a mormon memoir part four: le développement
While I still felt deeply committed to my faith, my time in France exposed desires I’d buried deep inside that felt so authentic and exciting I couldn’t muster up any shame to dull them with.
When I was 20 years old the bishop called me into his office and extended a calling from the Lord: I was to serve as a Beehive leader. Beehives is the name of the youngest group in the Young Women organization, girls 12 and 13 years old. Once a Young Woman myself, I had been confident and craved leadership opportunities. I’d always dreamed of being a teacher. If I could have told my younger self that in a few short years I’d be called by God to be a YW leader, I would have pinched myself. Unfortunately that’s not how I felt at this time.
I felt inadequate as a leader. As I prepared lessons for these little girls about the importance of living gospel principles to find happiness, I felt like a hypocrite. I was doing everything I was teaching them to do and yet I was miserable. And how was I supposed to preach about the joy of a temple marriage when the idea of eternity was making me nauseous?
I was better at the fun stuff, like the weekly activities. One weekend we went to the church history museum. I had been there many times as a kid but never paid much attention to the exhibits. I was usually too busy playing hide and seek or which-pioneer-statue-is-your-husband with my cousins. As I wandered around on my own for a bit I discovered something shocking near the exit. I was jolted by what I read on a little plaque about Joseph Smith practicing polygamy.
A terrible feeling crept into the room that can only be described in one word: evil. I felt immoral in holding this knowledge. I had been taught in seminary that, under Heavenly Father’s command, polygamy started with Brigham Young (the second prophet of the church) and ended in the late 19th century when Utah gained its statehood. My seminary teacher warned us that anti-Mormons would try to deceive us with lies about Joseph’s “many wives”. He emphasized that they were all lies touted by the adversary.
Reading this plaque was the first time I felt concretely betrayed by my church. The whole museum suddenly became sinister. With the walls closing in on me, I looked around at the faith promoting pioneer exhibits around me and wondered, in terror, if I was a fool swept up in the cunning lies of a demagogue.
Why had my seminary teacher lied?
I needed to suppress this rising panic. Sifting through my mental catalog of uplifting gospel quotes, I remembered an applicable one-liner from the apostle Elder Uchtdorf, “Doubt your doubts before you doubt your faith!”
Doubt your doubts before you doubt your faith. Doubt your doubts before you doubt your faith. Doubt your doubts before you doubt your faith. Doubt your doubts before you doubt your faith. Doubt your doubts before you doubt your faith. Doubt your doubts before you doubt your faith. Doubt your doubts before you doubt your faith. Doubt your doubts before you doubt your faith.
The bad feelings went away. It worked! His prophetic counsel helped me realize it didn’t matter that I had one experience from a church source that contradicted another. Leaders are not perfect. Perhaps my seminary teacher had been misinformed, perhaps even he was a dissident swallowed up in pride. At the end of the day, it didn’t matter. The gospel is so much fuller than a minor miscommunication. And more importantly, I knew I needed to focus on the positive aspects of the gospel. Focusing on the negative would invite Satan into my heart, and I didn’t want to feel those awful feelings ever again.
This brief moment in the church history museum portended a greater betrayal I was not yet ready to face. I was taken by surprise by my gut reaction to reading something unpleasant about my church: immediate and vile. The discomfort of this visceral response reminded me that although I was on a path of personal growth and deepening my connection to Christ, focusing on negative parts of my church did not feel good. There was no room for hatred in my heart.
During my second year at the University of Utah I decided I wanted to study abroad with my French program. It was only 6 weeks, which I rationalized was an appropriate amount of time to leave my husband. I didn’t have a dollar to spare but applied for as many scholarships and grants as I could find. The money came through easily, funds that covered the bulk of the trip. I knew it was a blessing from the Lord I had earned by faithfully paying my tithing. Ten percent of my income was a huge sacrifice, especially as a college student, but I dutifully paid it every paycheck. It was faith building to see the blessings come through.
I picked up a second part time job at the airport cleaning bathrooms to make extra money for my trip and before I knew it I was on a plane to Paris. From there I took the train to Grenoble, a small city in the Alps, and met my host family. They lived in a mountainside home decorated with paintings of nude women. Jaques was a passionate philosopher who ate cheese after dinner and Hélène was an equally passionate philosopher who wore tiny bikinis in the pool. I was definitely in a foreign country. Their two adult children came around often and their large home was always full of guests coming and going. There was always someone for me to practice my French with.
