My therapist promptly asked about my distress levels. I responded, low. My embarrassment, far more palpable in that moment. Never thought I’d pay someone to humiliate me on a Wednesday afternoon.

It’s called Exposure and Response Prevention (ERP) therapy where we dive into our stressors and intrusive thoughts, whatever they may be, and try to catch them before they become neutralizing or compulsive behaviors. While I feel really good on the OCD home front (knock on wood), it’s been helpful to beef up my tool-belt to help cope with whatever my lovely hyperactive amygdala might bring to me next.

In this week’s case we worked on a low-hanging fruit: contamination. I told my therapist I tend to wash my hands frequently, especially in the kitchen and especially when handling my phone because, you know, I want to keep myself and others healthy and nourished :) I haven’t forgotten that comparison of a gas-station-handle level of germs on a phone screen. So, my therapist insisted we have our way with my phone, wiping tissues on the screen and then using that tissue to rub all over my body. ERP, is soo campy honestly lol. I love it.

In the funniest turn of events, in prep for our big summer camp this weekend, I had to pass a Food Handlers exam. As part of the certification process, I was required to watch an hour-and-half-long seminar walking through the safety temperatures, sanitizing practices and an overview of the most threatening food borne illnesses. Guess what’s the most important takeaway from the entire course???? WASH YOUR DAMN HANDS. I laughed when they specifically discussed the contamination of phones in kitchens. Did you know phones carry 10X the bacteria than toilet seats? All these poo stories they’re surely using to scare teenagers picking up summer jobs at taco bell are informing me that my amygdala actually isn’t hyperactive enough. God damn that course is an OCD-riddled nightmare. If you put the bucket on the floor, then on the surface, it’ll contaminate and boom 5,000 people infected.

While most of these phone-wiping exercises feel elementary, I am finding ERP therapy is quite remarkable in returning back to myself as a human.

Do you remember Elder Holland’s talk, “Place No More for the Enemy of My Soul”. It begins with a story of Holland and his wife meeting three recently divorced women at the airport. In each of their cases, their husbands were unfaithful, the betrayal beginning with porn usage. Another fidelity talk, how original. However, the snippet of the talk forever burned in my memory is the tea and crumpets punchline. I can still hear the chuckles, like a laugh track:

Like thieves in the night, unwelcome thoughts can and do seek entrance to our minds. But we don’t have to throw open the door, serve them tea and crumpets, and then tell them where the silverware is kept! (You shouldn’t be serving tea anyway.) Throw the rascals out! Replace lewd thoughts with hopeful images and joyful memories; picture the faces of those who love you and would be shattered if you let them down.

In true church fashion, this counsel is antithetical to trauma-informed practices. Using shame and avoidance and “picturing the faces of those who love you and would be shattered if you let them down” as a tactic to stop thoughts or behaviors isn’t effective, especially if they’re unwanted or involuntary. But, this was the playbook. My playbook.

A few sessions ago, I found myself scanning my life for these neutralizing behaviors to be a good person and never hurt or deceive anyone starting as a young child…the hyper confessing and praying, repetitive google searches, hours of ruminating, etc. I started to cry thinking about how in my desperate attempts to be a “good person”, I had unknowingly been reinforcing a casual yet significant level of self-hatred. These self-distrusting neural pathways are as regimented as the line to the Provo baptismal font on a Saturday night.

As I’m noticing the tingle in my throat after licking my phone-covered fingers, I’m finding that the exercise used to mindfully digest emotions is also exceptionally helpful in navigating all the other uncertainties of divorce life. So, I thought I’d share.

Read more

We’re finally moving forward with our divorce paperwork. Nick came over after the kids went to bed to comb through the numbers. I was crying before he got there and didn’t stop until after he left.

Read more

When Nick and I were splitting nights at the airbnb ten months ago, I ached to have a morning like this one. Ordinary and happy. Have I finally made it above water? After what felt like months of rag-dolling under the big waves of emotions, it’s nice to feel buoyant for a change.

I know the last few essays have been a little heavy, so this Friday I want to counter with some light and fun. Can I share some happy stuff with you?

1. Have you watched Sterling Point yet? I genuinely look forward to getting into bed every night to watch. It’s cute and cheesy. Almost every episode I think about how much I love the script. The writing feels so natural and down-to-earth. Specifically episode six. It’s eery how relatable some of these convos are :)

   

2. I had a great OCD therapy appointment this week that solidified a tattoo idea of mine and now I just need to execute!!! No more tattoo cancellation appointments on my watch. These hands aren’t going to decorate themselves. Bummed I just barely missed @andyoutattoos books before she closed them.

3. Hickies. Remember those? I forgot how funnnn they are on both the giving and receiving end of things. It’s like a little stork bite of love. A temp tattoo reminding me that I felt desire/desired. Forget dick pics, send me a neck photo.

4. Speaking of, I think I’m a little bit gay!! Eek. At least I’m having fun trying to figure it out. It’s like a full bi-feast, Hook style where I’ve been watching all of my lost-boy queer friends eat and talk of the splendor wishing, hoping one day I could see the invisible feast. And now, like Peter, I’ve phoned in my imagination and can finallllllly see the foood!! Ahh the fruit and chicken legs and multi-colored pudding that gets spoon thrown in Rufio’s face. It’s all beautiful and sooo delicious. I’ve never stayed up until 6 am making out and laughing and oh my goddd I’ve been missing out.

   

   

5. Kids are back in school baby. We went and met their teachers this week and I feel, for the first time in their elementary school education, REALLY good about their classroom setup. I’ve already heard about the classroom gossip and crushes and am missing being in school myself. Public school is the bessst.

6. My incredible sister Rach has been raising money to help her girlfriend cover the legal fees needed to obtain a work visa and work towards citizenship. And she raised the 10K needed, thanks to many of you here. There, of course, have been more hiccups and roadblocks since, but the feat of getting enough money to start the process is incredible. I think we’re all feeling inspired by the generosity. Willow deserves this love and sooo much more.

7. Found my go-to summer drink. Fresca + ice + creatine (two scoops if I’m feeling spicy) + RE-LYTE electrolyte powder. Nothing better :)

8. The other night I was tucking my son into bed. He always asks for “snuggles” a time or ten before his eyes officially close. On the second or third round, I laid next to him wiishing more than anything that he’d fall asleep. He pulled me close and said softly, “good girl” as he pet me. I laughed so hard. “Where did you learn that?” I asked him. Seeing my reaction only gassed him up as he kept saying it over and over again, “good girl, good girl, good girl.” I don’t believe anyone has ever called me a good girl. My six year-old has got to be the first.

9. I went to my first EDM festival and my goddd I’ve never seen anything like it. Asses were out and so were inhibitions. I dabbled with my own concoction of inhibition blockers and had the time of my life. I felt like star girl dancing alll night without a care in the world (for the most part). When the blockers wore off, the Demi Moore to my Margaret Qualley from The Substance hit me like a freight train. (I use substance references a lot in my writing, so i figure if you’re going to keep reading, you ought to watch the movie :)

   

10. 9 pull-ups. I can practically taste the tenth one!!!!

11. Crescent Chicken Squares. I made them for a friend the other day as a throwback to my childhood. My grandma still makes them for my family and I can’t tell if I like the cream cheese mixture or nostalgia better. Anyway, if you’re needing an easy, comfort meal to make this week—try this one. Been meaning to try with meat substitutions.

12. Thrifted some cute overalls last week. When thrifting hits, it hiiiiits. For my kids, they never miss. Savers in Midvale and Goodwill in Sandy are my go-to.

