantly but even though I fell in love with him I didn’t want to get married because it scared the bejeebies out of me, but we were both Mormon and I didn’t want to lose him and I also didn’t want to slip up and go “too far” because I had this terrible habit of actually taking prophets seriously and believing them when they said premarital sex was “second to murder,” “worse than armed robbery,” and comparable to “crucifying Christ afresh” (wait, I thought we just decided it was second to murder… anyway…) so we got married in the temple eight months after our first date and, to sum it up, we had an amazing first year until I asked…

the question.

Funny enough, it was after another wedding that I first thought to ask. We were driving home at the end of the night when it came out of my mouth—the Mormon equivalent of the thing that sparked the whole plot of Emma and Charlie’s (Zendaya and Robert’s) unraveling:

What is the worst thing you’ve ever done?

How far have you gone?

Yes, this was the first time I’d asked—I know, I know. And no, he never tried to hide anything from me. It just… didn’t really come up. Maybe because good Mormons don’t bring up forgiven “sins.” Or maybe it was a bit of naivety. We had technically, briefly established that we were both virgins at some point. But let’s remember that even French kissing was a no-no for people like us, and I guess I never thought to clarify beyond that. The point is, just like in The Drama, the answer changed everything. I’m sure it sounds quite comical compared to finding out your partner nearly went through with a [censored spoiler], but it did. Because in my prophet-believing world, I had just found out that my husband had done the second worst thing! And what followed made Robert’s performance feel not just striking, but strikingly accurate:

Random sobbing fits: at work, at home, in the car, with a friend, in the shower, in the fetal position, you name it.

Untimely rumination: before, during, after, and in lieu of sex; after waking up, before falling asleep—basically all the time.

Compulsions to ask awkward questions: deeply invasive questions about his past relationships, prodding in hopes of finding evidence that he had some traumatic reasoning for his folly. Casually asking others about their past relationships, just hoping for some reassurance.

Fixation in the form of intrusive mental imagery: playing scenes over and over again in my mind, imagining what he was like with her, trying to find a different perspective on the story to relieve the pain.

The tossing of all reminders: Robert threw away his coffee mug. I threw away my lingerie.

The seriousness: you may have noticed the laughter and overall lightheartedness of the relationship come to an abrupt halt in the film. I can relate. The day eventually came for me when my husband said, “Ash, I think that’s the first time I’ve heard you laugh in two years.”

Scenes I Resonated Hard With

The book appearance: Actually a coincidence. Everything happens at the worst time in these stories. The day after the dreaded question, my husband and I drove to his parents’ house for breakfast. A framed picture of him with his ex was sitting on the table for our enjoyment. It just happened to be “go through the old junk” day.

The photography consultation: When everything reminds you of the thing you’re trying to forget. Every show we tried to watch together, the books I read, the conversations with acquaintances that unknowingly sent me reeling. Everything was a reminder. Everything stood out.

The Scene I Understood Too Well

The kiss: I never had the illicit lunch break moment, thank goodness. But watching Charlie have a breakdown with his coworker and then impulsively do his new "worst thing" was like watching myself in another universe. I just got it. He didn’t do it because he was caught up in a moment of lust, or because he didn’t really love Emma. He did it because he was desperate to relieve the pain that was causing him to single-handedly ruin the best thing that ever happened to him, and he felt like the only way out was to do the worst thing he was capable of at the moment, if only to get a hint of what it was like to be her. It was an impulsive, desperate attempt at empathy. And I was embarrassed to admit that I understood completely.

The Scene They Missed

If they had made the movie with zero cuts, I’m sure it would have included Zendaya’s character in the hospital with an inconvenient surgery days before the wedding. She would just be coming out of the anesthesia and Robert would, of course, be by her side. She wouldn’t know it yet, but after consoling her about her health and telling her how much he loved her, he would have had the intrusive thought to take the opportunity to clarify a few things about that one worst thing she ever did. Thankfully, he would stop himself short; instead, he would wonder for the rest of the night what the hell was wrong with him.

The Happy Ending

If you’ve seen this film, you may have thought it was about [censored spoiler], whether your past defines you, moral ambiguity, forgiveness—and it was. But it was also largely about relationship obsessive-compulsive disorder. A thing I didn’t even know existed until my own premier. And they covered it horrifyingly well.

I enjoyed the film’s wedding scene thoroughly. Whatever a happy ending even means in this story probably depends on who’s watching. I found myself outwardly relieved that I managed to be married to my guy a whole year before I asked the dreaded question that turned me into a relationship destroyer. Otherwise, I may have started my own honeymoon with a bloody nose and a bad reputation. But nay, our wedding was just my style: a small crowd, a free park, Dutch oven food, and a road trip to nowhere. The rest has been a whirlwind. But the real question is, do Rob and Zendaya stay together? And will they ever laugh again?

Well, R and I did :) Eight years, anyways, and counting. And though this isn’t meant to be a verdict on faith traditions, it was unraveling my religion that cured me of all the, well, “drama.” We laugh again. We talk about the past with no fear, no pain, no tears, and no intrusive questions. Just a new worst thing I ever did.

But I wonder: what will Robert’s character have to unravel to save his marriage if not religion? And will he figure it out before the blood dries?

I have my theories.

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What do you think happens after the credits? Which character if any did you resonate most with?

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Of course there are the obvious changes, the ones I noticed in others who have disentangled themselves from the LDS faith: less church attendance, absent garment lines, a coffee maker in the kitchen. But there have been some surprises too. I thought you might like to read a few of mine.

1. I feel compassion for spiders- I wrote about this here. They still make me jump, but I can’t see myself as better than them anymore. Spiders and other creatures have become almost humanized in a way. Annoying at times, but worthy of life.

2. I finally like my hair- a couple of braids overnight, let it free for days. It’s so simple and so me! How did this take me this long to tune in to my own hair preferences? The relationship I had with religion detached me from myself in a way I didn’t understand for years.

3. I’ve started to feel in touch with my personal style- I’m actually buying clothes I don’t hate these days, and feeling like I recognize more naturally what I like to wear and what I don’t. I’m closing the gap on long suffering.

4. I get super annoyed when Survivor players kill the chicken and then THANK them for their life- I eat chicken too, but let’s at least not pretend we had the chicken’s permission. I’m just saying, let’s call it what it is.

5. I stand up for myself more naturally- I recently had an experience in a church-like environment where once again a service was expected of me that didn’t feel like it stemmed from an equal relationship. I found myself standing up for my time and mental space so naturally it almost caught me off guard. I was soon offered payment for the service I refused to do for free.

6. Scary movies don’t scar me: I used to stay away from scary movies. They would keep me up all night! Still not my genre of choice to this day, but they’ve lost the power they used to have over me. And between Sinners and Heretic, I’ve even found some that felt deeply profound, and quite thrilling and thought provoking!

7. I process divorce, death, and change differently. Divorce used to wreck me, even when it was happening to a friend of a friend. It felt like a disruption of an eternal plan. Now despite the difficulty for the people involved, I can see hopeful paths forward. Life is ever evolving. Another thing that used to wreck me was thinking about my husband remarrying of I were to die. I made it clear that I didn’t want him to be sealed to anyone else. But now? I would want him to be happy and live his life with whoever adds to that happiness. It helps that I no longer believe in a god who gives us “agency” over our lives for a snippet only to take it away and command our relationships for eternity.

8. I’m not terrified for my children’s futures. Of course I expect to mourn some of my kids’ decisions. There will be things they learn the hard way and as parents, we’ll be along for the ride. But I’m not terrified of how they’ll turn out. They’re amazing kids and I trust them to live true to themselves, whatever experiences that brings them. No more anxiously planting visions of missions and temple marriage in their heads in fear of them ever leaving the church or choosing an unapproved path.

9. I appreciate pop culture a bit more. I used to look down on my friends a bit for watching reality TV. I thought it was so trashy. But somehow I’ve loosened up and have quite enjoyed some Secret Lives of Mormon Wives, Bachelorette/Bachelor nation, and others. But yes, there are still some I say no thank you to out of personal preference.

10. Makeup looks unnatural to me- not bad, just more… fancy. This is probably more of an effect from quitting makeup over a year ago, but the only reason I quit makeup was because I never enjoyed it, and because I decentered the systems that thrived on the perspective that I have to cover myself in a way men don’t in order to be beautiful/professional enough. Now I’ve noticed that both men and women look natural to me when they go without makeup. I am happy for anyone who wears makeup if that’s what brings them joy organically.

Anyways! These are a few of the unexpected changes in my deconstructing journey. I’m sure there will be more. Life is change!

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Please add, I’m dying to know :) Have you had any unexpected changes from deconstructing? For good or bad?

