I was going to clean my bathrooms, but I went to a mental hospital instead

Around 8pm on Friday night, I found myself sitting cross-legged on my couch, sobbing, with my ex-husband's wife's contact open on my phone. Was this REALLY the person I was going to call in one of the most vulnerable moments of my life? Apparently, because now the phone was ringing.

I asked if she had a minute and if she was out of earshot of the kids, and then I awkwardly sobbed my way through trying to explain that I was at a mental breaking point and needed help. As a nurse, I hoped that she'd have some knowledge about local resources that I could turn to for help. I also felt like I could reach out her because she's open about how she's personally walked through hell and back in her own life, and even though it's been for different reasons, there's something appealing to me about a woman who's honest about her pain. 

The next two hours included a call to the LDS bishop over the ward area where I live and then a call to a crisis hotline where a woman named Amber answered the phone. Talk about an uncomfortable conversation... "Um, yeah, hi my name is Trinity and I know you're a stranger but I'm really not okay and I'm just hoping you can help me somehow." Despite the circumstances, Amber talked to me with impressive and instinctive grace. From what I could infer, one of her main goals was to figure out if I was safe and if the people around me were safe (aka: was I going to hurt/kill myself or hurt/kill someone else). I assured her that as someone who's been at suicide before, this wasn't that. She asked a lot of questions about my daily life and what might be contributing to my emotional state. We basically landed on: trying to raise four young children, relentless and constant nausea for the past five weeks, growing a tiny human, trying to support a husband working through his own mental health struggles, doing life (cleaning, finances, meals, etc.), and being in the middle of existential uncertainty. "I just feel like I can't even breath," I told her. I admitted, to myself and to her all at the same time, that I'd been feeling this way for about the past two weeks. 

One of our friends has recently been in and out of a mental hospital, and every time I hear an update about it, I find myself 1. concerned about him and then quickly 2. deeply envious. Sometimes, I daydream about getting into a car accident and winding up in the hospital where someone will feed me and I can just lay there all day and rest and sleep through the night and I won't have to break up any fights or make food that makes me want to throw up or budget our money or clean or be climbed on like a jungle gym. I just feel so damn tired ALL THE TIME. I want to be alive, it's just that I want to actually feel alive too.

Amber connected me with Kathy, the on-duty nurse at a local crisis stabilization facility, and the three of us talked about options for me. I had a lot of questions for Kathy, because basically all I know about mental facilities is what I've seen in movies (which is that if I go they're going to detain me against my will, handcuff me to the bed, drug me up with injections, and it'll cost thousands of dollars.) She kindly  laughed and assured me that's not how they do things.

Within the hour, my next-door neighbor friend was caring for Violet, I had packed a bag with stuff that I didn't even know if I could take, I'd lightly speed-cleaned my house (yes, I know I have issues), and I was driving to the facility in Hurricane, Utah. Seems fitting. On the way, I also called Truman (who had just barely made it to his out-of-state destination for a best friend's wedding) to update him on everything that was going on. Ladies, if ya'll are single, you gotta get yourself a Truman. Our conversation was short but sweet, and entailed the phrases "You don't need to be embarrassed," "Don't ever apologize," "It's actually harder for me when you don't tell me how you're feeling," "I'm so proud of you," "I don't care if it costs money," and "I'll take a huge dump on shame." I honestly could've done without that last one, but he seems to enjoy a good poop analogy.  

When I got there, I got outside of my car and stood there for a minute before I heard myself gently utter the words, "you can do this." Inside, I was greeted by sweet Kathy (a beautiful, grey-haired woman in her 60's) and a therapist named Dana with big eyelashes and a cute outfit. We made small talk as Kathy got me checked in, and I felt like I was outside of my body, watching it happen to someone else. I filled out a form, took off all my jewelry, dumped out my water bottle, and changed into black scrubs. It's a strange state to be in, asking question after question to find indicators of your autonomy. "Can I wear my fuzzy socks?" "Can I take this book with me?" "Can I leave my earrings in?" "Can I bring him - this is Henry, my purple lavendar-filled stuffed hippo."

I spent the next while in a therapy session with Dana, got to change back into my own clothes which were SOOOO much more comfortable, and then eventually found myself alone in a sterile room, balled up in a recliner with a very soft blanket. Three blank, grey walls, one glass wall with door, and a brown leather recliner held me that night. No children. No phone. No soft music. Only me and my thoughts. It took a long time to fall asleep, because I kept thinking of things I needed to do, like meet someone at 10a tomorrow to pick up a keyboard (guess that wasn't happening), and clean my bathrooms. It felt insanely hard to shut my brain down, but once I finally did, I dreamt all night long that Truman, me, and our friend were together, traveling in and out of mental hospitals. I can't imagine why.

I slept until 8am, which is much later than I usually get to, and soon after a nurse came in and told me that breakfast was ready. I stepped out of my room into the common area, which was filled with a few rows of recliners and a kitchen area with small, round tables. There were three styrofoam plates of food, all at one tiny table, and there were two men in black scrubs sitting at the other two plates. I didn't really want to sit by them, but it seemed like it would be more weird to move my plate somewhere else. So I sat down and started eating while covertly stealing glimpses of them. One man looked like a much more hygienic version of Sirius Black, and the other had buzzed hair and tattooed knuckles. I was judging myself, judging them, judging myself for judging them, and trying not to judge any of us, all at the same time. There was one other person in the common area - a woman with shoulder length grey hair tucked behind her ears and glasses. She sat in a recliner, buried beneath her designated blanket, and during the course of my breakfast I watched her randomly smile and quietly talk to herself with a glazed look in her eyes. 

Toward the end of the meal, I saw Knuckles accidentally squirt juice on himself from one of those highly pressurized cups of diced peaches, and I laughed and told him that happens to me every time. He smiled at me and then asked the nurse where the paper towels were. A couple minutes later, I heard Sirius have a very normal-sounding conversation with the same nurse, and it was a great reminder to me that we are all just humans, trying to figure out this weird human life thing. I had no idea why these other people were there, and they'll never know why I was there either, but somehow we were the same even though we were so different.