13. There a several thousand of you here. And alllmost 400 paid!! I could cry. I’ve never been closer to paying my bills from writing. Katie Rich (@katieludlorich), you may know her from Exponent II, called me a month ago and gave me the pep talk of a lifetime. She singlehandedly injected the confidence I needed to keep pursuing this paid writing gig. Like the most incredible friend, she paid me for five hours of time so that I’d truly invest in myself and this newsletter on Substack. It was one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me. Thanks, Katie.

14. This guy on TikTok.

15. I got invited a few months back to an influencer event and I’m not kidding when I tell you i’ve worn this ring and bracelet almost every day and it’s not because I sometimes see Bonnie at school drop-off. I loooove them. Thanks Hey June.

    

16. Bought this perfume when I was out in Portland visiting some friends and it’s DELICIOUS. Crazy how a spritz on the wrist and neck can immediately boost the morale. Not kidding.

    

17. Are you coming to camp at the end of the month? I sure hope so because we’ve got a good team running the show. Lexi, Sonja, Nicole and Kelsey have been pouring a lot of time into the programming, bookings and making sure all of the tiny details are juuust right. You should see the spreadsheets. The camp counselors and volunteer crew cannot be beat. Final email went out yesterday!! While I’ve been discouraged about the trajectory of L&F not being a full-time paid gig, I’m excited for the fun that is about to take place in the mountains at the end of this month. It’s like Theater Camp coming to life. The way I hoped girls camp would’ve always been….fun, playful, gayyyy, and no head-shoulders-knees-and-toes exercises. Truly, nowhere I’d rather be.

Okay, you’re turn. What’s been going on for you? Anything promising in your neck of the woods? Don’t be shy.

Until next week!!

My brain is really good at taking an inventory on all the ways I am/could potentially cause harm. It’s fun and made me (and probably many of you) an exceptional mormon: compulsively honest (ready to confess), eager to outsource authority and abide by a prescribed checklist to be safe. In some ways it feels like I took that one “carnal man” mormon lesson to an Icarus-level of exploration. Like it toootally made sense for god to bludgeon stakes into the hands of his own son (my brother) to hang over our my head for the rest of time lest I forget I’m irredeemable without Him. Okay, i’m being dramatic, but thank you god for the entirely necessary sacrifice. One that helped soothe my troubled soul for cheating on my 8th grade Spanish quiz.

I’m honestly doing really well on the scrupulous, OCD front but for the sake of this essay I want you to know that for much of my life I really, reallllly wanted to be good.

Read more

This week, I tackled some of your AMA questions. Maybe one day this question box will solicit more topics than faith, marriage and sex; but looks like today won’t be that day. :)

How are you able to be brave enough to share your story and insights so openly with people?

The rewards of sharing have proven, time and time again, to outweigh the cons. I think I’ve just eaten up this reward cycle enough that I don’t know if i’d even call it bravery anymore as much as muscle memory that people can hold what I have to share. Surprisingly. Can everyone hold it? No. Have I been told I’ll be unemployable with how much I share? Yes. But in the same way you rush to call your friend when something new and exciting happens, I feel that way about you and what we’ve established here:) So whatever bravery was required to start this process has slowly evolved into a sweet (para)friendship.

Have you ever posted nudes anywhere online anonymously or not?

Nope.

Aside from the nude beach content, I don’t have nudes on my phone. Come to think, I can’t remember the last time (if ever) I actually took a full nude which is reallly unfortunate. I’d love to course correct. In the famous words of Moira Rose said,

As per last week’s essay, I think this’ll be a good next step.

As someone who related to the feelings you describe about being married, I would love to know how you decided that divorce was the best path forward instead of trying alternative, such as opening the relationship.

While we discussed creative alternatives a time or twenty, I don’t believe we had the ingredients to open nor was non-monogamy ever the destination for either of us. Autonomy, for me, was the driving force behind our separation. Carving out more autonomy looked like removing myself from a marital container shaped by mormonism. Cut me loose and let me drift out at sea. I could sense there were parts of myself I couldn’t meet without other parts dying. It’s hard to explain but from the verrry beginning of our marriage, I felt an itch. Opening, for us, would only have been a pit stop to divorce I reckon.

Is the taco delicious to the taste and most desirable?

You mean the taco of the tree of knowledge of all good and evil? Hah yes, I reckon it was desirable. Hence the essay.

In seriousness, I didn’t think this would be in the cards for me but I’ve been pleasantly surprised with how much I like it..or at least the one I’ve tried a few times.

Do you feel your life choices are authentic? Or just copying your twin’s path?

Read more

While in Portland, my friends took me to Collin’s Beach, a“clothing optional area.” My very first nude beach!!! Never have I ever been naked outside for the sun to see, let alone other eyeballs. I was nervous but excited for the exposure therapy ahead of me.

We trudged along the shore until we found a spot suitable to set up camp. Suddenly any spacial awareness deficit became incredibly proficient as we wanted to give an appropriate amount of space between us and the next closest neighbor. Haley laid out their gorgeous, patterned lawn blanket on the sand while the rest of us unpacked, applied sunscreen and blew up the colorful, plastic inner tubes Lexi brought.

Depleted of oxygen but tubes in hand, Lexi, Virginia and I stripped down to our swimsuits and headed to the water. Expecting freezing temps, we were greeted by something mildly cool. Ahhh refreshing. After a few huffs and puffs, we sat down in the tubes to acclimate. The sun was the first to expose itself, and I greatly appreciated the warmth.

Read more

I had sex with a woman.

Read more

Mid-lick, I exclaimed, “Name the movie.” I thought him scrimmaging every Tuesday night would’ve been e…

Read more

My fingers started typing what I was seeing. Eyes closed. Convulsing. Every google search resulted in an emergency. Nick called back.

Marshmallow was a coveted friend of the neighborhood. All the kids loved him. He’d race up their arms and around their necks. Ellie often invited him to her movie/show nights where he’d Hansel and Gretal his way around the couch, leaving a trail of poop pellets so we knew where he’d been. While small, Marshmallow was mighty in boosting the morale of our house. The nights I’m alone, I found a weird amount of comfort knowing there was another heartbeat in the house, even if the heart was the size of a green bean.

Trying to keep him warm, I tucked Marshmallow into my bra for some skin-to-skin while my daughter and her friend put water droplets on his lips. The kids came in and out of the room like a revolving door getting progressively more chaotic and unnerving unable to hold the grief of the situation. I needed quiet so I retreated to my son’s room and began to cry. Marshmallow’s little body still pounding. I’ve never seen a hamster fight so hard to stay alive. At one point he peed blood and I knew the end was near. Nick still on the phone as I sobbed.

I don’t like saying goodbye. When something is about to end, I can feel the urgency to snap a thousand mental pictures. How do I hold onto them/this moment forever? I don’t want to forget the intensity of the love and the feelings and the smells and the inside jokes.

The way our body catalogues memories is funny to me. A few days ago I sliced a watermelon for my kids to eat on the front porch. On my way outside, I took a bite and suddenly my grandma who passed this summer FLOODED my mind. Why did this particular soggy, sweet bite taste like her? One bite and I was in her small vinyl covered kitchen in the small town of Snowflake, Arizona. I miss the way she’d line up boxes of cereal on the counter in the morning after the cousin sleepover and how she’d hum around the house and bribe us with dollar store runs. Remembering her felt like a millisecond call home. I’m going to be okay. On the same porch that brought about the sad news of our hamster Marshmallow, now hosted a session of unbridled watermelon feasting. Juice dripping down my chin. I can’t remember the last time I buried my face in a slice of watermelon without decorum.

