We finally had our driver’s licenses. We were officially old enough to date. My curfew had changed from 11pm to midnight. School was out, which meant no homework, long summer nights, and the intoxicating suspense that we were finally getting a little taste of freedom.

I was enjoying that freedom at my good friend Marc’s* house, when he got a call from Tyler.

“Hey, what are you doing?” Tyler asked.

Marc told him we were hanging out in his basement and listed off who was there. When he hung up, he looked around at us.

“That was weird. Tyler never calls me. But he’s coming over.”

I couldn’t hide the blushing that immediately spread across my face. Marc put two and two together.

“Wait. Do you like Tyler?”

And then came the interrogation.

Wasn’t it weird that Tyler was friends with Sean, who I had recently broken up with?

Didn’t I know Tyler wasn’t exactly a rule-abiding Mormon boy?

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After writing at length about the woman I hope to be in a year, I realized that a lot of those things are things I could start doing right now. Even if they feel weird or unnatural. As the unfamiliar tends to feel.

In my experience, the best way to shift your identity is to figure out what kind of person you want to be, and then start acting like that person until it begins to feel like your new normal.

The thing I listed last week that I’ve been specifically focusing on is:

• I don’t run from, avoid, or distract myself from negative emotions. I pause for as long as I need to feel them. I let the discomfort pass through me. And I listen for what the feelings are trying to signal.

This has been a challenging habit to form.

Last night, when I was hit with an intense wave of sadness, I slipped back into an old pattern. One where I pushed aside the uncomfortable feeling (trying to blame it simply on period hormones and physical exhaustion) and slapped a bandaid over it.

Last night’s bandaid was a doom scroll on TikTok for a few cheap hits of dopamine. And guess what? All that bandaid did was keep me up tossing and turning all night.

Then this morning, the wave of sadness hit hard again as I was walking home after dropping the kids off at school. I could feel tears start to well up, and I was grateful I had sunglasses on when a stranger walking their dog gave me a friendly greeting.

All I wanted to do was crawl back into bed and disappear into sleep after such a restless night.

But I realized the walking was helping me process the intense feelings I was being hit with. So I made a cup of coffee, popped in some headphones, turned on my favorite sad-girl playlist, set an hour timer, and started walking. No weighted vest. No workout clothes. Just a mental-health walk to sort through my thoughts.

And my thoughts were sad.

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The first iPhone had been released earlier that year. MySpace ruled the internet. We were all eagerly awaiting the last book in the Harry Potter series. And cracks were starting to show in the economy, foreshadowing the massive recession of 2008.

But more importantly, I was about to turn 16.

That meant, by Mormon standards, I would finally be allowed to officially date and kiss boys. Without getting grounded for six months, that is.

Not to mention, I would be getting my driver’s license, which meant that for the first time in my life, I’d have a small taste of independence and freedom.

And it worked in my favor that while these milestones felt major to me, they were rather low on the priority list compared to everything else my family had going on.

My oldest brother would be returning from his two-year church mission at the beginning of the summer. My sister would be getting married mid-summer. And my other brother would be preparing to leave for his mission at the end of summer.

Amidst the buzz of all the major events, I couldn’t wait to quietly slip under the radar of my parents’ watchful eyes.

And while we awaited all of the upcoming festivities, April/May came with a few plot twists.

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A space of quantum purgatory, if you will.

And let me tell you, it has been disorienting. I’ve felt the foundation of my life crumble once before, when I decided to leave the Mormon church. That came with its own fair share of pain and loss, but I found so much joy and alignment once life settled down, that I’ve never regretted making the choice to burn it all down and rebuild.

But now, smack dab in the middle of another massive foundational shift, I haven’t found it easy to constantly remain hopeful. I’ve had moments of unmistakable clarity, peace, and hope that once things settle, the joy that comes with living in deeper alignment will flow freely. But outside of those moments, there’s honestly just been a lot of crying in my bathroom.

The last few months, I’ve felt so overwhelmed by doubt and grief that it’s been difficult to go about my life and feel normal.

Small talk has felt excruciating. Eating and sleeping properly have been a challenge. My mind has been on overdrive, making even the simplest tasks feel difficult. Cashiers have been met with blank stares when they ask if I want my groceries bagged. I’ve answered, “Yes, please,” when baristas have asked if I want whole milk or an alternative milk.

In general, I’ve felt like a bit of a scatterbrained mess.

But recently, I came across a helpful practice for when you’re leaving one reality behind and working toward creating another. It’s quite simple, and surprisingly effective.

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But for the rest of my freshman year, I still found myself with a new crush every few weeks. I just made sure nothing ever went further than a good flirt. Maybe a little cuddling or hand-holding here and there, but not very often, because even that was anxiety-inducing. I was constantly wondering if someone would see it and rat me out to my mom.