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“I disagree,” she said. I leaned forward in my seat and perked my ears… “Jesus did NOT say love yourself. He said quite the opposite actually. He told us to lose ourselves and to serve God and our neighbor. And I think that’s what we ought to do.”

Yeah! You TELL her! I thought. The teacher preaching self-love was way off base. Imagine, women loving themselves! One day they’re whispering affirmations in a mirror, the next they’d be divorcing their husbands, ditching the kids for a month-long yoga retreat in Bali, and worst of all (gasp)…masturbating. Love yourself, what blasphemy…

I write in jest, but in reality this memory makes me kind of, well, sad. Sad for the teacher who probably had gone through something sacred and personal to learn the lesson she was now offering her fellow sisters. Sad for myself and other women in the room who didn’t have it in our hearts to appreciate it for ourselves.

I just didn’t understand yet what “self love” COULD mean for me!

When she said Love Yourself what I heard was this:

Lie to yourself

Exaggerate your qualities

Overcompensate for your inferiority complex by pretending you meet standards which you obviously don’t

Give away your self awareness

Forget about empathy and the real world problems

And when it comes to all things you?

Be obsessed

No wonder I shirked the message of self-love. In my mind it contradicted the one thing I have always valued highly— authenticity. But it doesn’t have to mean that. We can break down the tricky word “love” to take better care of our interpretations so that we don’t have to lose ourselves in the cracks. “Love yourself” doesn’t have to mean this

What if “love yourself” means something more like this:

Loving yourself means BEING yourself

“Being yourself isn’t about always knowing who you are. It’s about showing up as you are… and when we do that we not only connect more deeply with ourselves. We connect deeply with one another.” https://youtu.be/O-LCs2YtaYI?si=saEB9LMRA1ssVmJd

Being myself was when I took extra day to finish every story I wrote in my third grade class, because I was simply obsessed. When I peed my pants in kindergarten because I laughed so hard at a Mr. Bean video that I lost control of ALL my faculties. And in my thirties when I detached from garments and finally started getting in touch with what clothes I enjoy wearing and how I like to keep my hair.

Loving yourself means enjoying yourself

Enjoying myself was staying up late to read my new Harry Potter book, spontaneous road trips with friends, and being outdoors with my family. It was also getting the gumption to ditch the makeup, not because it’s wrong, but because I didn’t enjoy it.

Loving yourself means seeing yourself

Seeing myself was when I stopped believing every moment made me good or bad and started seeing the reasons behind my struggles and my successes. It was getting back to the little things I’ve always loved like travel, music, and an I Love Lucy night.

Loving yourself means having compassion for yourself

Self Compassion was when I learned better mindsets instead of a repeating a repentance cycle for mental and emotional struggles. When I stopped putting myself down to make others feel better. And when I did the work to find a good therapist.

Loving yourself means taking a chance on yourself

Taking a chance on myself was when I accepted my first professional job offer even though the thought of failing terrified me at first. When I said yes to love, even though I felt incapable of the vulnerability. And when I started taking better care of my appearance after postpartum depression because I was worth the care.

I imagine there are many ways to love yourself. Hopefully we don’t give up the whole shebang because it simply gets lost in translation. We’re so worth figuring it out.

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What does “love yourself” mean to you?

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I’ll let you in on a little secret. I love Jesus. like super duper adore that guy. And I don’t even need him to be real. I guess I think of him more like an imaginary friend, that place in my heart I go to when I want to feel seen and loved at the same time, or when I need courage, or some other attribute I haven’t quite been able to access in the moment.

But the thing is, this imaginary friend Jesus used to come with a lot of strings attached. I hate to say it but… he was kinda the ultimate snowflake. The guy got offended by pretty much everything I did. I made him sad, like, all the time: when I forgot to pray before getting into bed, when I ran to the grocery store on a Sunday for chips, or wore short shorts. I’m pretty sure he ugly cried when I watched a rated R movie.

I got really good at saying sorry to him. He always felt better after I begged his forgiveness from a proper fetal position. I used to ask him to please help me learn how to be as good as he was so I could stop making him sad. Cause obviously pleasing him was my ultimate validation in life. If I said something mean to a peer, I said sorry to Jesus first. If I had a decision to make in my life, I asked myself what Jesus would want me to choose.

And they told me in my little church school that Jesus wanted me to choose for myself…

😂

They said a lot of things…

That he loved me so I should love him back—it was for my own good.

That he died for me, so I owed him my life.

That he’s gets sad when children are irreverent in primary

That he would never force us to do anything, but we could never please him until we willingly gave him the controls

[Pause for a moment of grace for everyone who has regurgitated Jesus interpretations. I’ve done it too ;)]

Ahhhh sigh. Turns out when we all inherit the same imaginary friend, we also inherit some pretty stark projections from the people who got to decide first what he was like.

Maybe that’s why men who grew up in authoritarianism preach of gods with brandished swords, while others focus on the lamb. And why some modern Christian’s have developed a god who prefers to control through guilt trips and alligator tears…and telling us who to marry, how many children to have, and what university to attend.

Yep, I used to bend over backwards for the Jesus who wore all these hats. But as I’ve read more about different ways of being in relationship with someone, I’ve  noticed something: the Jesus I inherited has a lot of emotional intelligence work to do! It’s almost like he’s one of…us!

It seems we get so caught up defending who was right about our mutual friend that we forget to let him grow.

Now I don’t know how much truth there is to the Christian versions of Jesus, but I do know this: my imaginary friend Jesus and I have a much healthier relationship now. Eventually, We realized that submission and control isn’t a very healthy or happy way to relate to anyone, god or otherwise, that we can actually be close friends when we are equals, and that both of our desires and perspectives matter. We both realized that no one can ever sacrifice enough to deserve my agency, and no one who really loves me would ask for it. A lot has changed between me and him, but there’s something at the heart of us that stays the same.

We don’t talk much anymore, but when we do it feels just like old times, before the covenants and the rituals and the constant disappointment, when he was simply that safe place I could turn to after waking up from a nightmare.

He’s never disappointed in me, and I don’t ask his permission to live. He trusts me to figure it out.

He knows me better than anyone and loves me because of who I am, not despite who I am

When I need a little courage boost or a new perspective, he’s happy to help. He knows I’d do the same for him.

He doesn’t want my submission. He wants my consent.

He doesn’t want my guilt, he wants my growth.

He never threatens to leave me alone, he’s always there when I’m ready to talk.

Almost like he’s been there the whole time. Like Jesus is really just a piece of me that has been there the whole time.

And I love that little piece of me. She doesn’t need to be controlled, she just needs love. Not service, not pity disguised as love, and not tough love. More like the, me too, I get it, tell me more, I believe in you kind of love.

I get a glimpse of my Jesus friend sometimes at church, or in a verse of ancient writings some call scripture. but a lot of the testimonies there still reflect a Jesus I can’t entertain anymore. A codependent authority figure who thinks I’m the only who needs to change. But little does he know, he’s changing too. Because we are changing, growing, learning, healing. And the Jesus we carry in our minds and hearts? He was always just a little piece of (Jes)us anyways.

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I used to think I knew what my beliefs were…the big ones, the kind I could write down and recite in Sunday school. But through RJOCD, I eventually had to come to terms with beliefs I didn’t even know were there. I would wake up in a panic out of nowhere, or feel myself start to spiral because of words that were meant to be comforting, and not understand why. Deep down underneath the redemption doctrines that were supposed to fix everything, sneaky little beliefs were causing my symptoms and working completely undetected. I could feel the source, but couldn’t see it.

Eventually, the search for healing led me to unearth those and more.

Some like this:

• I have to feel bad about myself to learn and grow.

• Submission to spiritual authority protects me spiritually and physically

• Modesty makes me worthy of love

• I am not as smart as men

• I am more spiritual than men

• I can only feel whole when I am pure

• Men are inherently more visual/sexual than women—I wrote about this here:

• A prophet’s authority is more important than a woman’s consent

• There is only one plan for my life, and I have to figure out what it is so I don’t mess it up

• Authoritarianism is the law of Heaven

I had to reform some crucial underlying beliefs in order to heal from the symptoms that surfaced in my late twenties, and I’ve been fascinated with submerged beliefs ever since. I find myself wondering…

• How can I shape my beliefs to sustain spiritual connection and freedom simultaneously?

• What micro-beliefs are holding me back from showing up fully in my relationships?

• What perspectives can I learn from that might reverse my tendency to shrink?

I’ve also tried to discover, in moments of wholeness, what my foundational beliefs are that make those feelings possible.

…

I remember learning the truth about Santa Claus once upon a time. It was such a letdown to have a magical belief shattered. As a child, I thought Christmas would never feel the same. Then the story of Jesus changed for me, and similar feelings surfaced. But eventually I learned that there were things about the story of Santa and the story of Jesus that were true all along:

That every child is worth circling the earth for, and that every life has the capacity to be held by complete understanding and complete love.