It felt good.

I think memories are important to me because they’re the closest thing we’ve got to eternal life. Tuck Everlasting style, memories are the only way to keep people alive forever….or as long as I need them to be:) Not in body, but in conversation, ritual and tradition. It’s the way my great grandmother’s urn will forever be a snickerdoodle recipe. Like a hallucinogen, the smell of the cinnamon sugar mixture has me crosslegged on the carpet in front of her fireplace playing with an antique copper pot set. To think I once held the masonic tokens and symbols as the ultimate remembrance for eternal life. Have you tried a hot snickerdoodle fresh out of the oven?

When I was little I was convinced I’d be a good actress because I could cry at the thought of losing just about anyone.

Read more

Maybe it’s a case of rejecting object permanence, but I’m always fascinated by the ways parasocial relationships have infiltrated our lives. The first person who found out about Nick and I separating was actually the airbnb owner who Nick reached out to when we were looking for a place to offset our nesting arrangement.

And it’s not that I or Nick get recognized frequently, it’s the depth of recognition when people do that still catches me off guard. Ohh riight when people know us, they know a lot about us…And I know I know, whose fault is that? In the words of Chicago’s Cell Block Tango: (s)he had it coming!!

Now that we’re separated, Nick is starting to come home from dates with women who are familiar with me/him/us and intimate details about our lives. It’s a little weird and sometimes difficult to process. Hearing hints of their confusion as to whyyyy any sane person would surrender a man like Nick can feel like a shovel to my grave of shame. Digging deeper and deeper. I know he is a good one. Belieeeeve me, I know you’re getting the best of the best with him. The little dating I’ve done has further confirmed this conclusion which is so funnnnn :)

When I started going on dates, I actually avoided telling people my last name (stupid, i know). Not because I have anything to hide, but quite the opposite. What could be uncovered in ten minutes of casual research is quite alarming. I mean there are one or two guys who I’ve been on dates with here now (hiii) despite how I once aspired to keep this place silo’d for fear of stacking the cards up against me, you know? My inner world is on sale for $5/ month which can feel like a cheat way to learn a lot without much effort. Which can be both helpful and laaaame. I’d prefer to scare people off on my own time, not by way of internet sleuthing.

I’m not sure if I enjoy revealing incriminating details about my personal life or if it’s the yellow-bricked neural pathways of mine that does it so naturally. Like many of you, as a child, I hyper confessed in bishop’s offices. Journaled, chronically. Bore my testimony, often. For a stint, I was one of thooose kids who went up to the pulpit every month (eye roll). Dance monkey. And I did as I was passed around to other sacrament meetings to give youth talks.

As I’ve aged, I’ve been able to parse out how this lack of inhibition around sharing hinges on compulsion rather than revelation. A feature, not a bug of a performative, puritanical home like the church. Every member a missionary. It served me well in the church and ironically helped pave my way out. You may recall, when my deconstruction was fresh, I shared a loooooot. I churned content like it was a job or a fire that could only be extinguished by virtual witnessing. I wrote essays for captions and recorded IG stories whenever the creative lightning struck: early in the morning in my pj’s, between events, late at night in the dark. God, I blabbed a lot both online and in person.

One of the more notable was on our Mormons Stories episode. Whenever someone asks me for advice about going on Mormon Stories, I always tell them to set boundaries about what details the interview will touch and stick to a layout. I did neither of those things. Because if there are any other chronic confessors out there (which in mormon land, that’s a lot of you), that recording experience can take quite a big bite out of your psyche. And it did for me. Lights, camera, action. It only took a few minutes before the cameras Salvador Dali’d into the background and it was just me, Nick and John. Nothing was off the table or too personal to touch. The bishop-office reflex kicked in and I was ready to meet questions about my upbringing and orgasms without a glitch not thinking of my friends or family or the 128,000 people who’d later listen. I didn’t have the wherewithal to know how my oversharing would show up in this interview (me issue) and found myself in fetal for a few months after trying to warm myself back up after the vulnerability frostbite. I’m fine now and turns out a lot of people like hearing others talk about how bad they are at sex:) But, it was a learning curve and an incredibly voyeristic view into our marriage and extended family in a way many would never dream of offering. And I wish I could take some of that back.

Since then, I know there are judgements in how I go about sharing.

I hear it in the tone of, “oh my spouse would never be cool with how much you share.” “Poor Nick.” “Wowwww that was a lot.” The running joke is I use Substack as a journal. And that’s not entirely wrong. I do. But, if there’s anything I do better than oversharing, I’d argue relational care might be on that list.

In truth, Nick and I managed to carve out quite a bit of safety in our marriage to the point that I still don’t believe anyone will ever love me as clearly or in high definition as Nick. Of cooourse we had our issues and conversations we’d wring dry but I felt fully, unapologetically loved by that man. It may be surprising to hear, but everything you’ve read here—up until recently—trust that Nick has heard a dozen times over weeks/months/years before I share with you. Any reference to him, I like to get his stamp of approval (including this essay). It wasn’t until I started talking about our relationship out loud that I realized our thorough way of communicating is not universal. It’s hard to explain in writing, but we were swiiiiiimming in the deep end of security that any admissions of insecurity, doubt or fear about our relationship didn’t feel threatened when meeting the light. You think I’m deranged? He’s loved every sliver of that derangement fiercely and it never felt wrong and I’m pretty sure I’ll ride the coattails of this gift for the rest of my life. Which is why it catches me off-guard when others have big feelings around my sharing—through our mixed-faith stage, post-mormon and now divorce.

And don’t take this airing as a complaint. It’s inevitable. I’m reaping what we sowed. After all, our marriage was the initial reason many people became interested in me, us. The Church used use us as a mixed-faith marriage prop and we’ve been paying the price ever since:) But, now that we’re separated, I’m trying to untangle our shared digital footprint….mostly for Nick’s sake but perhaps mine as well.

As seen on Reddit:

Despite the drawbacks and demands for “tell us the REAL reason you’re divorcing”, I like processing my divorce in real time because every week feels like a hundred years of learning and in the same ways you can remember in theory all the feelings of a post-faith crises, it’s hard to touch those years once they pass. I’m only eight months in and those first few months of separation in the airbnb already feel distantly numb. I’m glad I have evidence of the oozing and disorientation fleshed out here. Like a time stamp. These essays, as much as I enjoy sharing, are for me:)

Much like my earlier content, when I write, I don’t think about who will have access to this information or how it’ll impact my real-life interactions. I write to knead out thoughts that’ll consume me if they’re not properly massaged. Arguably I think this creates some of the most interesting art where perception isn’t center stage, but I’m absolutely wary of the blindspots of my verbose peripherals.

My friend messaged me a quote last week on IG that I feel puts the finger on the pulse of what’s going on in these parasocial relationships.

I’d argue this is the case for any big life change. We turn each other into mirrors sizing up our life to theirs. I’m as guilty as the next. I remember telling Nick years ago how jealous I was reading divorced announcements. That confession thing, again. I figured if only I knew the rupture details of so and so, it would illuminate a path of clarity for me.

It both did and didn’t.

If I can, speak as a potential mirror, moving towards divorce was a choice—for us. Not an ultimatum or emergency or situation of irreconcilable harm, like it is for some. For years I naively believed that there was a plethora of lines that had to be crossed to be eligible for such a decision. Like we needed a prerequisite of pain before pursuing more creative routes to a once monogamous mormon marriage. But, you don’t. We didn’t. Yes, it’s been excruciating in ways I couldn’t even IMAGINE eight months ago, but our goal in separating and now divorcing was to take a step in the direction of feeling more aligned. And based on the smile on Nick’s face last week….I think we’re doing it.