But I didn’t find it too difficult to avoid physically exploring with any of my crushes, because I hadn’t felt the type of emotional or physical pull that matched what I had felt with James*. But I never would have admitted that to him. Or anyone else.

Instead, I settled for the occasional interaction—always short-lived and heavily monitored by teachers, parents, or church leaders.

But once school was out, I was about to go on a four-day trip with him. Without my parents.

The problem? The trip was Trek. Mormon Trek.

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Feeling excluded from the inside jokes and stories about what had happened over the weekend—football games, playing night games, figuring out who was crushing on who—was a ruthless feeling.

But I found ways around the isolation.

I was the youngest of four kids, with three older siblings who were all social creatures. One of my brothers was busy serving a two-year mission, but that still left me with two siblings and both of their friends.

Desperate for any sort of social interaction, I would take any chance I got to lurk around when they had friends over.

I’m sure it was annoying for them at times, but they were nice to me, and I liked being around older people. Their age made them all seem so smart and confident and cool, which made me try my best to cosplay as a person who was equally as smart and confident and cool.

There was a seven-year age gap between me and my sister, and I liked that we looked nothing alike. Because it meant that her guy friends would often mistake me for my sister’s friend instead of her little sister, and I loved the male attention.

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Hearing that didn’t make it sting any less.

Knowing how special our bond felt to me, and knowing that I wouldn’t have been swayed by silly advice from a bunch of rowdy teenage boys. But he wanted to experience middle school as a free agent, and there was nothing left for me to do but accept it.

Middle school brought a revolving door of crushes and short-lived boyfriends. None of them ever quite stacked up to the crush I had on James. But I had a lot of harmless fun, and focused most of my attention and energy on my girl friends.

Even though I felt unlucky in love, I felt incredibly lucky in friendship.

I had the best crew of girlfriends, who were smart and beautiful and fun, and there was always so much silliness and nonstop laughter when we were together. We’d meet between classes and yap for a few minutes, somehow carrying five different conversations all at once. Sometimes I’d have a boyfriend lurking around, but it was rare that they were ever the focus.

And I remember one day hearing that James had his first kiss, and brushing it off like it didn’t bother me.

But it did.

A lot.

We still had the occasional flirtatious conversation, but they were few and far between at this point. It wasn’t until my freshman year of high school that we started talking regularly again. I had finally gotten my very own cell phone, and James and I had rekindled our marathon phone calls. But this time, there was also texting.

So, you know how sometimes you can feel the energy of another person in a room even before you see them?

One night, I opened my eyes and saw my mom hunched over my phone at the foot of my bed, reading my text messages.

I was shocked and furious.

She startled when I shouted, “What are you doing?!”

She told me to hush, go back to sleep, and quickly scurried out of my room.

I picked up my phone, and my conversation with James was still open. It was just some flirty banter and chatting and nothing wild (I was a good Mormon girl, after all), but I was mortified by the invasion of privacy.

I immediately deleted that conversation, along with every other text thread on my phone.

Which I continued to do every single night for the rest of high school.

My parents were growing concerned as my attention had shifted from innocent childhood crushes and giggling girlfriends to crushes that seemed a little less innocent. They made more and more rules about how and when I was allowed to see or talk to James, which pretty much squashed any chance of that spark fully rekindling.

Enter, Mikey*.

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The blueprint for your love life.

For me, we were just kids when we met. I was 11 years old, and my family had recently moved across town. Which meant we were in a new church ward (the Mormon term for the local congregation you’re assigned to—you don’t get to choose which one you attend; your address determines your ward), and I was feeling a bit lost and alone.

I was painfully shy and awkward when meeting new people as a kid. It always took a while for my personality to thaw out in new surroundings and with new people.

But I clearly remember the first time I made eye contact with James*.

He had been assigned to speak in Primary (the Mormon church’s children’s Sunday School program), so he was sitting up on the stand while I was seated in the audience. We caught eyes, and he flashed a cheeky smile at me, which I couldn’t help but return. He whispered something to the boy next to him, looked back at me, and gave me a little wave.

At this point, I was blushing, and the butterflies made me feel like I was either going to start floating into the air or retch my guts out.

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When Satan lost the war, he and his followers were cast out from heaven, and denied the opportunity to receive their own mortal bodies. Now they exist as spirits who do their best to tempt, trick and deceive people into living a miserable and Godless life, then ultimately, hell in the afterlife. Where there is lots of wailing and gnashing of teeth. That doesn’t sound nice, does it? Nope, no one wants to rot away in a place of spiritual anguish and remorse. Luckily, we have been given guidelines to ensure we make it to heaven!

Don’t have sex before marriage. That’s a big one. If you break that rule, that’s a sin next to murder.

Don’t be gay. That’s perverted and weird.