I spent the next few hours being still. Reading Atlas of the Heart by Brené Brown, journaling, thinking, praying - trying to listen to myself and figure out what I need going forward. There was no magic pill to take or responsibilities that would suddenly disappear, and I knew that going in, but that wasn't really my goal. My goal was to take a breath, and that's what I did. I checked myself out of the facility a little before noon, and I was leaving based on how I felt and not the time, but I didn't mind avoiding a second awkward meal with the boys.  

Here are my takeaways:

-Don't wait until it gets so bad. Ask for help earlier, even if you don't know how/where to get it - just start somewhere.

-The little things add up. Some help with my home or kids here and there doesn't really seem like it will matter, but it does. I think sometimes I accidentally convince myself that if it's not big, it's not worth it (IE: an entire weekend away vs. an afternoon away), but that black and white thinking is not useful and can even be detrimental. 

-People will hold me if I ask them to. My friend, my kid's step-mom, my husband, so many strangers - they all held me when I needed them.

-There ARE resources for when it gets bad. We live in a time when mental health is being talked about more and more, and I think that's such an incredible blessing. There are people and places for support.

-Self care is not a luxury, it's a necessity. I already knew this one, but apparently I forgot. It can feel really challenging to take of myself sometimes, especially when I'm not sure what I need. I learned this weekend that something as simple as reading about emotions can REALLY help me understand my own. 

-More stillness. I'm craving less tv, less of my phone, less noise. It wasn't until I spent hours listening only to the sound of the a/c that I could hear my heart and understand my needs. I still haven't solved how to find this kind of quiet with kids in the house, so stay tuned.

-Everyone has trouble opening those little peach cups. There's just no getting around it.

Into the Gray

I left the church in order to move closer to God. It’s pretty much that simple.

A little over a month ago, Truman and I attended the temple together. When we were talking in the car afterward and I asked how his experience was, I was surprised when he responded with, “do you really want to know?” I told him that I did.

That same week, he came from work one day and told me that he’d learned things that proved the Book of Mormon wasn’t true. Time stood still and it seemed like I could see everything in his face all at once: betrayal, disappointment, grief, shock, sadness. I know that he’s wrestled with different things about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints for years and years, but he had never expressed anything of this magnitude before. For a period of time, he even “left” the church and lived a very different lifestyle, but “came back” shortly before we met. Even then, he still disagreed with and had so many questions, but he kept them to himself. While we were dating, I communicated to him that I didn’t want to know negative things about the doctrinal details of the church, but I did want to know about his feelings and experiences.

Exactly two years ago on this night, we had sex for the first time. Okay okay, I realize that might be TMI for a lot of you, but bear with me here (pun intended). In some sort of strange enigma, that intentional decision to make love with each other was the inception of my sexual healing as well as the beginning of immense spiritual and religious consequences. The next three months of my life were beautiful in so many ways as I fell in love with Truman, as he met and loved my children, and as I felt emotional wounds literally start to close and heal. Those three months were also some of the most difficult as I prayed and pleaded with God, and desperately tried to love Truman in every way possible without doing “immoral” things together. I went through multiple church disciplinary councils, one of them that took place even after we were married for “sin” that had taken place a few days before our wedding on July 2nd. I think what felt so incredibly painful was the dissonance between the religious consequences and the intentions of my heart. I KNEW that God knew how freaking hard I was trying to abstain, and the fact that we only had sex a handful of times in those three months was nothing short of a miracle. I wrote a blog post about this experience in late July 2022, and you can read it here if you feel so inclined.

Now, this is where we move from black and white, into the gray. I truly, deeply believe that sex can (and is meant to) be a sacred, vulnerable, and deeply connecting experience. I believe it’s a gift from God. But the thing is that the church teaches that it should ONLY be between a married man and woman, and although that makes a lot of sense to me, it also doesn’t. I spent nearly seven out of nine and a half years in a marriage, to a man, where I felt sexually broken. No matter how hard I tried or prayed or attended the temple I couldn’t heal. I didn’t fully understand this until later, but I eventually numbed out that beautiful, high-desire part of myself that I had previously loved so much, in order to just emotionally survive. I couldn’t stand to look at the shards of glass that were once a whole person, so I just kept my eyes up and slowly walked over them, hearing the crunch of my soul with each step.

From April to July of 2022, I wondered how I could be feeling so much healing and damage all at the same time. I finally felt emotionally, physically, and spiritually safe with a man that I was madly in love with, and I also felt immense guilt and shame for feeling like I couldn’t control myself with him. My spirit often felt racked with confusion. For more than half a year, both Truman and I were instructed to not take the sacrament at church. We couldn’t hold callings or even bear our testimonies in sacrament meeting. I had to turn down the invitation to say a prayer more than once during church meetings, and I was even instructed not to sing with the choir when I asked our bishop. For a year we couldn’t attend the temple - a place that I had previously found solace in and visited almost every single month for the 10 years I had been endowed. I felt like every ounce of my soul pleaded to have Jesus in my life, but I also felt like I was asked not to do most of the actions that helped me feel connected to Him. I had to reconcile with not feeling as guilty as I “should have,” although I did sincerely strive to repent. Regardless, my soul felt like a jumbled mess. *I would like to add here that my Bishop is a phenomenal human being. He has shown me immense love, support, and kindness during the past few years and he’s someone I admire greatly. My frustrations are not with him, but with the church structure that he’s serving in*

Truman and I both struggled a lot during that time. On one or two occasions he would start to express frustration about particular doctrine and I’d tell him that I was so sorry but I just didn’t feel strong enough to hear it. He was incredibly understanding and respectful, and I felt sad that I was incapable of letting him be completely spiritually vulnerable with me. But a month ago, he asked me this question - “if the church isn’t true, would you want to know?” Geez… talk about a buzz kill. My brain screamed NO NO NO. DON’T TELL ME ANYTHING, as if he was about to unlock Pandora’s box and let out some evil spirit. Instead I politely nodded, and he laid out his grievances.