"When we deny our stories, they define us. When we own our stories, we get to write a brave new ending." -Brene Brown

So here’s to unlearning the submerged beliefs that hold us back, and learning the little things that help us grow out of our obstacles.

What is something you have had to unlearn to feel whole or free again? A belief you have grown out of?

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“In the 1960s, psychiatrist Aaron Beck was working with his clients when he suddenly realized it was their beliefs that were causing their problems. Just before they felt Wave of anxiety or depression, something quickly flashed before their minds… they weren’t beliefs people were usually conscious of… yet Beck found he could teach people to pay attention and hear them. And then he discovered he could teach them how to work with and change these beliefs.”

-Carol Dweck in Mindset: the new psychology of success. How we can learn to fulfill our potential.

When do we learn something is so true that we must guard ourselves against any other learning that might unravel it? There are so many sneaky little beliefs that have the power to hold us back, and so many more that have the power to set us free.

I LOVE beginnings. Partly because There are no expectations in them. Just last December I did something for the first time at 34 years old. I played in my first recital (the violin, I should mention that)! Eep! It was glorious. I felt no nerves. I was after all a beginner. No one expected much of me, including myself. Any note I happened to play right was just a bonus! I made mistakes and felt zero anxiety about it.

Fast forward to my second recital about a month ago. My goodness, the nerves, I shook so bad by the end you might have thought it was on purpose (it wasn’t)!

And then it hit me.

Oh my goodness, I’ve been writing on this Substack for more than a year and I don’t believe I deserve to grow anymore!

Starting out from scratch I really couldn’t lose. I had nothing to lose and every post was proof that I was leaning into something new. But a year goes by and suddenly every post comes with nerves. Every other writer’s eloquence evidence of my deficit. Proof that I’m not a good writer, that I’m out of touch, lacking ability, unlikable.

And I. am. pumped about it. Because new beliefs can change everything, and I am ready to challenge more of them. Turns out the beliefs, not the rules, were actually the most harmful aspects of religion, for me. And if I can change my deeply held religious beliefs to grow myself into more freedom then I can change my mindset about anything! For awhile, No amount of therapy seemed able to break me free from the postpartum ocd and anxiety that blindsided me as a new wife and mom. Dismantling beliefs did. Oh it was difficult…Several months just to stop believing that if I left the house in colored underwear I would surely be hit by a bus and deserve it.

But I believe differently now. And I realize that this is my chance to keep doing “recitals” even after the nerves kick in, to keep putting in effort after the beginners high. To keep writing when I feel intimidated by 270 subscribers who might have expectations of me. To practice proving my effort/resilience to myself instead of my ability. And to challenge the belief that says you can only try when you have nothing to lose.

I may not succeed at delivering, but I can sure succeed at trying—EVEN when I lose subscribers, EVEN when I feel so insignificant compared to better writers or violinists, etc., and even when I have no idea if anyone else will resonate with something I put put there. I can keep trying because it’s a struggle I love, effort is our real success, and as my favorite quote from Meet Joe Black says, “if you haven’t tried, you haven’t lived.”

The first time I heard about the regency phenomenon called Bridgerton, I was a devout Mormon talking to another devout Mormon. Have you heard about that new show people are loving these days? I hadn’t. Well, it has a ton of sex and nudity. Even some Mormons are watching it.

Gasp! What was this world coming to? How were the men supposed to survive spiritually? Surely Jesus would pull the plug on the shit show any minute, and hopefully before my husband sees another woman’s breasts on screen and stumbles out of his spiritual straitjacket.

Aside from the snarcasm though, when contributing to topics of this sort, I understand as well as the next that the fears around nudity (and let’s be honest—female nudity) are very real; the anxiety is real, and the pain is real.

But the bodies are not the cause. Beliefs are. Beliefs such as these:

• That men and women are sexual opposites

• That gender inequality is fixed, not learned

• And that nudity is more dangerous than authoritarianism

Women and men are not sexual opposites. But in popular culture, sex drive holds the power, and that power presumably belongs to men. Only it isn’t power at all, rather something that has power over us. Because we are not the drivers, “biology” is. God-fearing folks call it the natural man, but both sides of the aisle agree on one thing: sexuality is the end-all, unalterable difference between men and women.

Men need sex, women give sex

Men are sexual, women are spiritual

Men are visual creatures, women are emotional creatures

Straight men are slaves to female bodies, and women—well, we don’t really have to worry about them

Pornography and lust are “every man’s battle.”

Men cheat, and women forgive

Faithful men learn to fear attractive women who aren’t their wives

Women learn to fear other women as threats to their relationships

Women become managers of male sexuality, and men enable—Both having sex to satisfy a need rather than to adore an intimate partner.

Women dress down to attract men, or dress up to protect them

Women are sexually passive, men are sexually aggressive

Now, I’m not saying there aren’t sexual differences between many men and many women, but we are more alike than we think. And most importantly, this: If we fall for the trope that men and women are polar opposites, then we make it nearly impossible to learn from one another.

Men and Women are equally visual

Men are not more visually aroused than women. This fact is not based on one study, but an analysis of 61 magnetic resonance imaging studies. 1Almost 2,000 women and men of different sexual orientations were exposed to erotic stimuli. The analysis showed no significant differences between the sexes. Sexual orientation had an impact, but the differences in arousal between men and women? Zip. In fact, the only notable difference was that women consistently responded to the stimuli, while men’s arousal decreased with repeated exposure.

So if the difference between males and females isn’t in the arousal itself, it must be in the way we process arousal.

This is where gender myths come into play. Here’s an example of the impact our beliefs about gender can play in our processing.

A Study on Modesty Messaging

What happens when adolescent girls internalize certain messages about modesty? This study among white evangelicals2 found that these five internalized beliefs were associated with low self-esteem and nearly doubled the risk of sexual harassment and assault of the women. Here are the five tropes, and boy, did they look familiar:

1. Gender essentialism: “The idea that men and women are fundamentally different and cannot understand each other’s experiences.”

2. Sexual prosperity gospel: A good sex life requires you to preserve yourself for your one and only marriage partner

3. Immodesty as a stumbling block: “The belief that men cannot control (and therefore are not responsible for) their sexual impulses, hence women are responsible for not causing men to sin based on how revealing they dress or act.”

4. Gendered surveillance: “A woman’s clothing is a visual representation of her holiness, love for God, and level of spirituality, and therefore her overall value and worth.”

5. Inner modesty: “Modesty goes beyond clothing choices and reflects attitudes toward female sexuality and broader social interactions in general, often emphasizing a demure or submissive demeanor (girls talk too much).”

I’ve been thinking about Sex and World Peace. In this book, researchers find that the way a society treats its women informs human relations on all levels.

“Gender equality is the greatest predictor of peace—stronger than democracy levels, wealth, or religion.”

Essentially, gender equality can prevent wars.

And if gender equality can prevent actual wars, then it can also prevent the war inside. What we believe about women and men matters. And what happens when we believe that women and men are sexual opposites and that men can’t help themselves? We get a society that conditions men to see women as objects to be either consumed or conquered.

Many of our prominent male figures (both fictional and historical) have been caught in this wrestle:

Ghandi: refusing sex with his wife, sleeping next to naked teenage girls to test his willpower. He saw women as something to conquer.

Donald Trump: Sexually assaulting multiple women and criticizing women’s bodies that he doesn’t have access to. He sees women as something to consume.

Indiana Jones: sleeping with women he despises. Consume.

Claude Frollo (The Hunchback of Notre-Dame): He becomes obsessed with lust for Esmeralda and despises her for it. Projecting his shame onto her, he attempts to purge his sins by giving her the option to submit and marry him or suffer the gallows. Conquer.

Whether consuming women lustfully or conquering them spiritually, there’s one thing the “worldly” man and the “godly” man have in common: they don’t see women as equals. And all of it because we believe men and women are so different sexually.

Why authoritarianism is behind it all

What is an authoritarian? “It’s a person who is eager to submit to authority; who believes in hierarchy; who sees the world in terms of us vs. them.” - Sheila Wray Gregoire

Sheila Wray Gregoire

Why Are So Many Duggars PDFiles?

Another Duggar son has been charged with sexually abusing a child…

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5 months ago · 248 likes · 51 comments · Sheila Wray Gregoire

Sheila believes that you can’t have misogyny without authoritarianism “because misogyny is based on hierarchy.” It is a system of control, not equality. This is why, whatever our beliefs, we might do well to dethrone authoritarian ideas of God. Because worshipping a god who punishes his children, demands unquestioned obedience, and silences humans who fall lower on the spiritual hierarchy puts us at risk of following authoritarian figures who speak in his name. And puts us at risk of living out these traits in our day-to-day relationships. When people are raised in a system caught between submission and control, that relationship can bleed into other areas of their lives, including their sexuality. Then bodies (and nudity) become hypersexualized objects to consume or to control.