One step at a time.

For my Reddit friends, if you’re wanting a more voyeristic view of what’s going on under the hood, I’d advise you to make friends with the neighbors that live across the street from Nick. What a view they have to all the go in-betweens and kid drops-offs. You’d see the highs of laughing and sharing the truly salacious details (again, we’re working on boundaries). You’d see the last-minute runs for a bike or swimsuit for one of the kids. Or last week you would’ve witnessed me crying on his front porch as he tried to reassure me that I am not hard to love…again totally normal divorced things. The stories we have about divorce are shattering at our feet and I’m grateful (in the true sense of the word) to witness this new container, whatever it will bring.

My first-ever post I shared that led to all of this parasocial shenanigans was announcing the blessing of our daughter. September 24, 2017. This was the post that outed Nick’s faith transition and led us to become mixed-faith poster children for the Church. I reread it again this week for the first time in years. While I can honor the courage lining the trepidation of these words, it’s hard to stomach a faith crises removed. I know this was the best statement we could manage at the time but damnnnn we’ve come a long way since.

This post makes me cry.

I owe so much of my current liberation to Nick. I’m sure I would’ve found my way out of the church in due time, but he lit a fire under my ass so hot and bright I had nowhere to look but inward. By our first wedding anniversary, he no longer believed in god. This sent us into the wild to find those who were gathering to have the hard conversations under the cover of a roof in living rooms lined with mismatched chairs. Much of what has become of my 30’s took root with Nick and while we’re going our separate ways I will forever and ever be indebted to him for giving me the gift of interrogating the weird, deranged, BEAUTIFUL world inside my head free from shame and a trial.

In the same ways I hoped our kids would be able to see the integrity of Nick in choosing to stand in his dignity and not participate in their church blessings despite public pressure, I hope they can see us this second round of deconstruction—on the marital front— as two loving parents “who are brave and thoughtful and striving to be honest to what they feel inside.”

Because whatever judgements or speculations yet to be made, I think we are:)

Leaving you with one of my favorite songs early in our separation: Tegan and Sara said, “Where does the good go?” For me, it wasn’t the bad fruit but the good fruit that kept me from making the jump and I’m finding the good, or how to hold it, still at the forefront of my grief. Where does it gooooo? Highly recommend listening.

“Look me in the heart and unbreak broken, it won’t happen.

It’s love that breaks the seal of always thinking you would be

Real happy and healthy, strong and calm

Where does the good go

Where does the good go”

Before I could take a pulse on what was happening, the executive director of the wildflower tours stood on the table and launched into the seven principles of Leave No Trace using theatrical hand signals. She held out her right pointer finger—one—and began drawing squiggles on her left palm to signal making a plan. We need to tell people where we’re hiking. When we’re leaving and when we plan to get back. Two, she flipped her peace sign into a tent on her forearm reminding us to camp on durable surfaces. Her fingers then forked out in a comb—three—as she walked us through how to dispose of our waste properly. Pack it out or worst case bury it six inches deep.

Surveying the group of guides, it looked like an REI warehouse sale had a baby with a church summer camp. There was a vast assortment of hiking boots, wide brimmed hats and fanny packs. Though helpful to the lay public, the bright white “GUIDE” on the back of their t-shirts was entirely unnecessary. I knew these folks could identify anything on the forage floor from a hundred yards away.

I’ve never attended a wildflower hike before, but it only took a few minutes to realize how much heavy lifting the “hiking” description was doing. The “hike” felt more like a saunter. Crawl, maybe? I can’t remember the last time I moved this slowly in any given circumstance and it required quite a bit of bandwidth to overwrite my typical hiking speed coding.

As we made our way around, it became a trail game of telephone passing word of every new flower sighting to the group following behind. Did you see the Lupin? More Bluebells! I admittedly couldn’t focus much on the flowers because my attention was entirely centered the hyperfixations of all of these strangers. At one point I questioned if I’ve ever felt passion in my life. Certainly nothing I’ve experienced could touch Doug’s interest in the green foliage False Hellebore.

While most were looking down, I found my gaze set on the ridge line rather than the trail. I couldn’t keep my eyes off the sunlight seeping through the towering aspens. Something about that pillar of light, you know? It feels revelatory and grounding.

At one point, the man “hiking” in front of me asked like he was sharing gossip, “Have you heard about the aspens?”

“No,” I said eager for the tea.

Read more

Enjoy:)

“You’re hot”

This month I decided to break fourth wall with a few characters at my EOS gym and actually talk to them. (gulp) I started with a woman I’ve long admired in the gym. My gym “inspo” if you will. She often carries around a notepad documenting her reps and sets and I can tell her workouts mean a great deal. A few weeks ago, I walked up to her and said exactly what was on my mind: “you’re hot.” After a 20 minute conversation we walked away as IG friends and now check-in frequently.

I recently discovered I like telling people they’re hot.

Hot, for me, used to be a word held together with contempt and religiously baked shame (sluts). But now, it’s a fun one to throw around. Not in a way that fuels the corrosive puritanical beauty standards, Substance Style; but hot as in the knee jerk way it rolls off Paris Hilton’s tongue….“that’s hot”. It’s a vibe catcher signifying fun, play, and confidence. You know the real sexy stuff!!

This week at the gym, a woman’s deltoids caught my peripherals in the mirror. Damn. A few minutes later, I happened to move to the rowing machine stationed next to her. Without a pep talk or premeditated plan I took my AirPods out and walked her through my entire thought process. “I saw you in the mirror….blah, blah, blah annnyway you’re hot!” Weirdly, she responded saying she remembered me from BYU. “You married a blonde guy?” We chatted for a bit and went our separate ways but not before I added another friend to the EOS bucket. (ka-ching)

Compliments didn’t stop there. Before I made my way over to the treadmills, I stopped a man who looks like he could be cast in a body building rendition of Top Gun on the way back from the water fountains and said something to the effect:

“Hey I know this is unsolicited but I see you here every day and think you’re hot and hope you feel that way.” After ten months of parallel lifting, I saw his teeth for the first time after he let out a boyish grin.

Walking over to the treadmills, I was riding much more than my post-workout endorphins. These compliments come with no strings or expectations attached which is what I think makes them so rewarding. As I’m jonah-in-the-whaling with sadness and pits of insecurity, I’d reallly love to strengthen the muscle of saying the nice things I think about people when I think them. I guess what better place to start to building muscle than the gym?

Trip to LabCorp

Do you have a preference on which arm? she asked me.

“No.” I extended my right arm. Unlike last time, I wanted to watch the beveled needle pierce my skin and slide into my vein. One microtainer tube. Then two. The red blood spilling out. I switched arms to fill another capsule with blood.

"So, how often should you get tested?”

Read more

In the shape of a claw machine, my 9-year-old smudged her fingers coated in tanning cream across the middle of my back. I suggested she use an open palm for better coverage but hearing her begrudging tone I knew I couldn’t press my luck. She was not amused by my antics. And, to be fair, neither was I. After a few moments, she relinquished her crane duties leaving me to claw at my own backside desperate to remove any evidence of my attempts to be hot.

God, I severely underestimated the courage needed to enter the arena of intimacy with a stranger. The gap between, “Let’s go back to your place” and the closing of the door at 7am is breeeeding ground for some of the most insane shadow work shit I’ve ever done. The comments and micro-expressions made in the daylight feel like pencil compared to the permanent marker stories woven when the clothes come off.