The first few days after that were terrible. I found myself consistently spiraling in thoughts like, “if the church isn’t true, what’s the point? Is there even a God? Is Jesus Christ real and does He love me? What are the implications of all this?” Those were easily the scariest couple days of my life. I found myself on a slippery existential slope, grabbing around and grasping for anything that would prove I had any eternal worth. Through Truman’s unwavering support, lots of tears, heart-wrenching conversations, desperate prayer, and sincere journaling, I became sure enough of God and Jesus Christ to find peace and hope. I also experienced a few weeks of intense emotional grief as I struggled to let go of what I thought my life would be - attending the temple with my eternal companion, receiving priesthood blessings, etc. I came across this quote one of those dark nights and it resonated in the deepest crevices of my being: “There are losses that rearrange the world. Deaths that change the way you see everything, grief that tears everything down. Pain that transports you to an entirely different universe, even while everyone else thinks nothing has really changed.” I felt like my entire existence had shifted and no one (except Truman) had even the slightest idea.

Since publicly sharing my decision to “leave the church” last week, a lot of people have reached out to ask why. I’m going to attempt to answer what seems like an entirely impossible question. Here we go. During the 13 years I’ve practiced Mormonism, I’ve run into countless things that I either didn’t agree with or didn’t understand. Those things include but are not limited to: polygamy being practiced in the early years of the church, past and current views on same-sex attraction/marriage, disciplinary processes (specifically regarding sexual actions), some of the things we practice in the temple, the very specific guidelines of wearing the garment, the way “modesty” is often taught, many of the hymns we sing every week, and more. But to be honest, until a few weeks ago, I never spent much of my emotional energy on these things BECAUSE I was taught and believed that the church was restored by God, through Joseph Smith. I believed that to be true, and I believed that Joseph Smith had the authority of God, so I beautifully and faithfully decided to live by those teachings even though I didn’t understand them. I’m not mad at myself for that, I actually love that part of me! I love that I can find faith in things I can’t see and enjoy the freedom I find in meekness. BUT, when I learned the historical facts about Joseph Smith, the Book of Mormon, the way he received “revelation,” and how he wrongfully used “God’s authority”, the validity of the commandments I’d been following was stripped away. When I learned that what I had been taught, what I am being taught, and what I will be taught through the church is literally a very incorrect version of history, I felt compelled to take a good, hard look at why I’m living the way I am. 

This is where, if I were still “in the church” (even just a month ago), I would use the popular phrase “people are not perfect but the church is.” I call BS. Never mind that Joseph Smith had experiences in his life that perfectly mirror the stories of the Book of Mormon, or that he started sleeping with, marrying, and being sealed to women, in addition to Emma Smith, a very short time before instituting the “revelation” of practicing polygamy. Let’s just set aside the fact that Joseph would command to be married/sealed to women while their husbands were away on missions that he sent them on. Or how the church’s restoration video paints a picture of a mob coming to the Smith home in the night, forcing Joseph out of his home to be tarred and feathered in the name of religious persecution, his twin children subsequently dying from exposure to the cold, when in actuality that group of men was led by one of the husbands of a woman that Joseph was having an affair with, and they were there to do something much more gruesome to him, but lost their nerve. The God I believe in would not establish “His one true church” through a man that lied, cheated, coerced, and manipulated. It just doesn’t make sense to me. It doesn’t mean I hate Joseph or don’t believe that He’s deeply loved by God, but it does mean that I believe he’s wrong.

So now what? I gently stepped through the looking glass, and when I turned around, I didn’t like what I saw. And now, I have painfully become “other.” The church teaches that because they are the one true church, the restored gospel, that everything else is a partial truth. The perspective is that if someone leaves, they are wrong. Guys I KNOW this is how we talk about people because I just spent the last 13 years talking about people this way. I sincerely thought that I loved people and didn’t judge them for being different from me, but it’s been painfully sobering and humbling to see how wrong I’ve been. I often saw people who left the church as lacking in faith or wanting to live an easier, more worldly life. I’ve been of the opinion that people are weak when they leave due to being offended or mistreated. I’ve never been in a single church meeting where a member shares about a friend or family member who has left the church and found joy. They speak of them as “wayward” or “misguided,” hoping that they will return someday, and they usually list all the ways that person’s life has changed for the worse. They will also sometimes use language like “they have lost their testimony” or “they’re under the influence of Satan.” It has been absolutely fascinating to me that in the past week I have heard story after story of people (who are quietly and privately reaching out) who left the church and consequently  experienced the most painful and liberating event of their life. And do you want to know what that tells me? Not that someone is right or wrong, but that every single human is having their own, unique experience. Some people will thrive in the church and some people will thrive outside of it. It ALSO indicates to me that there is an intense, deep tangle of social and religious conditioning that tells us that members of the LDS church are right, and those outside of the church are wrong. And if that statement makes you feel uncomfortable, I’m glad. I hope there’s something inside of you, deeper and more intrinsic than what you’ve been taught, that intuitively whispers something in opposition.

There have been painful social repercussions to the decision that Truman and I have made to step away from the church. I do want to say that the majority of people have reached out with love and support, but that hasn’t been the case with every single person. I find myself constantly trying to let people have their own experience and let go of their judgments of us; desperately trying to find peace in people being wrong and not understanding. I feel deep sadness when people think that us leaving indicates that we don’t love or support them in staying, or that the spiritual experiences we’ve connected with them over are somehow invalid now - nothing could be further from the truth. We’ve had close friends and family reach out with feelings of anger and betrayal, and many have posted, commented, and emailed messages directly opposing the things we publicly shared. Some have even expressed the inability to be around us until they emotionally process this change. I think that says nothing about their love for us and everything about what the church has conditioned us to believe. It’s so painfully ironic and frustrating that the conditioning that keeps people in the church is the exact same thing that leaves members of the church feeling personally attacked and abandoned when someone decides to go; this is a perspective that I wasn’t able to gain until being on the “outside.” We cling to people in fear and call it love, but it’s not. Love is letting people find Jesus in their own way, even if it’s different from ours.

I’ve been taught for the better part of my life that God deals in black and white, but I’m starting to believe otherwise. I think God lives in the gray and I think He wants me to live there too. I cannot describe how expansive this experience has already been. I feel myself stripping away the layers of belief that no longer serve me, and I’m finding the purest forms of love I’ve ever felt. There is so much unknown ahead; sometimes it’s invigorating and other times it feels outright terrifying. God knows how hard it’s been to co-parent while all four of us have been in the church, let alone with this huge religious shift. Our children now see us drinking coffee and wearing different clothing, but we also pray together and talk about how much Jesus loves us.