So, should we just desexualize nudity?

Yessss! And…no.

Desexualizing nudity can be a first step. But something about this motion makes me pause. And it’s because of this guy:

Lawrence Casler studied 115 nudists and discovered something intriguing. Nudist men didn’t get erections in the presence of undressed women.3 It wasn’t because they were biologically different from most men; rather, Casler thought it was because of what nudity meant to them. And naked women on the beach meant volleyball, not sex.

Actually, many nudist men reported arousal when in the presence of fully clothed women.

What nudity means to us is everything. But if desexualizing nudity is the only way to make nudity safe, then something is wrong with our sexuality.

I desexualized nudity when I was still Mormon. And it freed me in a lot of ways. (Unlike my roommate’s boyfriend, who was devastated to find out that the girl he hoped to marry had seen other penises while caring for men’s health as a CNA). But not in the most important ones. Because the way we process sexual nudity is just as important as how we process non-sexual nudity.

As a single twenty-something, I could watch non-sexual nudity on the screen with maturity. Even sexualized PG-13 scenes weren’t an issue. But when I was first married to my husband, suddenly everything became a threat. I blocked out the screen every time we watched my favorite movie during the five seconds that showed a woman in lingerie leaving the room with half her breast exposed. I was terrified of her. Because this is what I had been conditioned to believe: That men were slaves to the female body and that my best chance at a fulfilling marriage was steering my husband’s eyes from accidentally seeing what he really wanted.

We both got really good at anxious avoidance. I thought couples who left the church and started watching shows with sex scenes weren’t experiencing anything different than us; they were just giving in to lust instead of conquering it.

But something changed. And it wasn’t desensitization. In three years I went from avoiding the slightest hint of nudity on screen to happily watching all five seasons of Bridgerton with my husband; and when the first sex scene came up, we didn’t masturbate… we f@#%$! teared up! Because we were moved.

Moved by the music that spoke the sacred into every touch.

Moved by the actors who were vulnerable enough to tell the story.

Moved by the equal skin visibility between the women and the men.

And moved by our own freedom after unlearning so many tropes that were passed onto us through our religion and popular culture.

I no longer believed that men were more sexual than women.

I no longer believed that men should have authority over women.

I no longer believed that God should have authority over men.

When we are equal, we can learn from each other. Then maybe women can learn that they are not responsible for managing men’s sexuality. And maybe men can learn to behold beauty and move on—without needing to conquer or consume it—because they won’t see it as a threat in the first place.

Do I ever turn it off?

Yes! I change the show or turn off the movie just like I used to. But this time for different reasons. Not because of nudity. Bodies tell a story. Bodies are not dangerous. However, I do find myself avoiding scenes that glorify unequal power dynamics, sell misogyny as normal and acceptable, or idealize depersonalized sex. Not because watching these scenes would defile me. But because I do not care for the messages that kept me stuck for so long. I want to see more of these beliefs dismantled. So that when we see sex on the screen, we can tell the difference between intimacy and dominance, consent and coercion, and myths about gender and sexuality, instead of just seeing what parts were covered or uncovered.

For a long time, I lived in a world where nudity was a battlefield. You either consumed it as a predator or conquered it as a saint—turning your eyes away to prove your purity. But there is another way: The way of the beholder.

To behold is not to use. To behold is to see the dignity of the person and let them remain whole, even in their nakedness. Instead of running from the screen or using it for a cheap thrill, we can let the story consume us, rather than trying to consume or conquer the body. Because when you truly see someone, you realize they aren’t an accessory to your arousal—they are a soul that tells a story. And sometimes it tells a story so intimate and beautiful that you can’t help but believe in humanity again. But first, we need gender equality to appreciate it… and eyes that can see through authoritarianism. Because we deserve to learn from each other.

My thoughts are far from writing about Mormonism. I have a nearly finished piece on the false dichotomy of nudity that has sat on my notes page for months. That and countless others that never made it to this newsletter. I get real with myself. I haven’t loved writing about religion since last summer.

Maybe I’m an Elphaba and not a Glinda, satisfied to capture my oz man and run for the wilderness.

I wonder if the reason our dead don’t linger is the same reason that I have this unshaken desire to take what’s left of me after shedding my Mormon skin and just go. My writings weren’t planned ahead. They were lived. And then we left, and I lost the need to process out loud.

I wonder what I would lose if I quit it all now. It’s been such a haven for me along the way. I love the community I’ve found here. But I can’t keep writing to run from sunk cost or to change Mormonism or even to influence the people who are in it. The world is not a problem to be solved and neither is the church. At least not by me. Oh yes I’ll stutter a “BS” from time to time when I come across a hurtful belief: like modesty (which apparently is tied to increased risk of sexual assault and harassment when internalized. https://open.substack.com/pub/baremarriage/p/new-research-modesty-messages-groom?r=2j0uww&utm_medium=ios ) But I’m not going to do much good by engaging in an organization I don’t want any business with anymore.

So I sit here, wondering who you are, you who are reading this right now, and wondering if I’ll ever write something again that moves you. Because I’d love to talk Mormonism all day with others who have left. We still have so much more to discuss. But the honest truth is, when I sit down on a quiet night with only the moon to witness my productivity, I know I could write it all down, but I’d rather just turn on a documentary and finger my violin.

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We saw the message on pass along cards, tv ads, billboards, and film—each featuring individuals around the world; individuals from many walks of life but who all had one thing in common.

The brilliance of this campaign was showing the world that anyone could be a Mormon.

Actors

Rockstars

Surgeons

Kick boxers

Mothers

Fathers

Survivors

People with disabilities

Athletes

Musicians

Scientists

Now as the church seems to be getting territorial over their Mormon identity again (suing Mormon Stories and John Dehlin over it) I find myself reimagining this campaign with a slight twist.

I have a figurative badge, my “I’m a Mormon” badge. When I want people to know I am no longer tethered to Mormon beliefs and loyalties I call myself some form of an ex-Mormon. When I want members of the church to know that I understand plenty well what the church is and what it isn’t, or I want to be heard and not dismissed, I put the badge back on.

I can’t be a Mormon in every sense because being Mormon means certain things. but definitions change. And I can’t help but wonder…what could happen in some alternate reality where the church launched the “I’m a Mormon” campaign with a different kind of diversity in mind? Let’s try it on for size:

• I’m a Mormon…and I don’t believe in prophets because I think it’s dangerous to defer critical thinking skills to anyone

• I’m a Mormon… and I believe that Joseph Smith coercing girls and women into “marriage” was wrong and a dangerous thing to justify today.

• I’m a Mormon… and I believe people should be free to learn from their own mistakes and get help from professionals without going through a man for their self worth

• I’m a Mormon… and I make my own clothing and underwear choices based on what feels good to me organically, not what feels required for my belonging

• I’m a Mormon… and I am happy for those who get out of the church for their own well being. I am not afraid of their stories.

• I’m a Mormon… and I make my own choices concerning sexuality, valuing integrity, sincerity, and physical/emotional safety over purity beliefs

• I’m a Mormon… and I don’t pay tithing because it doesn’t sit right with me to give my hard earned money to a 260 billion dollar church

• I’m a Mormon… and I will never dismiss the harm the church has caused to someone, whether it be an abuse coverup or developmental trauma. We can all learn from more awareness.

• I’m a Mormon… and I don’t believe I need a savior to suffer and die to make me right with god. I don’t need a god who loves me despite my deficit. I need a god that symbolizes complete understand and complete love while allowing me space to live my own unique story.

• I’m a Mormon… and the temple is $&@!&?@! Weird to me. I’m not going to do the work of desensitizing myself in order to convince myself of its holiness.

• I’m a Mormon… and I believe women should have equal decision making power in the church. Yep, let’s get a woman at the top or at least a female co presidency.

• I’m a Mormon… and I don’t do missionary work. Recruitment tactics can be an easy indicator that an organization doesn’t have your best interests at heart.

• I’m a Mormon… and I think it’s a red flag when a man in power attempts to persuade followers to prioritize young marriages and child bearing.

• I’m a Mormon… and I think the implication that families will be separated against their will in the afterlife for disobedience is a convenient way to get away with control while claiming that you aren’t like those other religions who actually separate families for disobedience

• I’m a Mormon and I belong!

I’ve seen a lot of defensive deflecting in the face of criticism of the church recently. And I can’t help but wonder, do these members really think they can’t enjoy their religion without defending the religious and sexual abuse done by Joseph Smith? If they can’t, it’s not their fault. But I would love to see us try. Because if this religion can’t survive without justifying abuse, it must be a fragile one indeed.

