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. 

 

ONE YEAR

My hair smells of smoke. I can't decide if I'm pissed because I JUST washed it (which I only do once a week) or if I like the lingering smell and how it makes me feel.

A few minutes ago I walked down to the riverside and lit my memories of fire. Notes of love and hope and a brighter future. Notes saying sorry, I was wrong. Notes of dreams. Years of dating, marriage, and babies. Pictures of kisses and smiles and adoration. I lit them on fire and watched them turn to ash. And even now, I still smell it.

On this night one year ago, I sat down to have a conversation. Within less than an hour, I went from being 100% committed to staying in my marriage to about 90% sure I would be leaving it. It takes my breath away, the idea that so much can change so quickly. Does it ever blow your mind when you think about "lasts?" The last time you'll kiss someone. The last Valentine's Day you'll spend together. The last time you'll send them a sexy picture. The last time you'll gaze into their eyes. The last time you'll hold their hand. The last time you'll have sex with them. How all of these lasts will happen BEFORE you realize they'll be the last...

Looking through a decade of memories felt odd in a way. Even though they were my memories, it felt like I was looking at someone else's life. Because even though it's only been 365 days, I feel like I'm almost living a different life. 

One year ago was the beginning of the end. The beginning of a process that felt so long and painful and impossible I almost still can't believe I did it. How do you untangle yourself from someone after you've spent nearly ten years weaving your lives together? You pull out your garden sheers and start cutting. Painful bit by painful bit. Sometimes I was cutting myself, and sometimes I was cutting him. But eventually, we were apart. And there I was. Slashed, marred, and weak, but somehow still rooted and upright.

And now I find myself watering, tending, providing sunshine, speaking kindly to myself, and waiting for this beautiful flower I am to keep on growing. I feel my cuts healing and my roots growing stronger. Not every day, mind you. Every so often I just want to bury myself under the dirt and stay there forever. But for the most part, I'm moving upward toward that incredible, bright blue sky.

What will life look like ONE YEAR from now? Only God knows, but I think it's going to be freaking phenomenal.

Healing

Last September, shortly after moving into my own place, I went into Moss & Timber to find a plant. I walked straight up to one of the employees and shamelessly asked, "of all the plants you have, which one is the most resilient? Like, which one can I basically not kill?" He chuckled at me, and I didn't mind one bit.

It turned out the Zamioculcas zamiifolia, or "ZZ plant," was the best choice. He walked me over to the ZZ section and left me to look. It didn't take long before I found the perfect one, chose a beautiful cream-colored pot, watched her get transferred, and happily drove home, being extra careful not to turn too hard for fear of her tipping over. I found the perfect spot for her on my bedside table, set her down, and told her she was beautiful.

ZZ plants only need water every 2-3 weeks. I kept mental track and watered her when needed. After a few weeks, she seemed to still be doing fine. Every so often when I walked through my room to do something I'd remember to stop and tell her how beautiful she was looking and that I was proud of her. One day, as I was walking by, I glanced at her and stopped dead in my tracks. It nearly took my breath away. I leaned in close and noticed that a new sprout had come through the soil. It wasn't dark green, strong, and mature like the other parts, it was new and bright green and full of light. I felt something rise within my chest and tears came to my eyes. And then a voice whispered, "this is what healing looks like."

Day in and day out, I've been doing the work. So much so that it often doesn't feel like work anymore. Talking to close friends and being vulnerable about how I'm doing: sometimes great, and sometimes really not great. Kneeling down and pleading with my Savior to help me be more than I can be on my own. Relaxing into the discomfort of feeling lonely and craving companionship. Journaling, pondering, and striving to make improvements. Countless hours in therapy trying to learn new tools and mend the painful pieces of my life. These things just feel like everyday life. I'll be going along and all of a sudden

BOOM. I stop abruptly and hold still. It feels like liquid gold trickling through my veins and a warmth comes over me. It's the moments where I wake up in the morning and realize I slept through the night without having a bad dream. Or an anniversary comes up on the calendar and I don't feel like I'm going to break. Or I sit in a bubble bath without music or a phone or a book and just FEEL how I'm feeling without eating a pint of ice cream to numb the pain. In those moments I can tell that I'm healing. They are so brief and beautiful, and they always catch me completely off guard.

One of the most important things James (my therapist) has taught me is that "healing isn't linear." One moment I'll be feeling like my emotions are pretty stable and the next moment I'll find myself driving to the gym on a Sunday to hit a punching bag until my knuckles bleed. Healing is sort of ugly, but it's also sort of beautiful. Because in the midst of the pain and heartache and desperation and daily grind it brushes past my cheek and whispers, "you're doing it. this is what healing looks like."