I was living my dream. I attended French language and culture classes in the mornings and went to museums, bookstores, and theaters in the afternoons. On the weekends I traveled to different cities: Lyon, Montpellier, Paris, Annecy, and Genève. I didn’t fit in with the girls who went to the discotheque and drank wine and flirted with French boys but I had my own group of friends. There was one other Mormon on the trip and I was so impressed by the way she left her husband and kids at home to do this for herself. We talked often about how empowering it was to leave behind the domestic expectations for a bit and have fun. We related to each other about the pressure we felt to get married so young, and the stress of eternity.
It was much harder to relate to my host family. I was not used to the direct communication style of the French and was startled by the way they expressed their distaste so openly. They had so many questions about mormonism:
You’re 20 years old… and married??
Is it because you wanted to have sex?
Do you use birth control?
Why did your parents have so many kids?
Are you going to have that many kids?
Why can’t you drink coffee?
But Coca Cola has caffeine, so why can you drink that and not coffee?
You’re living in the country with the best wine in the world and you won’t at least try it?!
But why do you wear that long underwear, it’s so hot!
Do you worship Joseph Smith?
I looked him up, did you know he is a pedophile?
Do you pay 10 percent of your income to the Mormons?
Why do you pay it?! You are a student!
Do you think Mormonism is a cult?
What if you don’t like your husband when you get older?
Will your family disown you if you leave?
It was the first time I really had to articulate and defend my beliefs. This embarrassed me terribly. Not because I had to do it in French but because I started to see from an outside perspective how insular and quite frankly, weird, Mormonism is. None of my answers satisfied them. They pushed and pushed and when I continued to respond with declarations of the importance of faith and obedience, they gave up. They looked at me with pity in their eyes. I hated that they thought I was naïve and brainwashed. I hated that sometimes I caught myself understanding their logic. Insecurity lodged its uncomfortable weight into my body and I found it harder than usual to push the bad feelings away.
At the same time, I couldn’t help but want to be worldly like them. I wanted to have opinions on politics and art. I wanted to dress in stylish clothes that exposed my shoulders and thighs. I wanted to drink coffee with my croissants and red wine with my camembert. I wanted to understand things logically and not through faith. I wanted to think in a manner that explored complexity rather than eschewing it.
These desires surprised me. I typically felt quite aligned with the Mormon lifestyle. Sure, there had been times I was tempted to loosen up my modesty standards a bit to wear something cute and sometimes when I sang along to my favorite songs I wished I could swear along. But other than that, the temptation to sin wasn’t my trial. And the lack of exposure in my community at home made it hard to feel like it was really missing in my life. Besides, I knew that abstaining from these things kept me safe. It was a blessing to keep the commandments because they made me worthy of having the spirit with me. Still, I was curious.
I observed French women and was struck by their power. They wore little to no makeup and their hair natural. It was like their physical presence was magnified by the passion in which they lived rather than by a manicured display of perfection. They were so beautiful.
They were taken seriously by each other and sometimes even men. Erudite and engaged, their energy enchanted me. And something about the way they existed so comfortably in their bodies surprised me. I didn’t know what to make of it, I just knew it was different.
While I still felt deeply committed to my faith, my time in France exposed desires I’d buried deep inside myself. These desires felt so authentic and exciting that I couldn’t muster up any shame to dull them with. I wanted more for myself! I didn’t know what exactly that meant yet, but just the fact that I knew I wanted more was enough for now. I celebrated my 21st birthday near the end of my trip and felt my confidence blossoming. Like the French women, I started to feel deserving of feeling good.
This newfound feeling of deservedness bled into my new life back in Salt Lake. My husband and I moved to a new apartment, therefore changing wards. The fresh start and anonymity allowed me to make different choices about how I lived my faith. I started to take more responsibility for my happiness instead of relying completely on the gospel.
Sometimes a lesson in church would feel particularly harsh and close-minded. Instead of trying to numb the feelings with hymns and prayers, I’d just leave. The unforgiving expectations reminded me of my scrupulous days and it was triggering to be around that mindset again. Sometimes I’d go to church for the first hour to take the sacrament, then skip the next two hours in favor of doing homework, something I’d previously avoided doing in order to keep the Sabbath Day holy. Logically, I understood I was on a slippery slope into darker sin, but I couldn’t deny that my mental health was so much better when I approached the gospel with less rigidity.