So be a Mormon if you will! And love it! But do it because you want to, not because Joseph was actually a safe man (because he wasn’t), or because the Book of Mormon is true (because who cares if it’s “true” really), or because you need someone to grant you worthiness (you don’t). The church can survive without us lying to ourselves. Or can it?

I’d love to find out.

Hello everyone! Wow, the past few weeks have been crazy with spring break, food poisoning (not mine-sorry hubby), and grieving the end of my beloved Bridgerton awakening. But somewhere in there I wrote a song about letting go of prophets. So here’s the context and lyrics if you’re somewhat curious.

CONTEXT:

This is my song version of an essay I wrote last year. (Check it out below).

I wrote it for my younger self, that Mormon gal who believed it all—and consequently spent more than a few sleepless nights in angry, hot tears because, LIKE SO MANY OTHER WOMEN, she felt trapped in a space where the prophet could never be wrong.

Deep down, Joseph Smith’s actions felt wrong—Coercing, commanding, manipulating, and spiritually abusing young girls and women into relationships they didn’t want. But the idea was that if you have a problem with this, you were the problem, the one who didn’t have enough “faith” to accept it. We are expected to pray away our own conscience—to make the prophet and his god more palatable and somehow justify unsafe behavior. But oh, the freedom and relief when I finally got the courage to break down the walls!

So this is my breakup song for Joseph Smith. A message to my younger self to say: “Hey, I know you’re not able to let go of him yet, but don’t worry—I’m doing it for both of us. Turns out you were never the problem; it was always him. You’re going to be okay on the other side…in fact, you’re going to LOVE it.

LYRICS:

I’ve been a little vicious with your boy, he’s been a little too fun to destroy

I know you’re thanking me from the archived dreams where you didn’t have a choice

I’ve done a little digging lately, I’ve felt a little ransomed by it all

I’m thinking maybe you should try it, you should try it ooooh

And when the stars burn out they don’t fall, they threaten to take us all, threaten to take us all

And when the truth comes out, you won’t fall, I reckon you’ll have a ball, reckon you’ll have a ball

What was I to do when every word that killed him summoned me back to life

I promise you don’t need him, let go and you’ll see that you’re gonna be alright

I know it can be hard to see truth through the lies, but after the dark will come the light

Oooohooo ooohooo oooohoooo

And if we didn’t hold him so high, he wouldn’t have so damn far to fall

excuses I made for his god, turns out he was human after all

True prophets never fall, some stars they die and fool us all

Ooohooo ooohooo ooohooo

And I don’t wanna wreck his name, I just wanna tear it from the sky

Maybe you know why, I think you know why

And if we didn’t hold him so high, we wouldn’t have so damn far to fall

and if we didn’t love the illusion, we wouldn’t be so dillusional

True prophets never fall, some stars they die and fool us all

Ooohooo true prophets never fall, some stars they die and fool us all

I’ve been a little vicious with his name, I’ve been a little rescued by it

he’s got a lot of victims he can claim, I’ve felt a little strangled by it

alll, true prophets never fall, some stars they die and fool us all

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If you’re keeping up on The Secret Lives of Mormon Wives at all, I think it’s safe to say that Demi is unpopular these days. And it’s not because of the Fruity Pebbles.

It all goes back to an accusation she made that a man she was allegedly flirting with grabbed her backside without her consent. The response so far has been a lawsuit for defamation and a stream of backlash online. It seems her three most unforgivable crimes are:

1. Ruining a man’s reputation with an alleged lie.

2. Lowering the status of other women’s pain by elevating her own “minor” grievance.

3. Disturbing the peace by bringing her problem to the public instead of handling it privately.

First, when it comes to the courtroom, there’s a reason for “innocent until proven guilty.” But outside of the courtroom, scrutinizing a victim isn’t about protecting a man’s rights; it’s about protecting his status. A reputation is a touchy sort of thing. But I hesitate to assume a popular man’s name would be ruined by his grabbing women anywhere without consent. In fact, if he learns to resist apologizing, he might just become our next president. And as for the “lie,” considering how often men are given a blind eye for sexual misconduct even when the truth is undeniable, I wonder if our social habit of discrediting a woman’s story is just a cover-up for society’s little secret: we don’t give a damn.

But what is actually astounding to me is how often society scrutinizes a victim’s pain to see if they are worthy of the cost. Demi did not pass the “hurt test.” But who does? Even Elizabeth Smart, kidnapped and repeatedly abused for months at the age of 14, was accused of not being “physiologically damaged” enough to justify a life sentence for her captors—defense attorneys arguing that she hadn’t “suffered more than other victims of similar crimes.”1

Society loves fragile women, just not high-maintenance ones

Often, when a woman speaks up about sexual misconduct, she is quickly labeled as a victim or a survivor, but it’s important to acknowledge that she is something else as well: a reporter. Yet as soon as she offers up her story, she is the one on trial—her character, motives, and her trauma. The information is then interpreted to mean something about the victim instead of the wrongdoer. “She was giving mixed signals, she was drunk, she was stupid, she’s lying to cover up her own issues, she just wants attention, she’s making a big deal out of nothing.” Why is it so easy to project meaning onto a reporter and so difficult to just say, “he’s not a safe person?” But there’s another element to the issue—the status of suffering. The fact that we feel other women who have “had it so much worse” are somehow diminished by another’s complaint about nonconsensual groping reveals something about society: we have created a hierarchy of trauma where the bar is higher for ‘worthy’ reporters and lower for the standards of consent. We demand that a victim “pay” for the right to speak by showing a specific amount of physiological or psychological damage. We conclude that if she isn’t destroyed, then he isn’t dangerous.

Why must a reporter of misconduct prove their pain to hold people to a higher standard? Even those who were supportive of Demi turned their attention directly to her pain instead of his behavior, saying things like, “I’m so sorry for what happened to you,” instead of, “that was wrong of him to do.” It seems we are tugging at the weeds of victimhood instead of the roots of entitlement accountability.

I watched a couple of seasons back when Demi ran to her husband and announced that Chase had “laid hands on her.” I saw the hands, too, and we all know it was an overreaction. But I think the bigger question is: Why does a woman feel she needs to be “fragile” to be noticed? I believe the answer is patriarchy—a system that traps men and women in a gender hierarchy by stripping both of their humanity and individuality. It creates a world where a woman has to be broken to be believed, and a man has to be unbreakable to be respected.

This is why boys and men so rarely come forward about abuse; they know that in a system that equates pain with “fragility,” silence is the only way to keep their status. Meanwhile, women are left fighting to prove how fragile they are— yet somehow without “complaining” about it—just to keep theirs.

Consent Intelligence vs. The “Good Guy”

The problem is not that we “manage too much” of a man’s behavior. The problem is when we let “low consent intelligence” go unchecked because we’re too busy judging the victim until it blows up in court cases and the public eye.

Aim small, miss small. If we want to fix the entitlement that leads to sexual misconduct, we have to stop grading victims on how hurt they are and start grading people on how safe they are. This starts with internal work. The bar for Consent Intelligence is higher than “not being a criminal.” For instance, you might not be a safe person yet if you:

• Pressure a partner (including a marriage partner) to go further than they want to

• Lie about yourself (your fidelity, your intentions, your status, your feelings) to gain access to someone’s body.

• Are difficult to break up with, essentially holding someone hostage through emotional manipulation.

• Use belittling language, jokes, or overpowering displays of emotion to maintain power in relationships.

• Grab someone’s ass without enthusiastic feedback, assuming that “no protest” is the same as a “yes.”

Cohesion vs. Solidarity

In Utah, we so often value cohesion over solidarity. We want peace at any price as long as the price isn’t a man’s status or reputation in his circle, his church, his community. To bring a problem to the public is to “disturb the peace.”

Writer captured this dynamic perfectly when she recounted her experience reporting a coach who was inappropriately touching teenage girls—including slapping their butts, kissing some girls on the forehead, and traveling unsupervised with the girls. She writes:

“I saw most of these violations firsthand and reported them each time, to no avail. There was always a group of good ol’ boys ready to defend his honor and save his reputation, while at the same time pegging me as a bitter, bitchy mom that just wanted to ruin his reputation... Men in positions of power over this coach told me I was too sensitive and was seeing things that just weren’t what they seemed; they questioned my motives and my character.”2

Years later, that same coach was finally turned in by other parents for further misconduct and “allowed to retire.”

We say, “Keep it private, don’t drag a man’s name into the public eye just to satisfy your desperate need for attention.” But the results of the private conversations are often the same. If we valued solidarity over cohesion and reputation, reporters like Stephenie or Demi would be seen as helpful and useful instead of threats to the group’s peace. By focusing on whether a woman is “hurt enough,” we shift the burden of proof from the actor’s conduct to the victim’s resilience.