I actually miss who I was two months ago. So naive and bullheaded. When all of these experiences were still theories.

Read more

Respectfully, I’m curious to know why you chose to divorce?

Lucky for you, I wrote 20 paragraphs about it.

What’s something you wish people would ask you, but rarely do?

Can I make you some banana bread? My answer is always yes:)

(update: I made some for myself this week)

Which characters in your favorite shows or movie remind you most of yourself??

I’d say a cocktail of the stubborn grit of Frances McDormand in Three Billboards mixed with the naive guilelessness of Aimee in Sex Education and the conviction of Danielle in Ever After.

Honorable mention: Tyrion Lannister in GOT. I don’t know if I want to be him or be with him. But, he is maybe one of my favorite TV characters of all time.

Do you feel weird about strangers asking you about your sexuality and being handcuffed to the bed?

not really

What do you keep in your nightstand?

In my nightstand: a vibrator and underwear. On top: jewelry and a half-empty Fresca.

Any thoughts on bisexuality? Are you open to exploring that as well in your next chapter? You’re one of my queer crushes online.

haven’t explored yet, but I’m open :)

Will you ever tell us the real reason for the divorce? You guys seemed so happy.

Ha this question feels so accusatory. I’ve told you everything. We were happy. We made a really great team and I miss him terribly. More than I can possibly say. Nick is easily one of the best people I’ve ever met AND I think we’re doing what’s right for us.

Speaking only for myself (Nick has his own experience), there are things I want to learn about myself that I felt I couldn’t do in our marriage container. This may not make sense to some of you, but the shadow of the mormon scaffolding on which our marriage was predicated HAUNTED me...since the beginning. I felt the itch especially around autonomy and eroticism. I didn’t love the version of me showing up in some of these areas. I can see why this is confusing for folks and I’m afraid I can’t handhold your confusion. I’m sorry.

But, if it’s a villain you’re looking for, pick me. Happy and eager to volunteer as tribute.

more ramblings…

Read more

Growing up, I remember driving by Colorado City on the way home from St George speculating about all the unfinished houses. The story I heard was one of the FLDS community attempting to evade property taxes through renovation loopholes.

“You really think that would work?” Shirlee said as we stood overlooking a neighboring plot of graves.

On the side of the rental house we were cohabitating were big bold letters: UEP. The FLDS Church created a charitable organization United Effort Plan Trust, as a way to own and distribute properties among members. So despite families living in their own homes, they didn’t actually own their land and properties—the church did. A nod to Brigham Young days, ‘there will be no rich and no poor among us’. What could’ve been seen as an endorsement of the Law of Consecration also happened to be a wildly convenient tool of manipulation and control for church leadership.

Only ten minutes into the weekend programming and I’m already embarrassed by the amount of propaganda I’ve ingested. Unbeknownst to me, I’d spend the next few days sizing up just how much damage this rumor mill has accrued for a community who I share more in common with than less.

“Your great grandpa made a different decision than my great grandpa” Shirlee said. We share Joseph Smith, Brigham Young and even John Taylor before our religious wall of men start to diverge. Unlike the LDS Church, Shirlee’s relatives took John Taylors 1886 revelation seriously. A revelation John, then-prophet, received while hiding from the government detailing the importance to never relinquish polygamy, “a new and everlasting covenant”.

Our LDS prophetic predecessor Wilford Woodruff rejected this revelation and instead issued a Second Manifesto announcing departure from this practice of plural marriage and aligning himself with the government:

“We are not teaching polygamy, or plural marriage, nor permitting any person to enter into its practice,” President Woodruff said. “Inasmuch as laws have been enacted by Congress forbidding plural marriages, which laws have been pronounced constitutional by the court of last resort, I hereby declare my intention to submit to those laws, and to use my influence with the members of the Church over which I preside to have them do likewise.”

Contrary to Woodruff’s decision to part from plural marriage, the relatives and friends of John Taylor were determined to uphold the revelation of their father and grandfather. John W. Taylor, son of the prophet, was even excommunicated over his unwillingness to course correct. The FLDS jokingly call us “Brighamites” which I think appropriately nods to our reoccurring power struggle among church leaders. Lindsay Hansen Park, historian and Year of Polygamy Podcast host and co-tour guide said it best, “Mormon succession will schism into eternity.” And that it has, especially for the FLDS community who was founded on a schism and became the Council of Friends.

Predictably, the LDS Church leadership denied this 1886 revelation until just last summer when they uploaded the revelatory documents onto their website. While both of our religious communities battle various forms of mind control, Shirlee noticed the historical cover-ups were more of a mainstream LDS thing. For her, the barbarities were out in the open. In many ways, they embraced the absurdity which, I imagine, would make the deconstruction process even more challenging not having the conflicting narratives to wrestle.

Saturday morning we met at the local schoolhouse to start the tour. The wind was ripping as we stood below the large flag clanking loudly against the metal pole. Lindsay painted a broad overview of this town and honed in on one of the most central wounds of the community: the 1953 Short Creek Raid.

The Arizona Governor, John Howard Pyle, set out to punish this small town for their crimes against women and children. On July 26, 1953, more than a hundred law enforcement officers raided the town:

“As patrol cars roared into the village three dynamite explosions echoed off the desert cliffs; they were signals to the waiting Short Creekers that the police were coming. In the houses, officers found only women and children cowering. The men were assembled in their Sunday best in the schoolyard. The American flag was flying, and they were singing ‘[God Bless] America.'”

It was the largest arrest of polygamists in history. 36 men were arrested and 86 women and 263 children were bussed to Phoenix to be separated and put in foster care. Shirlee’s dad, twelve years old at the time, was one of these children. He was sent to a rest home in Phoenix. The trauma of his experience and others informed Shirlee’s upbringing and the generations to follow.

Unfortunately, for Governor Pyle, the pictures of families being ripped apart hit the broader media and his escalatory plan became deeply unpopular. The raid not only devastated the town but also further emboldened the fear this community had of the outside world and authorities, setting the groundwork for more religious fanaticism and underground living—hello, Warren Jeffs. While many children were eventually reunited with their families, not all were.

Hearing from those who grew up in Short Creek, it became quite clear they did not believe the state resources were available to them. Experiences of being sexually assaulted or harmed were brushed under the rug for the fear of a family separation casted a much larger shadow. While it’s easy to focus on the violence coming from inside the fundamentalist house, this community has always been surrounded by violence. And it hurts to know how much my religion of origin played a large role in the dehumanization process of this people.

To escape the wind, we visited the mid-renovated meetinghouse where all church meetings, dances, and local gatherings took place. Despite the bare shafts, exposed drywall and the unfinished ceiling framing the open sky, this building was one of the most beautiful community hubs I’ve ever laid eyes on. Gasp. Like one of those old titanic remake vids, I looked around and could imagine the ghosts of thousands of families and well-loved finishing details. Shirlee spoke about the wheelbarrow they used as a collection plate to help raise money to fund their shared spaces. The first event ever hosted in this building was the funeral of their beloved Leroy Johnson. They gathered in the meeting hall and then walked to the nearby cemetery to commemorate his life. The start of a new tradition.

But, as good as some of the memories were, this community was architecturally designed to be vulnerable. In a game of thrones type power grab, Warren Jeff’s weaponized the power vacuum and claimed the throne from his sickly father, Rulon, in 2002. The beginning of the end.