When we sat our kids down to communicate this spiritual adjustment, we used the analogy of a tree. We said that the roots and trunk of a tree resemble the many, many people who believe in God, and up at the top of the tree there are branches, which represent many different ways to believe in, love, and worship God. We want them to know that all ways are beautiful, and that no one is wrong or right. A lot of people won’t like or agree with that perspective, and that’s okay. Ultimately, we want to encourage our children to live in the gray - always loving people, not in spite of their differences, but because of them. To us, that is Jesus.

Am I "More Than a Body?"

Two months ago I was on a road trip from one end of Utah to the other (without my three older kids), so of course I did what I always do - call every one of my mom friends to see if anyone can talk on the phone. This time it was Anna, and we got talking about how I've still been struggling with postpartum depression. For the last five months, I've been dealing with feeling tired, sad, and overwhelmed by eating more than my body needs, and consequently, gaining weight. It's funny how you think you're a hot shot in the self-love category until you become the heaviest you've ever been and all of a sudden are not feeling so "in love with yourself" anymore. I feel like I'm usually pretty good at being able to manage my thoughts when I feel negatively about my body or other aspects of myself, but for some reason it feels impossible right now. Each little intrusive thought becomes quickly insidious, like a drop that creates a rippling effect of self deprecation. And the more I see the ripples and reach out to try and smooth them, the more my hands flounder and create waves that seem to nearly drown me. It's an endless cycle of trying to fix myself and then hide from myself again.

I didn't get this specific when Anna and I were on the phone, but I did tell her about gaining weight and feeling frustrated with myself. She told me about a book she recently read called More Than a Body - Your Body Is an Instrument, Not an Ornament by Lindsay and Lexie Kite. About a week after our phone conversation, it ended up in my mailbox (a surprise package from my sweet friend.)

It's been taking me a minute to get through the book. As I like to joke, I'm making it through about one book a year at the rate I'm reading these days. But however slow, I can tell that it's waking me up to new ways of thinking. As a woman in the world today, I sincerely feel like there are so many forces at work that have the goal of convincing us that we never look good enough. As America Ferrera's character Gloria poignantly monologued in the Barbie Movie, "It is literally impossible to be a woman. You are so beautiful, and so smart, and it kills me that you don't think you're good enough. Like, we have to always be extraordinary, but somehow we're always doing it wrong. You have to be thin, but not too thin. And you can never say you want to be thin. You have to say you want to be healthy, but also you have to be thin," and on and on. And she hit the nail on the head - there will always be a company, a product, an instagram reel (is that what they're called?), another human, ready to tell you one more thing to fix so that you look better. When you're striving to look a certain perfect way, there is no winning.

This book is helping me see how consistently I objectify myself, which seems so weird to admit because when I hear the word "objectify" I usually think of the way one person sees another, but to objectify means to "degrade to the status of a mere object," and I'm definitely doing plenty of that. For however long I can remember, I've been objectifying myself every single day when I walk past a reflective surface. Every time I dance, walk down the sidewalk, or sit in church. In so many instances I'm living outside of my own body, picturing what I look like to the people around me. I hope to be an ornament, decorating my surroundings and bringing visual pleasure to the eyes that fall on me. I always hope I look fit, stylish, feminine, strong, slender and curvy in the "right" places, and sexy (depending on the setting). And this strange objectification of myself leaves me constantly living outside of myself, often paying a lot more attention to how I look than how I feel INSIDE my own body, which disconnects me from myself and leaves me desperately clinging to a fragile and highly-conditional version of self esteem.

For a long time I've thought that striving to feel beautiful and help others feel beautiful, regardless of "physical flaws," was the key to feeling confident and happy. But what I'm learning is that focusing on my looks will never lead me to the contentment I truly seek, which comes from an unconditional love for myself; TRULY believing that my value as a woman/human/daughter of God is intrinsic, and that nothing I do can or will increase or decrease that value. The Kite sisters declare that "the truth is, when we stop giving beauty the power to make us, we take away its power to break us."

Until this experience with gaining weight and seeing my body change in ways that I judge myself for, I never realized how much my enjoyment in activities hinges on feeling like I look good. Invitation to go swimming? Yes, because I get excited about looking hot in my swim suit. Dirty dancing class? Absolutely, gonna go twerk in those booty shorts. I'm grateful to myself that I've continued to go out and live, despite not feeling as awesome about how I look, but it's still been challenging.

In essence, the way to break free is to shift our focus from the way our bodies look to the things our bodies can do and what we're physically experiencing. How does the wind feel against my face when I'm outside on a walk? What emotions come up when I hold Violet close and smell her sweet baby hair? Do I appreciate how my strong legs can hold up an eight-year-old for another round of airplane? How beautifully connected do I feel to Truman when we're making love and all I'm thinking about is us, right there in that moment? Although it feels so hard right now, I have faith that practicing these shifts in perspective can and will eventually help me rewrite the way I'm living. I've been "overweight" and unhappy, and I've also been very "thin" and unhappy, which is evidence to me that my happiness has little to do with my perception of how I look.

I believe that another important avenue to this higher path is to disrupt the usual conversations that revolve around physical appearance. For instance, if someone says something about how good you look when you've lost weight, you can respectfully respond with something like, "I appreciate that because I believe you mean it as a compliment, but I'm actually doing a lot of work to not focus so much on my appearance. Want to join me?" There are SO many ways to compliment someone, and when we take a moment to get uncomfortable and think harder, we have the opportunity to show someone they're valued for something other than their physical appearance. (Disclaimer: I don't think complimenting someone on their looks is wrong. I feel like God has given us so many cool ways to be creative through avenues like fashion, hair, and makeup. I am coming to believe, however, that body compliments specifically may actually create more harm than good as they support objectification. Take it or leave it.)

The bummer is, at least for now, nearly every moment of every day feels like a constant obsession to lose weight. It seems like every spare thought I have is about what I eat, what I don't eat, why my body has more fat than I want it to, how most of my clothes are too tight, and just "giving in" and eating whatever I want to try to counter the obsessing. I can tell that my ability to manage these thoughts is far less effective than usual, and I'm hoping that therapy and some medication changes, along with daily effort, will help things get better.