The backlash against Demi isn’t just about what happened with Marciano; it’s about the fact that she forced the public to look at a behavior they’d rather ignore, perhaps because most of us are also guilty of breaching similar boundaries for the sake of status. The next time someone makes a big deal about a non-consensual ass grab, instead of giving them the side eye, we might do well to remember that we need more consent intelligence in our world, not less, and that society gave them an impossible job: be fragile enough to be noticed, but low maintenance enough to keep the peace. And that maybe we wouldn’t have so many unsafe people in our circles if we stopped awarding status based on gender hierarchy, and made more of a fuss about the ass grabs.

2

More Questions Than Answers

Why am I the bad guy, when you touched that butt?

After reading Celeste Davis’s article this week, detailing the elaborate smear campaigns against Amber Heard and Blake Lively for reporting abuse, I thought of my own situation a few years ago…

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2 years ago · 11 likes · Stephenie G.

I watched the culturally rich performance by Bad Bunny last night—despite the way some corners of Christian culture framed the imagery as ‘anti-Christian’— and consequently, I woke this morning with a mind to do the devil’s work. To write a few words against one of the highest and the holiest of all virtues: that of purity.

I have a useful resource to draw from—I can still pick my 28-year-old brain from time to time. That was the year I gave up my natural disposition for inquiry and critical thinking in exchange for an allegiance that promised protection, certainty, and moral superiority in a frightening world.

Submission was the only way I knew to receive the miracles I needed. You see, I had a vexing problem. I had done all the things I was supposed to do—I married in the temple, birthed a beautiful child, and gave more than a tenth of my income to my church for starters. Yet, I had never been more miserable in all my life. Because a year into my marriage, I was hit with a strong spell of retrospective jealousy OCD, which I wrote about here.

My mental health dive took a heavy toll on my new marriage, and I desperately needed help. That is when I began to change, began to conform in hopes that I might transform, and for whatever reason, religion and politics became my obsession.

Suddenly, the girl who loved the spirit of the law gave way to a much more concrete objective: the power of purity. There was no more room for nuance and flexibility. The risk was too high and the circumstances too desperate. I would obey every law with exactness, pay my loyalty to God’s true servants, and follow every prompting of the spirit. In exchange, God would finally grant me the happiness I prayed for.

I thought I was submitting to the god of truth at the time, and that truth would set me free. In hindsight, what I actually worshipped was the god of purity. I had been unable to resist the challenges that threatened my relationship, so I gave up resisting my adversities and instead sought power over them, power through purity.

I began paying extra tithing, accepted callings that drained me of the last of my spiritual fortitude. I invited an ex-Mormon friend to watch general conference with me (knowing full well her beliefs) because I thought the spirit told me to. I took our new baby to church the Sunday after I gave birth— all of it to show God that I was willing to sacrifice for my own liberation. And perhaps most importantly… I spurned the Super Bowl halftime show. It was the least I could do to purify myself from worldly influences, and on the Sabbath especially.

A mind that has no power over itself is drawn to sources that overpower. And the god of purity was just another name for the god of supremacy. So I began to gravitate toward political purity as well. The girl who had never voted straight party in her life became a straight party voter. The one who watched Donald Trump give a speech in 2016 and said to herself, “This man reminds me of a dictator. He sounds like bad news,” was now voting for him in hopes that he might dictate me out of solving my own problems. I willingly allowed my thinking to be invaded, hoping submission would produce a rebirth I couldn’t achieve on my own. And I ate up every word from polarizing public figures until I started to believe that the democrats might actually be evil and that public schools were being framed to me as part of satanic plots meant to corrupt my children. But, of course, none of this I said out loud much. Instead, it came out in words about traditional values, faith, and family.

Fast forward to 2026, as I watched Bad Bunny do his number. I heard Spanish music that reminded me of my childhood hero, Selena Quintanilla—and that first CD my aunt burned for me, which I listened to on repeat for days.

I remembered the struggle her family endured as Mexican Americans: her father lamenting that he wasn’t Mexican enough for Mexicans, nor American enough for Americans—and how exhausting that was. I remembered the power of Selena’s music to bring cultures, countries, and hearts together. I remembered the connection I felt to her music, even before I could understand the words.

I also remembered what it was like—in those short years from 2019 to 2021—to be “pure.” And it. Was. Suffocating. So suffocating that, after just a couple of years, it all began to unravel until I realized that purity was never the solution to my problems. In fact, it had been the source all along.

I no longer worship purity, nor supremacy. I offered up that idol in exchange for my own wellness—for empathy, art, beauty, for reclaiming my own mind, for acceptance. Because I realized there is no amount of overpowering—not in truth, not in spirit, and not in body—that will solve our problems. There is only connection to one another that will get us through life with something beautiful to leave behind.

When I think about the small percentage of viewers who chose an alternative halftime show this year, I wonder how many tuned in out of preference—and how many were motivated by purity. The same purity ideology that once required my soul and promised me freedom, but never delivered.

Historically, purity ideologies have always required sacrifice… they expelled women from society during their menstrual cycles, fueled the one-drop rule in the 20th century, and now seek to force people from their own homes for the perceived crime of too much melanin—and not enough paperwork. Something and someone must always be sacrificed on the altar of purity. So we draw a line, call the other side dangerous, then chase after the illusion of purity because we think it will fix us. When perhaps this ideology was the problem all along.

Now I refuse to worship purity—whether it comes wrapped in religion or politics. I tend to vote for people who don’t seek to overpower anyone, whether they be red or blue. I watch Jon Stewart, Stephen Colbert, and Jimmy Kimmel instead of The Daily Wire. And yet, somehow, I have my own mind back.

I can appreciate the humor on late-night TV and still find points I disagree with the host about. I can align more with Democrats while still refusing to believe Republicans are evil. Some may still think I’ve fallen under the devil’s power because I no longer pay tithing, attend church except on rare occasions, or pledge unabashed loyalty to anyone. But it seems I have finally found the power I was searching for all along—without purity, and without the gods who draw its lines. I also know many people still inside these systems are trying to survive, not dominate—and I recognize myself in them.

The other night, I watched the Super Bowl halftime show in a home with two TVs showing two different performances—making room for people with shared hopes, mixed beliefs, and different ideas about how to make the world a better place. We had a wonderful night together, and I’m grateful for the space we created.

But I’m skeptical of any movement that seeks power through purity. This isn’t an argument against faith or conviction—but against purity as a substitute for connection. Purity divides us. It separates us when we need each other most. It poses as the solution—when in reality, it feeds on the very power we seek through its promises.

I visited my dog the other day—probably for the last time. It had been a while, and he was much older than those summers I raced him across the cornfields. I knew seeing him again would stir up familiar memories. I knew I would find the same dog I once came home to every summer, only a little older this time. I just didn’t expect to find another long-lost friend on the same day.

His name is Sparky. My family found him trudging through a blizzard while I was away at college. He was a nearly grown pup when they opened the door of our old Chevy truck, and he happily bounded inside. His human was contacted, and soon he was ours, and we were his. I couldn’t wait to visit after hearing the news.

The following years left a montage of memories, running the miles of fields behind our house. It was the only time in my life I ever enjoyed running. I had a purpose for it now, and a delighted companion along the way. He became a flash of black and white once we crossed the train tracks and took him off the leash, zipping ahead and returning just as quickly, then rolling over for a tummy rub and off he’d go again.

We had so many walks and talks on that trail around the farmers’ fields. Sparky accompanied us through them all. But life moved on, and so did we. The spring after I married, my parents were the last to leave that country town. They left the fields for the mountains. And with it came a new home with a much smaller yard and much closer neighbors. So we knew it was time for Sparky to have a new home as well, but not just any new home. Our family friend and old neighbor lovingly took him in. She was the kind of person who skipped her trip to Europe to pay for her dog’s medical care. He was happy there, and I visited once in a while. My parents still stopped by to visit for years to come. But for me? Life got busy, and unexpected hurdles came and went. Then came the message that it might be time to pay one last visit to our old friend.

I brought my kids and husband with me and drove to the old back road that used to be mine. When we got to his house, I first went in alone. There he was, lying on a bed of pillows and blankets at the end of the hallway, comfortable but old and slow, an old familiar friend. I knelt down next to him and held his head in my lap as I said my hellos and goodbyes all at once. I felt sorry I had stayed away for so long, but I didn’t have to say it out loud. He didn’t need me to. As I sat with him, I cried, not just because I was sad but because I remembered what it was like to have him for a friend. When I was with him, all I had to do was be. There was nothing I had to prove, no details to explain. He didn’t care about the details. He just cared. He might have sensed that I hadn’t come around for a while. There was no grudge, nor forgetfulness. He was always there for me when I was ready to come home; he always had been. All I had to do was be. And I realized, the same presence I felt with my dog was the same feeling I used to have with my God.