We heard first-hand what it was like to sit in the congregation as new announcements from Warren were made. The environment descended into an unrecognizable level of toxicity, yet there was nowhere to go. Shirlee emphasized over and over and over again, there was no incentive for members to leave. Stories of neighboring cities calling them “plygs” and throwing condoms at them in the grocery store reinforced the old stories that the outside world hated them. Many of the women we heard from were in arranged marriages. They had no credit history. No assets. They were seven+ kids deep living in a church-owned home that could be sieged any time. Every aspect of their lives was controlled. How they looked. What they wore. How they spent their time. The outsourcing of autonomy was down to the psychological studs.

Donia, Hildale’s current mayor, walked us through a day in her life as a mother. She was up around 4:30AM to get ready and do personal study. Children followed suite around 6:30AM. They ate breakfast and got ready for school. She worked a full job before coming home to cook dinner, do chores, study the prophet’s words and have kids in bed and house prepped for the following day. On top of the day-to-day necessities, she was the community seamstress. Donia was meeting with local church leadership for assignments on where pleats and pockets would go on dresses and was responsible for making the patterns for the larger community. The hatred for women in these meetings was palpable she said. In moments of community crises, like a funeral, she was asked to make over 100 dress patterns in a few short days for the women and children to wear. These people were worked to the bone. At one point in the conversation, Donia detailed a miscarriage that she was never afforded to grieve in-between all the work required of her.

What once was a lively community slowly dried up. Community dances were cancelled. Basketball hoops were removed. If there was an urge to play, children were instructed to pick up a shovel.

At one point, the Church started separating families by way of judgement day. Donia talked about how she and her husband and their 8-9 children were instructed to arrive at the Church for their 11:30PM appointment. They sat in the pews and snaked their way through the line to stand before church leaders—one-by-one— to be judged either worthy or in need of repentance. This process lasted all night. They didn’t return home until 5:30AM where they were then instructed to await their fate by way of a telephone call.

Every single family was impacted by these verdicts. In Donia’s family, all of the members were considered unworthy with the exception of her 9-year-old daughter. Her sister’s family received the opposite call, all worthy with the exception of a son. It’s like the church ripped a page out of the sneetches-on-the-beaches playbook. Those with “stars on their bellies” attended a different church than the ones in need of repentance. They were not allowed to visit or co-exist together. Friend groups stopped meeting and the seamstress gatherings at Donia’s house dried up.

Despite both being unworthy, Donia and her husband were not permitted to be alone. He moved downstairs to sleep. A handshake longer than 2-3 seconds would be considered inappropriate. To stay in good standing with the Church, Donia and her sister traded their children at times of church and outside activities to honor the rules. Her daughter grew physically ill with stomach aches over the hardship. Until, she decided it was enough. Donia laughed as she explained how she had to tell white lies to go pick up her husband up from his work trips in Vegas so they could be alone in the car. Almost ten children together and they felt like teens sneaking out under their parent’s nose to sit side-by-side in a car. This was the level of intensity that finally got Donia and her family to pack up their things and leave Short Creek. But, it certainly came at a cost.

In every story, I was constantly taken aback by the casual cruelty mentioned off the cuff. While eating lunch at a local woman’s house, GraceAnne, talked about being molested by neighbor kids for food. Shirlee’s sister, Marji Mozart, who also happened to be her sister wife described how she’d agonize over which pair of socks to wear, out of a drawer of identical socks, hoping if she chose the right pair her husband would be pleased. “I was child when I got married, but I wasn’t stupid” Marji said. “He wanted me to stay young. Stay little.”

In all of these shared experiences, fear was at the center. It reminded me of that part in the new Netflix Documentary, “Trust Me: The False Prophet”, when Noms comes to the realization that she mistook love for fear. I feel that I conflated the two deeply when thinking about my relationship with mormon god.

Warren was arrested in 2006. Shirlee said there used to be about 12,000 FLDS members and now the number is likely closer to 1200. What is remaining of the community is fragmented as Warren is revealing different revelations to different members….let the schisming commence. What is now considered a cursed town to Warren, Hildale, is now completely run by women-powered structures. Now that’s a barbie movie I’d love to watch. We heard how Donia won the seat as mayor over-and-over-and-over again despite the obvious obstacles in her way. INCREDIBLE. Shirlee and her team of over 20 staff members at Cherish Families are revitalizing the community by helping provide support, housing, mental health resources, legal services, etc. Despite the deep levels of misogyny that once powered this place, it appears the women are the ones keeping the lights on which is an entirely separate essay for another day. Heartbreakingly, the FLDS men haven’t wagered as well. Shirlee has been keeping track of all the people coming and going from Short Creek and says the suicide rate, specifically for men, is 10x that of the national average. We heard stories of relatives driving off cliffs. Everyone in this place knows someone impacted by suicide.

When I got home from this trip I cried harder than I have in months. It may’ve been exhaustion or coming home to a dark, empty house; but, the stories and sights we saw were lodged so deep inside of me I don’t think they’ll ever leave. Like, even writing this essay I can feel myself hovering not wanting to land. These details feel too hot to touch. I cry thinking about how GraceAnne, who named her firstborn after Warren Jeffs, still doesn’t have contact with some of her children who are practicing within the FLDS faith. God, the water these families were asked to hold and how the ripples are still rippling. It’s one thing to intellectualize fundamentalism or tradwifery or a mind-controlling environment, but it’s a very different thing to experience it in your body. And that’s what we did this weekend. I look at these women who are sharing the most alien-like stories and nodding, yes, yes, yes. Makes sense. I understand. And not only understand, I can superimpose myself onto these same actions.

It’s the way we walked into the baptismal font and I felt at home. The smell of the tiled font transported me back to the oxen tub where I spent hours, years, repenting for my existence feeling almost good enough. Hearing about Warren’s deranged fixation on re-baptisms for adults (to the point they found baptismal fonts in the back of horse carriages), I thought about the time I sat in front of my YSA bishop at BYU who looked me in the eyes and spontaneously forgave me of all of my sins. To my scrupulous brain, I felt like I was 8 years old all over again, totally ELATED, not recognizing how perversely inappropriate this behavior is for a grown man. While the experiences coming from this community are exponentially more harmful than my religious origin, my legs remembered how effortlessly I had bent the knee to similarly flavored requests and rituals and the only emotion I could reach for was one of compassion. The question isn’t of repulsive shock, “how did this happen?” but more a bewildered humility, “howww did this happen?

“We had a village here. Everyone belongs to everyone,” Shirlee said proudly. “We had belonging in spades.” The FLDS Community knows this principle better than most and for maybe the first time ever I could see that below the surface of abuse and indoctrination was a rich soil of connection that really served the families living here, for a time.

Sunday morning, a few of us walked the neighboring cemetery where the whole weekend began. Like the tax-fraud rumor, outsiders also spread the lie that FLDS families were baby killers pointing to the cemetery filled entirely of infant bodies. This is a rumor I hadn’t heard but seeing Shirlee’s flustered reaction I knew it was a painful one.

Walking along the dirt path, every grave honored a child. Some were only days old. Some months. And others just one date. The headstones varied in professionalism. A few were polished and engraved while others looked hand-carved on the face of a rock. The most notable difference between the grave markers were the names, or lack thereof. “Jessop Girl Stillborn.” In FLDS practice, if a child dies before their first breath, they are often not named. I can’t pretend to know how these mothers feel but I ache for them. In their attempts to ritualize grief, there are theological limits. And on top of the cruelty from inside their community, Shirlee described how painful it was for these families to grieve while the murderous rumors spread. This little graveyard, again, a reminder of the cruelty. They’re surrounded and alone. They’ve always been.