It's almost comical because I find myself thinking "really, this again?" It seems like I gotta figure out this food and body stuff over and over and over in this life. And sometimes I just feel really annoyed about that. But in other moments I see glimmers of who I'm beautifully becoming, and I recognize that these heart-wrenching struggles are the only way to get there. There are so many times in my life where I've looked back and thought "wow, I can't believe I made it through that. I thought I actually might die." And it's amazing to see how undeniably true it was that those rough waters were the perfect setting for extraordinary growth. So for now, I'm going to faithfully follow Dory's advice and just keep swimming. 

Violet’s Birth Story

    In our dimly lit room, I awkwardly rolled over to look at the clock for what seemed like the 5,000th time. 10 pm. The familiar feeling of uncertainty washed over me as I rested my hands on my belly and felt the next wave of a contraction. I took a slow, deep breath and then got out of bed.

I went into the front room, sat down with a laundry basket full of clothes, and started folding. Truman was on the phone with his best friend Joe and paused to ask me if I was having contractions. I told him “yes” and that they weren’t super close together, but that they seemed more intense than usual. At 10:30p I decided to text Cyndi (my midwife) to see if she was still awake - she was. We texted back and forth a few times trying to gauge if I was in active labor. I also texted Lindsey (my friend) to see if she was awake and give her a heads-up that tonight might be the night. In the meantime, I decided we should start setting things up in case this was the real deal. Truman and I began getting supplies out and he inflated the birthing tub.

As I was moving around getting things ready, I tried to listen closely to my body and prayed for discernment to know if I was really in labor. Over the past two weeks, there had been multiple times where I experienced consistent contractions for hours at a time, one of the times through an entire night. On two different occasions, I asked Truman for priesthood blessings during which he prayed for me to be blessed with patience and rest. These were intimate experiences that helped me feel love and peace. I tried to move through each day at the end of my pregnancy with faith that I'd know when it was time. On this night, as we continued to get the house prepared, I could tell that the contractions were getting stronger. I felt slightly nervous, very excited, and incredibly peaceful all at the same time.

At 11:03p, I texted Cyndi and told her I was convinced it was go-time and that I wanted her and Gina (the birthing assistant) to come over. At 11:18p, she texted me back to tell me she’d be there in about a half hour. I also text Lindsey again to tell her things were progressing and asked her to come soon.

Gina arrived first and walked into my bathroom while I was putting on makeup and doing my hair in a high messy bun. She giggled and teased me, but I told her that being in labor was no reason to not look fabulous. She also used the Doppler to check baby girl’s heartbeat, and Cyndi arrived just after that. I put on the outfit I had planned to labor in and then I realized that this was really it - the experience I had been intentionally and joyfully preparing for over the past eight months. 

At this point, the contractions were getting intense enough that I needed to focus and breathe through them. I tried to sit on a birthing ball, but it wasn’t comfortable, so instead I knelt on the ground and rested my arms and chest over the ball. With each contraction, I inhaled and exhaled slowly while counting, just like I’d practiced every night while falling asleep. In between contractions, I would sometimes look up to talk with the others in the room, or sometimes I’d just keep my eyes closed and relax. I remember seeing Truman resting on the couch and thinking, “This is exactly what I wanted it to be.” He looked serene and seemed completely at peace. In part, I attribute that to the bowl of Lucky Charms he'd eaten a few minutes before - that stuff really is magical.

We started our marriage off with an extra adventure when we conceived a baby a week after our wedding. We decided to find the humor in this happy surprise since it went right along with the very short timeline of our courtship (exactly three months from first date to wedding day). When I found out I was pregnant I was honestly nervous to tell Truman. We had decided that we'd like to have a child together but that we wanted to wait a while. I'll never forget sitting on the couch next to him, working up the courage, and being completely taken aback as he cracked up for at least thirty seconds straight. It was such a tender experience as he embraced me and told me how thrilled he was. That's Truman for you in a nutshell - always loving me so hard and finding the good in everything. When I started on the task of prenatal care, I already knew that I wanted to have a home birth with a midwife. Even though this was foreign to Truman, he so quickly trusted and supported me. He asked questions, attended prenatal appointments, and mentally prepared so that we could have our little girl at home. And in that moment during labor when I saw him resting calmly on the couch, I was filled with so much joy.

As the contractions seemed to grow stronger I remember thinking “I hope Lindsey gets here soon.” When I heard the door open a few minutes later I felt a flood of relief. I looked up at her smiling face and felt so much comfort and love. Later I found out that she arrived just after 12a. She came to where I was on the floor and we talked about how the labor had been so far. I remember needing to pause to breathe through an intense contraction and realizing how far into labor I was. I knew this feeling well after having three other babies unmedicated - the discomfort growing so intense at the top of the wave that I had to focus on counting, breathing, and coaxing my body to relax and embrace the pain instead of fighting against it. I remember picturing my uterus muscle fibers contract and telling myself that each of these waves was helping the baby move down. Around this time Gina checked the baby’s heart rate again.

The birthing tub was set up and full of warm water. I had heard from other women that getting in the tub too early in labor could slow things down, and I wanted to avoid that. I asked Cindy what she recommended and she said that she wasn’t timing my contractions, but as long as there was an established pattern then it shouldn’t be an issue. I decided that the labor was intense enough that I was ready to get in. I took everything off except my bra and stepped in. The water seemed to support and caress me as I knelt down and rested my arms and head against the edge. I liked being here, not just because I was physically comfortable, but also because I was closer to Truman now. At one point I held his hand and knew I had everything I needed.

I continued to breathe through each contraction and asked Truman to add some hot water to the tub. I remember feeling my fingers grip the soft plastic of the pool at the highest intensity of each wave of labor. I felt the acute juxtaposition of my body’s intense physical state and very relaxed mental state. I felt aware of everything going on inside me, almost like stepping outside and watching myself but still feeling the sensations. I was both completely aware and also in a dream-like state. Without thinking, I looked up at Truman at some point and said, “This is the part where you feel like your body is going to die, and then the baby is born.” Not long after that, I said something to Cyndi and she asked me to repeat myself (I’m pretty sure I mumbled. Ha ha). So I said again, “I’m pretty sure she’s going to be born in the new few contractions. Not right away, but soon.”