It’s been a while since I’ve visited him as well. He too was an old friend, the kind who didn’t need words. Somehow he always knew enough. And no matter how much time passed, I knew he was always pleased to hear from me. He was the one I could spill my heart to or sit in silence with. He didn’t care about the details, he just cared. And somehow he always understood just enough.

But I lost my god in a muddle of words that didn’t make sense. Words that were passed on through his well-meaning messengers. They told me not to stray, for God was jealous. They told me not to leave, for God was fragile. they told me to confess, for God demanded details. To work myself to tears, for God demanded sacrifice. To suppress my own concerns, for God must have obedience. They took the silence of my god, his silent understanding, his silent care. His silent comfort.

Then, unexpectedly, I felt my familiar god again at the side of an old border collie. And I realized for the first time, maybe I never needed a god. Maybe all I needed was a dog. But a dog must go the way of all the earth, and I’m more fit for a pet visitor than a permanent home anyway. Soon all I’ll have is the memory of Sparky. I don’t know what happens after this life, but I know that if I see him again, it won’t matter how long it takes; he’ll be waiting for me when I’m ready to come home. He won’t ask me questions or need me to prove myself. Maybe we’ll run through fields of gold once again. Or just sit in silence, knowing that’s enough.

I held on for so long to the god the prophets gave me. They dressed him up nice, for sure. Dressed him in infinite love. At first glance, their god sounded nice. Looking back, I just wish he didn’t talk so much.

If there is a Heaven after this, maybe I’ll find my god there, the kind that feels like an old friend. But if not, I’ll already have a dog.

I wrote this song with our political climate in mind as well as my personal shift out of my previous faith—a belief mindset that prioritized being “right” and defending God over the well-being of all. I’m grateful for my faith shift. I would never want to reverse and go back to the way I used to see the world. Because where I used to assume righteousness, I now ask, “right for whom?” I don’t want to be right because being right so often is attached to overpowering in a debate culture that keeps us from understanding one another.

Fun fact: I love songwriting. I also love writing in general. But one day as I was listening to music in my kitchen I thought, it’s really too bad that writers can’t just show up on Substack and repost their favorite essays over and over like an old album. Then I had the idea…why not write a song for each essay?

This is the first of three. More to come, though I’m quick to write but slooooow to record.

Thanks for listening!

Lyrics

You stole the martyr from my heart

I used to wish I could be that smart

running my lines just to catch them off guard

and tear them apart

Dominion was the price of the fall

but we’ve name it the savior of us all

hiding behind the weak and the tall

to make the call, but…

(Chorus)

I don’t want, don’t wanna be right

I just want, just wanna be alright

I don’t want, don’t wanna be right

I just want, just wanna be alright

I used to hang the flag of my god

but I’m not sure it was worth the cost

I’d rather hear a different song

and I might be wrong, but…

Chorus

Can we consider reconsidering that human nature thing

the one we’re told has bred us for a life of overpowering

would you consider reconsidering that human nature thing

can we agree that we are made of more than overpowering

don’t want, don’t wanna be right

I just want, just wanna be

I don’t want, don’t wanna be right

I just want, just wanna be alright

I don’t want, don’t wanna be right

I just want, just wanna be alright

I don’t want to be right

I just want to be alright

I don’t want, don’t wanna be right

I just want, just want us to be alright

I’ve been thinking a lot about blind spots lately—the areas where we are insensitive to light—and how sometimes a mirror, not a window, is what we need in order to see what is really important.

I have few impressions when it comes to the Jodi Hildebrandt and Ruby Franke story. I watched the Hulu series “Devil in the Family” over several months and recently listened to Kevin Franke’s newly released interview with Julie Hanks. This has been the extent of my exposure. I’ve digested it slower than some, but it has been thought-provoking to say the least.

My primary takeaway from the Hulu documentary wasn’t about Ruby or Jodi at all. It was about the people around them. Interview after interview seemed to have one underlying objective: to get as far away from the abusers as possible—not just physically, but relationally. Anything to send the message: I’m not like her… she’s not one of us… I can’t even begin to comprehend how someone could do this… I could never be like them.

It’s a security blanket to put miles between us and an unsafe person. But with this particular story, the more I learned the more it felt like I was looking into a rearview mirror. The abuse, the red flags, the beliefs, and the systems that Jodi and Ruby worked within stemmed from places that looked very familiar to me.

Truthfully, when someone says in response to this story, “I could never do what they did,” I believe them. I do not think the LDS Church or most of its members condone the type of abuse these women were guilty of. In fact, most would condemn it. What I do think is that our base relationships and systems can create blind spots for future relationships.

Kevin Franke’s interview on Julie Hanks’ podcast fascinated me. Almost every warning bell he vocalized concerning Jodi and her cult of ConneXions resonated on some level with Mormonism. Of course, the Church is not responsible for these women’s crimes, nor anyone else’s for that matter. But I’m less concerned with accountability and more concerned with ability. And I think that the more aware we become of harmful habits, the more able we will be to change them. So here is my list of red flags—the kind that were raised sky-high for Jodi Hildebrandt and which mirror, though less potently, patterns that have felt normalized in our shared religious background.

Using Satan to Control

It’s funny how we say the first step to falling into the devil’s snare is to stop believing in him, and yet the people he seems to torment most are the ones who believe. Jodi used this shared belief to control the Frankes and others—exhibiting episodes of great distress while claiming to be possessed by demons in order to gain power. She took it far further than most, yet in the Church, Satan is often normalized as a tool for spreading fear, forging unity over a shared enemy, and ultimately controlling behavior and belief. I have seen no good come from belief in a literal devil. He becomes an excuse—to behave badly, to avoid the help we actually need, and to control others. We don’t mean harm by passing this belief down, but in the name of truth, I wonder if we don’t figuratively bring the devil to life.

Breaching Professional Boundaries

Professional boundaries are hazy at best in the Church. As someone still new to recognizing these patterns, I want to give some grace to my old self and to others like me. It’s difficult to see what isn’t modeled for you.

When I was young it was considered perfectly okay to pressure inactive members into attending youth activities—mostly through bribes, guilt trips, and sometimes showing up unannounced and refusing to leave until the door was shut. Then there are stories of seminary teachers tying old jackets around the skirts of girls they deemed immodest. But the clearest example is the practice of bishops and stake presidents meeting one-on-one with members (including children) for worthiness interviews and moral confessions—confessions coerced by doctrine and tied to spiritual acceptance.

When you believe it’s all based in truth and backed by an all-knowing God, anything can quickly become the exception, not the rule. So when Jodi asked to move in with her clients, they let her—because she was the exception, “called of God,” uniquely targeted by the devil, and in “dire need” of every unusual request being granted.

Claiming to Be Called by God

When you’re surrounded by people who normalize this language, it becomes difficult to detect danger when others with harmful motives use the same script. What purpose does publicly announcing you are “called by God” serve other than gaining followers and increasing authority? It shuts down critical thinking. After all, who can argue with God?

Apocalyptic Fear

Desperate times call for desperate measures—and for Mormons and many other Christian groups, the times are always desperate. Jodi used fear of “the last days” and the urgency of the Lord’s work to justify intrusive behavior. And I think her LDS clients were primed for it. After all, Church leaders have used similar tactics.

Men Are Fallen Sexually

Jodi milked this one for all it was worth, and no one seemed to question it. Why would they? The language came straight from church doctrine. Though research does not support the idea that men are inherently more sexual or visual than women, the Church has often exploited this misinformation. Attraction is conflated with lust. Men grow up in a benevolent yet bold patriarchy implying entitlement and God-given power over women, while simultaneously being steeped in messages that weld sexuality to fear, shame, and lack of education and autonomy.

They claim Hollywood defiles sexuality, but the law of chastity often depersonalizes it—reducing morality to parts, passions, and contracts rather than safety, choice, consent, integrity, equality, connection, and love.

When I suffered from retrospective jealousy OCD, the Church’s teachings about male sexuality were the main reason. I didn’t just obsess over my husband’s past relationships; I feared other women. I couldn’t watch movies, go to the beach, or walk through a grocery store with him without fearing he might see curves and “commit adultery in his heart.” This trauma didn’t come from him. It came from what I had been taught about him. And people like me would have been prime targets for someone like Jodi Hildebrandt.

Discipleship

Good disciples give everything to follow their master. As a child I remember stories in Church magazines glorifying members who gave up scholarships, careers, and opportunities to serve missions or accept callings. Others gave up friendships, relationships, and even spouses to devote themselves more fully.

When the master can never be wrong, it becomes enticing to believe we can never be wrong as long as we follow. That is not a healthy dynamic—whether in a Church or with a rogue therapist.