The more I associate with mormon-affiliated folks, the more I am forced to shed the puritanical thinking of my childhood and embrace complexity: we are a messy group of people. Since Joseph. There’s simply no way around it. We are victims of substantial religious control and manipulation AND we (all schisms) have a long history of perpetuating harm. By our fruits ye shall know us. And, my god, we’ve got some rotten fruit. But to sit at the feet of women who I once knew very little and assumed a lot and not only witness but relish in their tenacity felt like a genuine ledge of respite. These women have hand-spun some of the worst humanity has had to offer into something breathtakingly remarkable.

Call me Eve, but I didn’t know how desperately I needed to taste good fruit.

A few pictures from our weekend tour/fundraiser for Cherish Families:

Shirlee’s sister Marji Mozart performed original music for us.

We each took a turn for a baptismal slide at the park. It was so fun.

Until next time :)

Donate and support Cherish Families here.

Nick and I are in the final stretch of divorce. Everything feels soupy and it’s only when it gets dark that I know another day has passed. I dread the night. That’s when the ache hits me the hardest. Last month I was feeling overcome with the itch to throw rocks at the sexual stories I believe about myself that can feel impossible to do in a silo. Ask my vibrator. So, I popped on the apps.

Read more

An invitation to sit at her table unexpectedly turned into a metaphysical bathroom-floor session with the toilet where I choked up all the pain surrounding the last year of community organizing. It’s the kind of dry-heave purging that has you feeling gutted from the inside-out.

“I don’t know what to do,” I told her.

Six years ago I was sitting in bed next to Nick when I decided to turn my ache for friendship into action. Twenty people showed up for a pizza party in my basement. That night Faith Journey Meetups, an online community and FB page for religiously deconstructing women and gender expansive folks was born which eventually led to the brick and mortar hub, Lost & Found Club, an official 501(c)(3) non-profit. Can you believe it? A legally recognized organization here in the state of Utah dedicated to those leaving The Citadel and Immortan Joe Smith behind. God damn!

I remember one of the first events we hosted. Nick and I had to clear out every piece of furniture in our 1970’s mid-century living room to make space for a 100+ folding chairs. We packed the chairs as tightly as our main area would allow. Seating wrapped around our kitchen island and continued up the staircase. The house was filled to the brim; not because of any marketing ploy or sales gimmick but because of a genuine thirst for connection and education. I was thirsty.

Soon after, the online community exploded. I attribute most of the growth to the compounding tide of a mass awakening in the midst of Covid (suddenly no one had to be at church….what a relief), but in very little time, hundreds turned to thousands. I think it’s one thing to birth a creative project with a clear vision in mind, but in this case, the situation felt more like an uncovering. What is below this beautiful, traumatized hot bed of post-mormons? The responsibilities more closely aligned with that of an archeologist than a creator.

As archeologists, we quickly discovered we are not building this community on neutral theological ground. While I’ve received heat from men—ahem, especially a male therapist serving the post-mormon community—who were upset with me about the ways we structured events (not all were accessible to men), this decision came from the bottom-up. While I do believe the path forward integrates and serves all adults, we must also acknowledge that it may not be a seamless transition to cohabitate in spaces with men who once hoarded all of the systemic and organizational power and have long weaponized the emotional and physical labor of women. We’re trying our best to take account for this looming misogynistic shadow, because believe it or not, proximity to a chapel does not dictate safety. I used to believe the priesthood power was made up but I’ve seen far too many spellbound to deny its’ reality. We’ve found great success in not making men our center.

But of course, bones are bones. And communing with post-mormon folks who understand and have long sustained the building blocks of a well-knit community has GREATLY enhanced our efforts. Evidence of us and our good community-member bones are alllll over the donated tupperware dishes, homemade decor, inside jokes, extra hands during cleanup, renovated rituals, campy theatrics, lack of inhibition and EAGERNESS to share and perform and teach without any arm twisting. We’ve tried to hold this community container, if you will, firmly enough to stay anchored but loosely enough for the creativity to run wild without tension. Because, make no mistake, this is a co-created space and witnessing this multifaceted magic up close has truly been an honor of a lifetime. We are such a fun, whimsy and friendly group. I love us.

So, why the porcelain purging now?

I think what I’m discovering is less about the landscape and more about me. Why am I still digging?

For the longest time, the pictures of brunch dates and craft nights and local meetups fueled me. Like an IV, I’d try to carve out a few minutes at every event to inject the good into my veins. I know firsthand how life-changing a good human connection can be that it was worth a few hits to me mental health.

But now, several years in, I’m starting to see how this work of community organizing is impacting more than me, but my family. In-between all the documentation of events in my photo albums are snippets of my kids growing alongside this organization—my third baby. Last year, Ellie and Will started vocalizing how much they hate Lost & Found. They could see how much I cry and stress around the clock in attempts to support this community. “You like your friends more than me” my daughter would say. It’s difficult for me to even touch this conversation without feeling overrun by shame. The last six months of my marriage were completely consumed with lengthy phone calls emotionally supporting a number of community members while seeking legal support to mitigate an escalating situation with a community member who I genuinely attempted to support and affirm in a private matter before it became too harmful and inappropriate to stay engaged. It’s still consuming hours every week with no end in sight and if I need to fall on the sword to keep community members safe and their humanity intact, I will. I feel nothing but rage for the time and moments robbed. I wish I could grieve the death of my marriage in peace. I know Nick does, too. Yet, the altar begs for more.

Naively, I hadn’t considered the ways in which becoming synonymous with an organization would essentially cannibalize my humanness. After leaving the robotics of mormonism, I was desperate to feel human again. And I’ve weirdly trapped myself again. Damn it. This social power dynamic of being executive director and an essential HR manager to my friends limits how I’m permitted to show up in social settings and what I can and cannot say publicly. The professionalism required to run something like L&F is bleeding out onto many of my private relationships. And it feels lonely. I only ever wanted friends, never to manage them. In a few cases, the loss of emotional intimacy has brought up some real grief.

This is hard, hard work.

How did I not think a community that once outsourced repair around all major interpersonal issues to the local plumber down the street wouldn’t also surface sideways here? And here I am still aching for an authority figure to pat me on the head and tell me I’m okay. That we’ll be okay. God, it’s embarrassing.

While I’ve done my absolute best, I’m deeply aware that it wasn’t always enough. I hate that. I wish so desperately that it could’ve been. I wish (I’m taking full ownership of this one) I set up systems and methods for sustainability and community repair structures better, sooner. Maybe then we could keep everyone around who wants to be around and actually compensate them for their time.

I think what I’m saying here is I feel dumb. Really dumbbbb. I’ve been naive to the powers of community building. What it would take. What it would cost. What it would beg of each one of us. The reoccurring invite to fall on the sword. How more than a container, this organization is a forcefield of protection that must be wielded to keep the maximum number of people safe and affirmed.

A few months ago, I spent a week reaching out to the biggest post-mormon community organizers I knew. Mostly, as a lifeline. Help me! SOS! It was like calling in a team of avengers. Many have retired the craft but their stories lingered. Talking through the in-person, online, podcasting and mormon academic landscape, I discovered that Lost & Found is not only in good company but terribly familiar waters. Despite the decades that span these groups, the themes surfaced: Crises of sexual trauma. Lack of conflict repair. Money wounds. Our collective swiftness to bend the knee to shame. The power grabs among a people who have only known scarcity. I listened as every leader described how not only traumatizing it has been but how they’ve walked away from hosting in-person gatherings. Whether a conscious choice or implosion, these communities rise and fall. It’s not hard to see the trail of carnage.