I felt the energy in the room shift. Even though my eyes were closed and I was focused on my body, I could hear Cindy getting ready and people quietly moving around. A few contractions later I tested out the feeling to push, and it seemed like my body and the baby were ready. I sat up on my knees and pushed with the next contraction and I felt a burst (which I later realized was my water breaking because I heard Cyndi say there was meconium). As the next contraction came I held my hands down near my thighs and pushed. I felt her head come into my hands, a pause, and then I was able to push the rest of her body out. Cyndi told me to lift her up to my chest, but as I lifted her from the water Cyndi realized the umbilical cord was wrapped around her neck. I lowered her back down to the surface of the water as Cyndi unwrapped her, and then I brought the baby to my chest and laid back against the edge of the tub. This particular moment, resting with my brand new baby against me, was serenely divine. I didn’t feel exhausted or dazed - just gently and perfectly aware of my body against hers. I felt the presence of God.

Everything I had hoped and prayed for over the last eight months unfolded before me. Two days previous to this, I was texting McKenna (my long-time bestie) and telling her how I was struggling physically and mentally with all of the prelabor contractions. In the past, I likely would have gone into the hospital and consequently had my water broken to “speed things up.” Early on in my pregnancy with Baby Violet, I felt spiritually prompted to experience labor with absolutely no intervention (which included letting my water break on its own). Because my previous labors were all similar and predictable once my water was broken, the choice to not intervene this time felt uncomfortable and very faith-oriented for me. On this particular day, I was feeling so worn out - I had been up for hours the night before with contractions, but in the morning there was no baby and I still had a full day of work, kids, and other responsibilities to attend to despite the fatigue. In her wisdom, McKenna validated my feelings and talked me up, as she always does. And then she reminded me, “I think God knows the desires of your heart with this baby and you’ll be blessed.” Neither of us quite knew how right she was. One of the biggest differences with this labor compared to the three before was the frequency of the contractions. The previous times, once my water was broken, the contractions quickly got intense and there seemed to be no relief in between. It basically felt like contractions, one on top of the other, for 2 ½ hours until the baby was born. I managed it every time, but in the end, when each baby finally emerged, I was so intensely fatigued that I didn’t feel mentally present enough to fully enjoy the moment because the physical relief was my main focus.

But this time was different. During active labor, the contractions grew to be as strong as every other labor, but there was noticeable time in between each wave. These breaks allowed me to rest, prepare, and check in with myself. And in the end, when I delivered my child with my own hands and held her tiny body to mine, I was fully and beautifully there with her.

Early on in my pregnancy, Alexa (age 8) expressed interest in being present at the birth. A lot of thought and prayer went into preparing her to be there if she decided she wanted to be. Her dad and I also had so many conversations about it, and ultimately we decided this would be a great opportunity to teach her about pregnancy, labor, and birth, even if she didn't end up being there. A few minutes before Violet was born I told Lindsey it was time to wake Alexa. After a few minutes, Lindsey came back and said, “I was able to wake her up and tell her that the baby was going to be born soon and asked if she wanted to come see or sleep, and she said she wanted to sleep. Then I asked if she wanted me to wake her up after the baby was born and she said yes.” 

Shortly after Violet was born, we moved to the couch, delivered the placenta, and then Lindsey woke Alexa up again. It was so sweet to have her there so soon after the baby was born. I could tell Alexa was tired (it was likely around 1:30a at this point), but she seemed to enjoy her time with the baby. We also recounted the first conversation between her and Lindsey, but she said she didn’t remember it at all. She got emotional when we told her it was time to go to bed. We did our best to explain that ALL of us needed rest and were going to go to sleep.

The entire experience literally felt like heaven. It was peaceful and divine and special in every way I ever could have hoped for. It’s interesting to me that even though Truman and I didn’t plan this pregnancy, I can’t image my life or our family without this sweet little girl. The next morning, when Libby woke up and walked into our room, I told her that we had a surprise. I’ll never forget the way her sleepy face lit up when she climbed onto the bed and saw a baby laying next to me. Violet joined our family so seamlessly; like a sweet secret coming to earth in the stillness of the night. And she is direct evidence that God loves us in beautiful and mysterious ways.

On church, Jesus, and grief

A week ago I found myself sitting in Sunday School. My arms were folded (I'm guessing) in an attempt to hold myself together. For the first time, maybe ever, I didn't make a single comment. If you've ever been in a meeting with me then you know what a profound statement that is - I love to share. For an hour straight, I silently listened to peoples' comments and found myself feeling internally cynical. And at one point the thought, "Why am I even here?" came to my mind.

For a significant portion of 2022, I've been going through a disciplinary process in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. It's been like nothing I've ever experienced before. For those who may not know much about this: on a basic level, when you make decisions contrary to what you know to be right or the promises (covenants) you've made with God, there are consequences that follow. Based on your level of experience in the gospel and the degree of the sin, the consequences vary from person to person; no two situations are exactly the same. 

I've been meeting with the bishop of my ward almost every week throughout this process. He has consistently utilized candor, hope, and love when communicating with me. I've felt endlessly supported in our hours and hours of time together. In addition to feeling hopeful, I've felt immense sadness, grief, and confusion. The consequences of my actions have included being released from my calling as well as being unable to take the sacrament, attend the temple, say prayers at church, and a variety of other things. Although I can't verbalize it, I have faith that there are divinely important reasons for these outcomes, but even still, it's been difficult for me to comprehend them.

"I'm starting to empathize in a way I've never been able to before," I told my bishop a couple weeks ago. "I can see why people leave the church. I feel like I'm standing at a crossroads where I can choose to either become bitter or become better, and I am starting to understand why people become bitter." 

I've had to really dig deep the last few months. I've had to think a lot about why I want to stay and if this process is worth it. I’ve had to work to believe that God still loves me fully, regardless of my shortcomings. I’ve had to challenge myself to actively believe the atonement is truly for me, right now in these circumstances. I've had to ask myself if I think that my connection to divinity is severed or limited because of the ways I'm currently limited in church participation. And honestly, some days I do feel inhibited. It's not really a feeling of embarrassment - my discomfort doesn't come from what other people might think. What feels painful is realizing how much I've relied on traditions and rituals to fortify my faith. And I'm not trying to undervalue the power of those things because I think they're extremely important. But if that's really it... if the only reason I go to church is to do those things, then maybe my faith is more hollow than I realized.