Break You Down but Give You Hope

I was 29 when I first allowed myself to wonder, “What if God wouldn’t suffer if I drank a cup of coffee?” The Church, for me, felt like an abusive relationship at times. It could only be my savior after it broke me down. I’ve met many Mormons who seem hooked on being saved—needing to sink before they are allowed to swim. Jodi thrived on breaking people’s self-esteem and hooking them with the hope that they could become better by submitting to her.

Of course we can grow and change. Humans are incredible. But there are safer ways to learn to swim than being hog-tied and thrown into the deep end until we cry sufficiently for help.

Other Authorities Are Dangerous

Jodi built mistrust of outside authority. Her clients were already conditioned for it. Therapists, scholars, historians, geologists, sexuality experts—all of these have at times been framed as dangerous sources of information by Church leaders. I remember feeling fearful to learn from anyone who wasn’t an active member, especially about Church history and sexuality.

The Church has made helpful changes over time, but the most important change comes when members are fully encouraged to learn without fear—and trusted to make changes for themselves.

Outsourcing Self-Worth

Jodi held the key to her clients’ worthiness. Priesthood leaders hold similar keys—keys to God, salvation, and belonging. Members must be interviewed and deemed “worthy” to be in good standing, even when the “sins” harm no one. Shame becomes manufactured—not grounded in empathy for hurting others, but in fear of disappointing God.

The relief after confession is rarely true forgiveness. It’s the relief that comes from conditional love and conditional acceptance.

Life Coaches: Unchecked, Uncredentialed, Unregulated

After her license was revoked, Jodi continued to claim authority as a “life coach,” avoiding oversight. Bishops and priesthood leaders often fill a similar role—taking on everything from marriage counseling to sexuality guidance to career advice to abuse. The issue isn’t simply lack of training; it’s that their counsel is perceived as coming from God. And no one can critique God.

All in all, do I blame the Church for the abuse these women committed? No. But their story illuminated important areas of self-reflection for me—an awareness of systems that once felt normal and now give me pause. Most importantly, it gave me awareness I can carry with me, hopefully improving the way I connect with those around me, in the Church or otherwise.

She described a dynamic of long-standing loyalty followed by public berating, shaming, and accusations of betrayal—specifically after she voted to release the Epstein files, potentially exposing many powerful people for their wrongdoings. Whatever we think of her politics, her metaphor itself revealed something important about power and loyalty. It named a relationship where loyalty was expected to endure even when it became harmful.

I don’t judge her decision to step away rather than continue to confront the president. But it does show us who she was married to… and it wasn’t the American people. Her obligation was oriented toward a powerful individual and the system surrounding him. Her advocacy for survivors of abuse was considered a betrayal.

That pattern feels familiar.

As is the case with many (if not most) institutions, the LDS Church has a similar directional flow of loyalty.

The flow is almost always bottom-up. Those with less power are expected to be loyal to those with more. Taxpayers pledge loyalty to politicians. Saints pledge loyalty to God. Even ancient scripture commands children to honor their parents without mentioning that parents should maybe honor their children. Again and again, loyalty moves in one direction—toward power.

When people publicly challenge church leadership, that challenge is often framed as disloyalty. They are accused of “trying to take down the church.”

• Sam Young lost his membership after publicly pressuring the church to stop one-on-one, sexually explicit interviews with youth.

• John Dehlin lost his membership after refusing to shut down a podcast that gave voice to members whose experiences had no institutional outlet.

• Journalists and investigators brought wider awareness to the church’s systemic handling of abuse.

• Scholars have faced discipline for writing about gender inequality.

• Therapists and advocates have been criticized for calling out doctrines and policies that disproportionately harm minority groups.

And many others who call for change rather than unquestioning devotion are accused of trying to “hurt the church.”

But who is the church?

Often this phrase refers to the people who steer the ship, but the church is also each and every passenger. While critics may not always prioritize the interests of those holding the wheel, they very often act in the best interest of the people on board who hold very little power to call the shots for themselves.

I think everyone involved believes they want what is best for the members.

Those who are loyal to the top often believe the institution itself is the solution—that safety comes from concentrating authority and trusting leaders to carry people through life. Those who are loyal to the broader body believe people should hold their own power: to be well here and now, not to always get their way but to have a welcome voice, autonomy, and moral agency over what they believe and how they live.

I don’t think either group is acting out of malice. I think most of us are doing the best we know how.

But when we measure harm not by institutional stability, but by the well-being of the people themselves, it becomes clear that many of us have hurt the church. And that includes (often unintentionally) those in positions of authority.

Loyalty itself isn’t the problem. The question is where we aim it and who bears the cost when we aim our loyalty in one direction.

I ponder often on what to tell my children someday when they begin asking questions like, “Are we Mormon?” and “What religion are we?”

I find myself wanting a name again, dare I say a label, something to call myself in a way that represents all my nuance, spirituality, and history. An identity to pass down to my kids. I know I’m not supposed to want one. Labels generalize, even limit us…right?

For years I used to say I would never marry. I didn’t want to be tied down.

A name, like a relationship, surely has the possibility of limiting us. But it can also give us a place to belong, and a tool for relating with other people.

I think of my family that raised me. They gave me two names. The first is a gift of individuality. The last, a gift of belonging.

When I let go of the church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints as my spiritual authority, I realized I had been using my Mormon identity almost like a first name, and by doing so, suffering the suppression of my individuality. I say this in a figurative sense, but quite literally my first name was rarely acknowledged in the church and I cringed inside every time someone called me Sister.

Since departing from everything that identified me as a Mormon, I have wrestled with what to call myself.

Should I go on without a label or choose a different one? Do I feel fully seen as an ex-Mormon or am I something in the middle?

I wish I were comfortable staying in the space undefined, but I find comfort and belonging in a name. It helps me know how to relate to people and a way to be understood. It’s like saying here’s a bit of who I am, how I’m like you, how I’m different, and where I belong.

So when I say I’m a heritage mormon now, I mean that I belong to myself first. I honor my heritage without letting it define me or control me. I belong with them but I don’t belong to them anymore. It’s like moving away from home. I follow my own compass, build my own life, and come home for holidays and Sunday dinners. Is this the kind of relationship most members would approve of? Not a chance. But I’m not exactly asking for approval anymore.

Lyrics:

I'm a heritage Mormon
listen close and I'll tell you what I mean
Some parts still remain of my orthodox brain
just not the certainty

I dismiss spiritual authorities but love the family
I'll show up at ward social nights
I'll even bring a pie
but deep down I am free

...aaaand by free I don't mean I'm free to sin
but to choose what I believe
What feels good at the heart
I'll gladly still take part

but I belong to me.

Religion. What is it? Scholars have tried to answer this question by comparing many of them around the world, and their conclusion? Well, that religion is basically anything that calls itself a religion.

How’s that for circular reasoning?

However, it seems we usually spend less time defining religion and more time judging it.

Judging it to be…

Good or bad, true or false.

But I think more important than defining and judging religion is what we choose to do with it. Because whatever else it is, religion is a tool.

A tool we can use for good, bad, and everything in between…

to captivate… or to liberate

to control… or to empower

to love… or to shame

to heal… or to harm

To nourish… or to starve

To facilitate growth… or to stunt growth

One man’s story illustrated religion at its best. Louis Zamperini, a prisoner of war during WWII, suffered extreme abuse by his captors and PTSD upon returning home. After marrying his sweetheart and fathering a baby, he experienced alcoholism, violent outbursts, and even became an endangerment to his own small child. Then, after desperate pleas from his wife, Louis begrudgingly attended a christian sermon in the tent of the famous preacher, Billy Graham. A message about the love of God overcame him that night and transformed him instantly. He surrendered to divine love, became a gentle father and husband overnight, and never touched alcohol again. He traveled abroad to seek out his abusers and extend them the miraculous forgiveness he had felt for them that night in the preacher’s tent. He dedicated his time to mentoring youth who weren’t given a fair chance at life, empowering them with faith in their futures. And he dedicated the rest of his life to christianity.

I would never take Jesus from that man. Whether true or not, religion took him out of captivity that day, the kind of captivity that bound him long after the war.

It can be difficult to give up a tool that has the potential to liberate, empower, love, heal, grow, and nourish us. But while a preacher used Jesus to offer Zamperini a life-line, many (including the same preacher on other occasions), use him to control and deceive.

I’m not here to take religion from anyone. And my negative experiences with religion do not and should not invalidate the experiences of others. I only hope that we might pause and consider how we are using this tool in our hands. Will we bury our weapons of war, leaving religion behind? Or will we beat our swords into plowshares? I think we need people who tread both of these paths. As for now, I lean on the side of burying my weapons. But I also appreciate those who work hard to beat the weapon into something that can do more good. Because, like any tool, religion should be for us, not us for religion.