If I’m being honest, I’m not convinced this won’t be our fate, too. I don’t know how you can continue a work when the battle will never not be uphill. I’d love to dive into other communities to see their inner workings. Are they as charged as ours? How do they stay accessible while also being sustainable? How much emotional labor do they take on from the community they’re serving without burning out? We started this work with upwards of 20 staff and now we are now down to four, flirting with three. And the long hallways in our eyes tells me it may be less soon.

Please forgive me. I’m not sharing this to garner pity or even empathy. I think I’m looking for a witness. Aside from the few still working around the clock to keep the lights on at L&F, I’ve never felt more alone in this work and I, personally, don’t know if I have it in me to be an organizational screen while feeling this weak and disoriented in my personal life.

I just need to say that out loud.

Before I left my friend’s house, she handed me a card and told me to write all of the lessons I’ve learned in this burning fire of organizing. I paused. I’m not the same person I was even a year ago. I feel jaded, traumatized, and wildly more defective. Whatever ego was intact at the start of this thing has been obliterated to smithereens. But, I can feel the muscle strain. I’m grittier. My tolerance for feeling misunderstood is significantly stronger. I’ve surprised myself by the levels of compassion and sensibility that have surfaced when the iron is hot. Hotter than hot. I saw a meme the other day that said, “Even at my most evil I’m considerate”. And that’s been true for me. If this whole experience has been a test, I’m proud of the results. And I think the same of all the staff/volunteers who keep this thing afloat. You’d be hard pressed to find more caring and intentional humans. Truly. Whatever becomes of this organization, I know that the roots are and have always been good.

It’s easy to burn. To destroy. But, to create something out of nothing; that’s a different beast entirely. And looking back now, I don’t regret it. I believe birth begs for naivity because who the hell would have the courage to hit “post” if they weren’t a little head in the clouds? I know I wouldn’t have.

Desperately, hoping to get back to that place sooner than later.

Lately, I feel like my Substack is living in the upside-down of that feral 70’s musical. But, unfortunately, in my dimension, there’s no red-convertible getaway. The adult-looking teens are more like teen-feeling adults purging themselves on a ferris wheel of unridden potential. And the try-hard molly mormon is taking you through a haunted house of mirrors where the closest thing to a love ballad being sung is Wide Open Spaces by the Chicks. We’re certainly on a ride.

Maybe I ought to share a House of Mirrors™ content warning: Proceed with caution. Projections will distort reality.

There’s something about leaving that not only brings out the amusement lines but also the unsolicited opinions. The last time I experienced an onslaught of big feelings was when I left the church in front of 10,000 of my closest friends. Knowing how susceptible I am to the criticism of others, I chose to keep quiet while Nick and I were in the height of making these hard decisions. I worried my waning self-trust would make me deeply impressionable and unable to get off this never-ending carousel of doubt. I think I was right.

I also know, when it comes to parasocial relationships, these mirrors are often double-sided. In the same way I craved hearing every detail of someone’s divorce story hoping to find the clarity I needed for my marriage, I hesitate walking through the details of ours for the same reason. We’re all consciously or unconsciously mining each other for answers. If you’re looking for permission to ask the questions you’re too afraid to ask, stick around. But, if it’s answers you’re pursuing, you won’t find them here in our story. They’re in yours.

With those caveats, I thought I’d break “fourth mirror” this week and share five pieces of advice I found helpful when wrestling the in-between, “should we stay married?” At ease, miners. Take what you like, leave what you don’t. This is an essay I would’ve wanted to read ten months ago. :)

Read more

Time to move.

While terribly sad, the decision on who would leave our Somerset home wasn’t hard. Looking around this 1960’s backdrop of our kids’ childhood, Nick is everywhere. He’s in the hand-carved skylights and the wood floors he meticulosity finished three times over. I can still see him bouncing Will, barely two weeks old, as he straddled the framing planks on the back deck. Nick always joked about being buried in this house and deep down I knew if anything happened to us, it would be his. I wanted it to be his.

In December I started looking on Rentler for an affordable place to move. I desperately hoped to find something inside the orbit of my kids’ current world. After a few weeks of looking, a split-level home popped up a few blocks away. I immediately drove over to take a look and called the number on the “For Rent” sign in the front yard. Jeff picked up and as fortune would have it, he was available to show me the home.

Days later, I (and Nick, proof of income) signed the contract.

Here it is the day after I moved in.

And that’s when grief reared it’s ugly head. Cue Charli xcx’s song, House.

Read more

This movie stars Alison Brie and Dave Franco, lovers in life and performance. Despite some availability issues between the couple, the movie opens with Millie (Alison) proposing to her long-time boyfriend, Tim (Dave), in front of all of their friends and family. After an embarrassingly delayed response from Tim, Millie convinces her reluctant boyfriend to follow her out to a small, rural town for a new job.

spoilers ahead

While out hiking, the couple gets caught in a rainstorm. In search of refuge, they stumble upon a cave housing what we later discover to be a supernatural pool. The pool water, when consumed, creates a physical compulsion to fuse—like a magnet. When Millie and Tim’s bodies touch, they’d undergo what can only be described as a hyperactive amalgamation process where their bodies begin to merge on a cellular level. Contradicting his earlier avoidant behavior, Tim eventually finds it physically impossible to stay away from Millie. (*head bashes through the shower tile)

In a cultish turn of events, we learn Millie and Tim are not alone in these supernatural experiences. But, Jamie, their neighbor has long orchestrated this journey, citing a New Age church theology to “become one” and protect the “other half”. Thanks to some eery wedding footage, Millie discovers Jamie is actually a conjoined couple who wedded by the fusion pool. In a slash, Jamie critically cuts Millie’s arm leaving Tim with the decision to fuse or not to fuse.

Having recently returned home from the cave for more answers, Tim knew that the couples who resisted the fusion paid a price of mutilation whereas those who surrendered, fared a better fate—the decision was made. Over the course of a hot steamy make out, what was two eventually becomes one: a hot androgynous human who is part Millie, part Tim.

Lindsay Hansen Park describes leaving the church as a death by a thousand cuts. This imagery is also how I’d describe the process of severancing from someone like Nick. Though, instead of cuts I’d use the word lacerations—jagged, deep and committed. Death by a thousand lacerations. I picture the scene of Tim tied to a kitchen chair while Millie saws herself free after a temporary fusion. Our grief has been collaborative and emotionally bloody. In fact one of the first lines in my journal after separating is a reference to Aron Ralston’s heroic but self-mutilating escape:

I feel like every moment since deciding on this separation and booking the airbnb has felt like tiny micro cuts that come with withdrawal and heartbreak. I told nick that I feel like that man who is cutting off his own arm.

While, for me, the body horror in this movie is the closest art to touch the mind fuckery of separation, I do not see me and Nick in the ending. Thankfully. Unlike Millie and Tim, the life-saving move to keep us from bleeding out isn’t surrendering to the fusion and co-dependency dance. To fuse or not to fuse? For us, when presented with this ultimatum, separation feels like the only way to stay alive and “together”.

My friend, Carah, advised me to keep a journal throughout this disorienting process to help parse through the uncertainty. I wanted to share a few bite-sized entries, or streams of consciousnesses, with you. God, what I wouldn’t give to have someone lift the curtain a bit on their own process. Here’s a little bit of mine (as much as privacy will allow).

It’s truly a mind fuck, as you can see below.

Dear diary….

Read more