I've been feeling frustrated with myself. Frustrated with my humanness. Frustrated with feeling lost and angry and apathetic. Sometimes I feel frustrated with the system or process or frustrated with the fact that I just don't understand it all. But right now my two main goals are to try to be like Jesus; to think of Him, learn of Him, and strive to connect with Him each day. And number two, to practice being okay with feeling like I'm not okay. I'm trying to get a little more comfortable with feeling sad or confused or empty.

The more I judge myself for the feelings I have, the deeper I spiral. And though I feel like it's generally in my nature to have an inexplicably positive perspective, I just don't have it right now. So my goal is to get to neutral. I don't need to understand it all and be incredibly at peace, but I also don't need to wallow in fear and uncertainty. For now, I can just be okay with not being okay and still strive to move forward.

It wasn't until tonight that I considered sharing this experience in such a public way, but I think it's what I need. I think it's what we ALL need. I think we need people in church meetings to share about how they were disfellowshiped in their teenage years. I think we need to hear about how someone lost themselves, lost their connection to God, and left the church for many years yet here they are, back with us again. I want to learn about the bitter and the ugly and the uncomfortable a little more often because I think there's something about this that has felt immensely isolating for me. And I do think we're getting there. I feel like I've experienced a greater willingness for those around me to be vulnerable and authentic during the 12 years I've been attending this church.

I've cried so many tears over the last few months. Even during an immensely beautiful time in my life when I've had the privilege to find and marry Truman (which has literally shifted my existence), I've been hurting. And I just feel like you need to know that wherever you're at and whatever you're experiencing, it's okay not to be okay. It's okay for life to feel simultaneously amazing and also sort of terrible at the same time. 

With great hope, I pray that in a year or so I'll look back at this experience with gratitude and awe at the Savior's love for me. I pray that I will make consistent efforts to love myself more and judge myself less. And I pray that thanks to small, mustard-seed-like faith, I will eventually find that I've become a more fortified, humbled, and Christ-like version of myself. 

Our Story

What a plot twist you were.

On March 31st, I was scrolling through Facebook when I came across an article that a friend of a friend had written about his journey with divorce and spirituality (click here to read). It's surreal to look back to that experience - laying on the floor on my stomach, letting every single word soak my soul, feeling his pain and triumphing in his hope. Without even thinking about it, I opened the messenger app and searched his name. When I feel something deeply it's in my nature to express it; I've been that way for as long as I can remember. Never mind if it's a stranger who literally has no idea who I am, I'm going to tell them anyway. I honestly didn't even think about whether or not he might respond, I just needed him to know how I felt about what he wrote. I was startled when I got a message from him 20 minutes later. 

I responded to his response, and we continued to message throughout the next two days. I was literally blown away by him in general, and by all of the similarities between us. We're both writers who love Latin dance, thrive in the outdoors, and strive to find beauty in the midst of pain. We both have children and chose to leave our spouses because we outgrew being mistreated. With every message sent back and forth, I grew more and more intrigued by him. I felt like my eyes were being opened and I was experiencing one of the most beautiful humans I'd ever met. Within days I knew that getting to know him would be a blessing, regardless of what happened down the road. This kid was obviously special.

That weekend I traveled up to Layton to stay at my parents' house. I had plans to attend a big singles' dance in SLC on Saturday night. As we were messaging about our weekend plans he said he'd love to Facetime soon but he'd be busy for the next few days because he was traveling to SLC (from Idaho) with his news crew to cover General Conference (for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.) Then, you know, I basically freaked out realizing we'd be in the same city. I invited him to the dance, and that's how our first date happened. He seemed hesitant because he was carpooling down and wouldn't have his own car. My response was "Bahahaha. Well boy, if that's the issue I'll be your ride."

I get butterflies when I think about those "firsts." When he called me on the phone that Saturday night to ask about the dress attire and I heard his voice for the first time. The moment he walked out the door of that airbnb and my stomach flipped. He was taller than I pictured, with a trendy sense of fashion and dark facial features. When we hugged for the first time and the chemistry was ELECTRIC. We talked effortlessly on the way to the dance and being with him felt so natural. And boy, did we light that dance floor up. He was SO COOL I could barely believe it. I couldn't keep my eyes off him as he danced, sort of like he didn't care what anyone else thought - with the vibe of a protector and the sex appeal of a frat boy. I was magnetized.

Around midnight we left and took our first picture together, both of us sweaty messes. As we walked to my car I noticed him subtly guide me to the inside of him so I was further away from any cars passing by. We got snacks and parked at the U of U where we could overlook the city, and then we spent hours sharing music, stories, hearts, and a few kisses.

I woke up the next morning feeling love drunk. I drove home the that day like I was high on life and more excited for the future than I'd been in a long time. That week we talked every night and he graduated from BYUI with a Bachelor's in English. On his way home to AZ, he stopped in St. George and we spent the weekend together. We did ALL the things. We went to a climbing gym, joined one of my besties and her husband for a double date, went to his first Zumba class, hiked my favorite local trail, and played in the river by my house. Each hour I spent with him I felt more and more like I wanted to be with him forever. And even as I type this that seems INSANE because we "barely knew each other." But in reality, I felt like I was just getting to know him again. He tasted familiar and felt like home. 

By Sunday I decided to take it to God. I had planned not to date for about a year after my divorce was finalized, with the only stipulation being that if God said go for it, I would. I fasted on Sunday, and as Truman and I spent time together I felt the Spirit confirm to me, again and again, how much light he'd bring into my life if I chose to move forward in faith. And to be honest, in a way it was hard. Scary even, to open myself up to love someone again so soon. But because I've experienced it countless times over the past decade of my life, I have a fiery conviction that God knows what's good for me.

The next six weeks looked like nightly Facetime calls, a lot of miles on his car, and soooo much longing. We talked about philosophy and spirituality and quickly realized that sometimes we agree about things and a lot of the time we don't. With him, I experience mutual love and respect, even when our opinions differ. He's taught me about poetry and craft and bringing emotions to life through words. When I read his work I feel like I'm inhaling a little bit of who he is. I've consistently felt satisfied yet desperate to have more of him. 