Don’t drink alcohol or do drugs. Ever. Unless they’re prescription drugs, then have at it!

Don’t drink coffee or non-herbal teas. Why? Because of the caffeine. That’s bad for your body. And your body is a temple. Oh, but caffeinated sodas and energy drinks are okay.

If you’re a girl, cover your shoulders and your midriff and make sure your shorts and dresses hit your knees. Wear a one-piece swimsuit. If you don’t, you’ll become walking pornography. Pornography is a big problem with boys, and it will rot their brains and suck their souls, and they’ll become addicts. And probably gay, too.

If you’re a boy, you’ll need to serve a 2-year mission. Bonus points for leadership callings and lots of baptisms! The harder you work, the hotter your wife will be. Girls, you can serve a mission too. But only if you’re a 21-year-old spinster.

But ladies, your most important and highest calling in this life is to marry a returned missionary in the temple and have a bunch of babies! Babies are so adorable, you’ll love it.

Oh, and after you go through the temple, you get to start wearing garments. Garments are holy underwear that will keep you safe and unstained from the world. Plus, they cover all the way from your shoulders to your knees, so how easy will it be to dress modestly?! And remember, modest is the hottest!

Aaand that’s just what they taught us in Primary.

As children.

And I ate that shit up. I took everything literally and devoted my entire life to being a good Mormon girl. Because Hell sounded scary as fuck, and even though the Celestial Kingdom (heaven) sounded kinda boring (which I never would’ve admitted aloud, because how blasphemous is that!), at least that was how you got to be with your family forever. And your friends too.

Since it was the 1990s in Provo, Utah (the mecca of Mormonism), every single person you knew was Mormon. Your neighbors, your friends, your school teachers, your hairdresser, your sports coach…we were all drinking the same Kool-Aid. We followed the same rules, spoke the same language, dressed the same way etc. Looking back, the homogeneity had an eerie way of making the abnormal seem completely normal.

Every now and then, you’d hear warning tales of someone’s kid or cousin or older brother who went astray. And how tumultuous and sad and scary their life was, now that Satan had them twisted and bound in his chains of hell. And how mind-boggling it was that someone who was blessed with knowledge of the truth, but they still chose to forgo all the true happiness™️ that goes along with living the gospel.

So, I happily guzzled the Kool-Aid, and hit every Mormon milestone. From being baptized at 8, going through the Young Women’s program from 12–18, getting married in the temple at 20, graduating from BYU at 23, and popping out 3 beautiful babies before I turned 30.

Then I turned 31.

And was hit with an intense, excruciating faith crisis.

Which ultimately led to me leaving the church.

And with my exit came hitting a number of ex-Mormon milestones. Piercing my septum, drinking alcohol, disposing of my garments, getting tattoos, trying coffee for the first time, kissing a girl (in that order, btw)…and the cruelest, arguably most cliche of them all, going through a divorce.

Still smack dab in the thick of that one, and perhaps I’ll share more later, but all I’ll say for now is: what an absolute mindfuck. It’s a story I never imagined I’d be living.

I’m aware that people have talked about me. That I’ve become a warning tale of how your life falls apart if you leave the church. But I’ve come to discover that the thing about letting your life fall apart, is that it gives you the opportunity to rebuild it. In a way that actually feels right.

It takes work. It’s messy. It’s uncomfortable as hell.

But it’s 10/10 worth it.

The last few years have come with twists and turns I have felt completely unprepared for, and unsure how to navigate. And I understand that sharing my experiences will be deeply unsettling and disturbing to those who hold their Mormon belief framework as absolute and sacred. I understand that my words will be triggering to my friends and family who are still in it—family and friends that I love and admire, despite our differences. I understand there will be criticism for sharing any “anti-Mormon” rhetoric on a public platform. I understand that people will say, why can’t she just leave the church and also leave it alone?

And to them, I say, do yourself a favor and unsubscribe.

I feel well within my right to not leave a thing alone that has not—and probably never will—fully leave me alone. When such intense, strict lifestyle practices are ingrained and woven into your identity from birth, they have a way of sticking with you. It’s tangled up in the cells in my brain, the muscle memory in my body, the fabric of my nervous system…I’ve come to terms with the fact that it may take a lifetime of unpacking and processing and rewiring to fall deeper into alignment with my truest self.

With that said, I also reserve the right to be wrong. The right to change my mind and grow and evolve as time passes, and experiences and lessons stack up. I don’t have all the answers. I never have. And I’m wildly skeptical of anyone who claims they do.

Plus, I’m excited to start writing again. In my younger years, I poured into journals and blogs, and always found it to be an uplifting and therapeutic practice.

So, welcome to my diary!

I hope you find some encouragement, a little humor, and maybe even a mirror into your own world along the way.