That fall I watched just bits and pieces of General Conference instead of eagerly notetaking in front of the TV for all 10 hours. And when I did tune in, the talks felt empty and austere, so I turned them off. I didn’t feel guilty, just relieved. I couldn’t find the words to describe how The Brethren made me feel but I could just tell something was off.
I embraced this faith journey, knowing it was good for my spiritual development. Of course, I was ever cognizant of how I was slipping into the grasp of Satan’s cunning ways. I knew every time I skipped scripture study, prayer, or a church lesson I was closer to falling out of the boat. I knew about the pride cycle the Lord warned was plaguing even the most faithful members in the latter days. As if I could trust any source outside of the church to discern right and wrong. I was deep in the belly of pride and I knew it, but yet here I was feeling relief instead of guilt.
I justified it by reminding myself this faith journey was temporary and would eventually lead me to come to a more nuanced, spiritually satisfying approach to living the gospel. After all, the gospel was perfect and the church was not . I believed I would eventually learn how to exist within the imperfect church while embracing a perfect gospel.
I set an intentional goal to, in good faith, read the Book of Mormon over the course of three months. I’d already read it so many times but I knew I couldn’t abandon The Book of Mormon, the keystone of my religion, during this time. I needed to pursue Moroni’s promise again:
If ye shall ask with a sincere heart, with real intent, having faith in Christ, he will manifest the truth of it unto you, by the power of the Holy Ghost. And by the power of the Holy Ghost ye may know the truth of all things” (Moroni 10:4-5).
If I could receive this manifestation then I must resume living gospel principles more fully. I remembered the tearful testimonies I’d heard growing up. Grown men would stand at the pulpit and weep: “I know this book is true.” I couldn’t discount their faith. Who was I, a 21 year old girl, to know better?
My reading schedule became a source of stress in my life. I read the book with new eyes and was shocked at how violent the stories were. Some passages were meaningful and spiritually nourishing, but most of the book was uncomfortably violent. A lot of it was incredibly boring too. Passage after vacuous passage left me unfulfilled. I hated reading it and eventually stopped, not feeling guilty in the slightest. If Heavenly Father wanted me to feel inspired by this weird book, he should have made it better.
I started listening to podcasts instead. These were safe podcasts, usually hosted by Mormon or Christian women talking about non-religious topics like self development, creativity, and building a business. I started to see a new vision for myself as more than just a wife and mother. My mental health was healing.
I started to feel uncomfortable wearing garments. They were stuffy and I felt controlled when I wore them. So some days I just… didn’t wear them. And it felt good. I bought a pack of normal underwear and by Christmas break I was no longer wearing the holy garment. Around the same time I stopped paying my tithing. Money had always been a huge source of stress, so when I stopped paying I didn’t feel an ounce of guilt. Once again, just relief. I desperately needed the money and it looked like the church was doing just fine without my biweekly $40 checks.
A lot was changing in my life and I kept it private, knowing it would be perceived unfavorably. A family member was going through the temple to receive her endowment and I was of course invited. I wasn’t eager to go but wanted to support her. Luckily my temple recommend had yet to expire, so I smothered myself once again in my long underwear and went to the temple with my family.
“Will the women in the room please veil their faces?” the officiator asked on cue. My obedience was automatic, still second nature. I looked through the fabric at the muted display of women made invisible while the men’s faces were exposed. It dawned on me that being a Mormon woman is a degrading position. As we chanted the prayer I suppressed the urge to throw up. It was hard to breathe. I started to feel suppressed feelings, years worth, of belittlement and disrespect. I think I’m pissed off?
Is this what I’d have to put up with for the rest of my life if I continued to be a Mormon?
Later in the ceremony as a man five decades older than me pressed his body against mine from the other side of a curtain, his sweaty hand grasping mine in the patriarchal grip, I knew this would be the last time I ever set foot in a Mormon temple.
A few months passed and I continued to distance myself from Mormonism. I listened to those same podcasts every day and attended church less and less. With my newfound spare time I started to explore my creative interests like writing and photography. My future was shifting and I was excited.