I often tell people that dating him has been one of the most healing experiences of my entire life. The way he's good for me is indescribable. I feel like Heavenly Father hand-crafted him just for me. All of the ways he excels are where I fall short and where I've been broken - like a perfectly formulated antidote to my pain. And what's nearly unbelievable is that I seem to be that antidote for him too.

The way he compliments me leads me to believe that he sees and loves the darkest parts of me. He consistently honors the pain I've endured and celebrates my brokenness by viewing me as whole. When I speak, he listens intently and patiently, as if what I'm going to say next might be the most important thing he'll ever hear. 

I've experienced him loving my children in a way I hadn't been able to fathom. As a single father with one daughter, it's incredible to me that he's never seemed to have a second thought about scooping up three more kids. He laughs and plays and reads with them, he helps me care for them, and I can see even now how connected they are to each other. 

He's willingly molded his life to fit mine. On May 22nd he moved to St. George. He also accepted a position as a reporter with the St. George News and currently lives with two roommates he didn't know prior to a few weeks ago. Choosing to love him has been nearly effortless because he makes it so damn easy. When I look back at the first month we dated it BLOWS MY MIND to see indicators that I assumed we'd be together long-term. We did things like getting matching wrist tattoos and buying tickets for a concert that was five months away. During our time together, we've also experienced some exceptionally difficult trials, both separately and together. These experiences have helped me see that I want it all with him - the good, the bad, the easy, the ugly. All of it. I want to do the hardest things in life with him by my side.

On May 31st we had a particularly difficult meeting in the evening. Afterward, we went to "our spot," sitting on a cliff that overlooks the city. As we gazed at the lights I reminisced about the first time we'd gone there. How he'd looked me intently in the eyes and told me he was falling in love with me. On this night, things felt harder. We vulnerably expressed ourselves and disagreed on things and cried and kissed and felt our love for one another grow. As we held each other above the unaware city, I felt sad, peaceful, and resilient.

Toward the end of the conversation, he told me that he'd written a poem for me, but that he'd have to go back to the car because it was in his suit coat. I was surprised and so excited for him to read it to me. He was gone such a short time before he came back and carefully sat down next to me. I looked down to my left and watched him sort of fumble to pull the piece of paper out of his pocket. As I saw a ring box appear instead of a poem, I was left in absolute awe. He lifted the lid, presenting a stunning, halo wedding ring, and he asked me to marry him.

No matter how many times I replay this moment in my mind, it still feels like I'm experiencing it for the first time. Although I knew at this point that we were planning to get married, I was under the impression that he probably wouldn't buy a ring for at least a few more weeks. I've never been so legitimately shocked in my entire life. Once I got ahold of myself I told him that of COURSE I would marry him. I can't imagine a more perfect moment.

When I think about it, it's so fitting that he would surprise me like that. Since that day I read that first article this boy has been surprising me. He surprises me with his love and compassion. He surprises me with the way he's both incredibly intelligent yet freaking cool at the same time. He surprises me by the way he touches me and effortlessly gets me wanting him more than I want my own life. I'm consistently surprised by the way he talks to me, looks at me, and listens to me.

He loves me in the crevices of my life. Between the children and dirty dishes and 10-hour work days, he loves me fiercely. Loyally. And what I want more than anything is to be sealed to him and attempt to spend the rest of my eternity trying to help him feel loved by me the way that I do by him. 

If there's one thing our courtship has encouraged us to do, it's been to bravely choose what we feel God wants and what we want, regardless of what other people think. We've had friends and family express concern about our timeframe, and honestly, I get it. I think I'd likely have similiar feelings about it if I were on the outside. But I find peace in knowing that no one else can possibly understand what we understand for ourselves. Heavenly Father has, quite miraculously, brought us together at this time. And God, I am so grateful for that. 

To all you women with bodies

The other day I popped into my inbox, probably to avoid everything else I needed to be working on, and felt slightly annoyed to see YET ANOTHER advertising email from Victoria's Secret. Don't get me wrong, I love the products. But what I do not love is having one extra email to delete. I clicked on it to scroll to the bottom and hit unsubscribe for the THOUSANDTH time when my mood quickly changed from annoyed to super excited. This image was at the very top.

VS is finally getting on board with featuring women that have a variety of body types.  And I AM HERE FOR IT. 👏

A few years ago I was having a conversation with another girl about how we didn't like that every single model seemed to be tall, slender, and toned. It seemed unrealistic and a bit distorted. During that conversation, I remember her making the comment, "I wish they would just picture real women." And I felt my stomach sort of turn into knots.

Real women ARE tall and slender and toned. They are also curvy. They are also overweight and sometimes short. They have skin that's scarred and spotted and wrinkly. They have eyes that are blue or brown or green or hazel or black or any other combination of colors. They have teeth that are white or yellow or some shade in between.

Even when we just limit ourselves to a the aspect of physicality, real women are SO many different things. I feel deeply passionate about working toward correcting these societal expecations that women are supposed to look a certain way in order to be considered beautiful. And I also find fault with the idea that tall, slender, or fit women are any less real than the others. To combat these misperceptions I recently started something I call project #bodylove, which is where I post untouched photos on myself on my Facebook account. So far I've shared pictures of cellulite on my thighs and acne on my chin. My goal isn't to label parts of my body as good/bad or to judge myself, but to put REAL, unfiltered images of my body into peoples' feed.

I know how satisfying it can be to take 15 pictures of yourself and post the best one, complete with the perfect filter and lighting. And I'm not necessarily saying that's wrong. But I absolutely think we need more authentic pictures, where our eyes are squinted a little too tight or we have a goofy smile or a roll of skin hanging over our jeans. Because REAL beauty is not about "perfection," it's about being seen for who you really are, which is so SO much deeper than our skin. I will never truly know most of the women I see pictures of because what they look like on the outside is a mere FRACTION of their complex and magnificent human wholeness. But for starters, I think that if we work toward experiencing a greater variety in the women that are photographed and celebrated, then just mabye that will get us one small step closer to the real deal.