Mom Guilt

 A few days ago Alexa, who's seven years old, was headed outside to play with a neighbor when she said, "Mom, I want you to quit your job. I hate that you work now." It stung for a millisecond before I responded by validating how she felt and explaining that now that I'm not married my job helps us have the money we need to pay for things like our home and food. She went on to share that "she hates it because I'm not able to play with her as much." I told her that I understand and was sorry that it felt hard for her. And as she walked out the door and the silence set in, do you want to know what I felt? Immense gratitude.

As I reflected on our conversation, I realized that there was more I wish I had said. I wanted to bring it back up to share the reasons I love my job so much. I wanted to tell her that I find immense fulfillment when I write. I wanted to tell her that figuring out how words fit together is challenging, beautiful, and exciting for me. I wanted to tell her that I like communicating with adults and being part of a team. And I did tell her those things later. But what I did not do was apologize for our circumstances. 

I used to feel quite uncomfortable with the term "single mom." I don't exactly know why. Maybe it was because I'm not a huge fan of "labels." Or maybe I just hoped I'd never be in the position where I was one. But I can honestly say that I have exactly zero shame about being single and a mother at the same time. When I think about how much my life has changed in the past year, sometimes I feel a bit dizzy. In March of 2021, when I started looking for work, I felt a LOT of emotions. Scared, excited, sad, worried, and hopeful. I first started searching for a job in daycare because I felt passionate about being with my littles as much as possible, and that seemed like a good option to make money and be with them at the same time.

On the same day I scheduled my first interview for a full-time daycare job, I was at a late-night dance class with a bunch of my girlfriends at the gym. My interview was scheduled for the next day. In the middle of class, I walked into the locker room, sat on a bench, and bawled my eyes out. None of my friends, except for McKenna, knew what I was going through. I felt grief wash over me as I thought about how getting this job would mean no more get-togethers with mom friends during the weekdays. I wouldn't be able to go to a 10:30a gym class, meet with a group for lunch, or do our usual lay out at Caring's house and tan while the kids played in the splash pad. I thought of the past five+ years I'd spent as a stay-at-home-mom and how much I'd cherished the flexibility to go where I wanted when I wanted. And I felt like all of that could literally be over tomorrow. After I felt all the things, I pulled myself together and went back in to finish up the class. My moves were ON POINT, but my heart felt a bit broken.

About two minutes into that interview I knew it wasn't the right fit for me. I kept searching, and the following month I was hired to write job ads from home. To be completely transparent, figuring out how to effectively work from home WHILE taking care of multiple small children has probably been the most challenging thing of this whole process. But I am GRATEFUL because it's the kind of hard that I wanted. 

In the past 9 months, I have done a lot of work on adjusting my expectations. My kids probably watch more movies than they did before I started working. We've had mac n' cheese with home-canned green beans for lunch or dinner more times than I can count. Sometimes the laundry stays in baskets for days, and I think I've asked my girls to make their own beds like, three times total. And you know what? I'm a FREAKING GOOD MOM. 

I love my kids so hard. I encourage them to tell me what they're feeling, even if it might be hard for me to hear. They know that treating others poorly isn't tolerated in our home. We talk about being like Jesus Christ. I deeply soak in the sweet moments that I do have because of how different my time looks these days. When I drive to or from school, I get out of the car every single time to hold their hand, give them a hug, and let them know that I love them. In the evenings I crawl around like a monster and tackle, kiss, and tickle Dax until he squeals, or I rock him in the chair before putting him down to sleep, because I often don't hold him during the day when I'm writing. A lot of the time I'm focused on work, not my kids. So when I'm not working, we do all the things. We play at the park. We shop for clothes. We lay in the grass and look at clouds. We go for walks. We eat out and go to the movies. We make moments magical by wishing on stars and eyelashes and dandelions.

I'm not sharing these things to prove to you that I'm a good mom. I'm sharing them to show you that "being a good mom" is literally whatever you choose to make it. Sure, I have thoughts about things I wish I were doing better. But I refuse to let those define how I feel about myself. And I'm not suggesting that improvement be sacrificed at the expense of complacency. But what I am suggesting is that "mom guilt," whether you're married, single, working, stay-at-home, or whatever else, is just you letting your brain, or other people, tell you that you aren't enough. And that's simply not true.

Eleanor Roosevelt said it best. "No one can make you feel inferior without your consent." So stop giving your own brain consent to convince you that you're not good enough. I CHOOSE to feel good enough. As an unmarried, 29-year-old dance fitness instructing, job-ad writing female who's raising three little kids while working from home, I am 1/2 part got-my-crap-together and 1/2 part total-hot-mess. And I choose to love me ANYWAY. Because life is just so much more fun that way.