I was almost done with school and recognized I was in no way ready to have a baby. One day my husband came home from work and found me lying on the bed with a heating pad over my stomach. He asked what I had done that day. “I got an IUD,” I answered and went back to reading Émile Zola.
One afternoon a yoga teacher from the studio above the restaurant I worked at popped in to pick up some sushi and told me about the studio’s free trial week. I went to a class and was floored at how amazing it felt to connect my breath to movement. For the first time since childhood I felt like a living, breathing body. It was surreal and peaceful and paled in comparison to the spiritual moments I’d experienced in Mormonism. I craved spirituality and found it exciting that I could find it in other places outside of the church.
My best friend was also exploring her faith and we had incredible conversations that helped me feel seen and loved. She sent me an essay she’d read that resonated with her. It was called “The Yoga of Christ” and it outlined a completely different way to understand the teachings of Jesus, rooted in non-judgmental compassion for self and others. A lot shifted in my brain when I read it. I didn’t care for the Jesus paradigm, that name had been soured for me. But the human behind this interpretation of him helped me see how spirituality could be expansive and relatable, something I intrinsically craved.
A fulfilling life outside of Mormonism became more and more realistic to me. I carried no guilt. After years of crying through unanswered prayers, I knew I couldn’t go back to the way I was living before.
After graduation I convinced my husband to spend the summer in France with me. I wanted to live abroad again and I was desperate to get out of Utah. We didn’t have much money, so we exchanged our labor for room and board. We worked at a B&B in the vineyards of Bordeaux, a bird farm in the hills of Aveyron, a renovation project on a 16th century building in a small village called Lodève, and a self sustaining eco-construction vegan commune in Nouvelle-Aquitaine. I loved the experience. I watched my husband try to answer our hosts' demanding questions about Mormonism and reflected on how much I’d changed in a year.
Towards the end of the trip we went to Garorock, an annual music festival in Marmande. “I want to try coffee,” I announced to my husband. Thus far all of my sins had been passive (not paying tithing, not reading my scriptures, not wearing my garments, not going to church, etc.) but I finally felt ready to actively make a decision that contradicted the commandments. I ordered an espresso and he watched me drink it. “How does it taste?” he asked. “Like freedom.”
By the time we touched ground in Utah, I confidently announced to my best friend that I was done with the church. I didn’t have a lot of answers as to why (not that she asked, she understood), but I just knew I couldn’t put myself back into the narrow worldview Mormonism gave me. I was excited about my future and happier than ever. My husband and I looked for new jobs in Utah, the state he was determined to stay in. I insisted we live in Salt Lake again. Despite being the church headquarters, SLC is the most liberal and least densely populated Mormon city in the state. And I liked it there. Our marriage now consisted of more compromises and negotiations than ever before but it was surprisingly healthier this way. I was a better version of myself out of the Mormon paradigm and even though he was not on the same ideological journey, he appreciated this new me.
One night as I struggled to fall asleep I remembered a discussion I’d had with friends right after graduating high school. One of them had heard about an anti-Mormon document circulating on the internet called “The CES Letter”. I wasn’t exactly sure what it was, just that it was evil and vile and was leading people astray. The old me would have sooner injected heroin into my veins than poison my mind with the workings of the adversary, but here I was 4 years later, curious. I googled it and read this description:
CES Letter is one Latter-day Saints’ honest quest to get official answers from the LDS Church on its troubling origins, history, and practices. Jeremy Runnells was offered an opportunity to discuss his own doubts with a director of the Church Educational System (CES) and was assured that his doubts could be resolved. After reading Jeremy's letter, the director promised him a response.
No response ever came.
I was fascinated. Up until this point, I’d convinced myself that the Mormon church was just a regular old Christian religion that didn’t resonate with me. It seemed cringey and unfortunate at worst but I didn’t see the organization as particularly nefarious. Almost all of my family and friends were passionate, believing members and so criticizing the religion felt like an attack on everyone I loved. And even though I carried pain and annoyance with the church, I felt that reading the CES Letter would be stoking the flames of anti-Mormon hatred. And I wasn’t an angry person, I just was on a different spiritual path.
But it couldn’t hurt to know what they were saying, right? The more I thought about it the more curious I became. Fine, I’ll read it.
It turned into an all-nighter. I read the 164 page document with increasing shock and by dawn my jaw was on the floor.
Holy fuck. I was in a cult.