I tend to believe that they do. Our stories make us real human beings, rather than compartmentalized stereotypes, or mere images of any given moment. A human life is far more complex than one interaction, than one perspective, or one biographer's well-intended slant.
I have loved the often quoted ideal that "There isn't anyone you couldn't love once you've heard their story." Or the more popular adage to "walk a mile in their shoes," which teaches the lesson of empathy.
In considering the stories that people might tell about themselves, I've had to wrestle with the discomfort of knowing that some stories might disappoint me, even despite the story being told by the individual of whom it concerns. Obviously this came to mind when considering the story Donald Trump might tell about himself. A rich boy who probably didn't feel as loved by his parents as he would have liked, was given everything he could ever need, and spent his days abusing those around him and spreading lies and bigotry because... I get the feeling that no matter what justification Trump might use to excuse his behaviors, in any moment, I would likely still be disappointed. Being disappointed even while understanding the "whys" of an individual is possible. But it feels like it would be right, more fair, to hear it in his own honest words.
Because telling our own stories explains our motivations. Telling our own stories explains the thought processes behind our actions. I genuinely believe that nobody considers themselves the "bad guy." Nobody wants to be downright evil. People may make mistakes, but those mistakes are made with the best of intentions, I'm sure, or at least intentions clouded by ignorance.
I have had to wrestle many times, thoughout my life, with the fact that even my own story may disappoint people, regardless of my intentions, my motivations, or my personal convictions, beliefs, and experiences. My story carries with it the same risk that many others' stories carry - the risk that I may disappoint. As someone who cares deeply about my relationships with other people, that is a huge risk. But at least, in telling my story, I have done my part to defend myself - to throw my human life and experience out for judgement in context.
I have debated sharing my story, or rather, one specific story. I have questioned my motivations in wanting to do so, and so frankly, haven't shared. But the longer I go on not sharing this specific story, the longer I find myself dodging conversations, fearing what stories others may be telling, and feeling like a figure in the shadows - hiding and ashamed.
But my story does not cause me shame. I am proud of my story. My story is one of painful growth and development, uncertainties and absolute certainties together in one. There was such bitter pain and fear, loneliness, and heartbreak that I had the chutzpah to overcome, and I did it. I did it despite the pain. My story - THIS story - truly has made me who I am. Because there is literally nothing that has EVER been more important to me than this.
So heads up. If you don't want to hear about a Mormon resignation story, you can stop reading. I won't judge you, because some part of your story is probably affecting you in such a way that this kind of story hurts you, scares you, or makes you angry. That's YOUR story, and I respect that. But this is my story, and I'd love it to be told by ME, and not by whatever preconceived notions others might have about me.
I'll be delicate. I have no intention of "raising Hell" and wrecking others' faith, if that faith brings them happiness and comfort. My story, thank God, is no longer in the "angry" stage of grief, and I'm quite capable of not burning your houses to the ground now, never fear.
And so I give you -
My Mormon Story
Despite having an unconventional Mormon family, my personality always led me to be quite conventional in my religious beliefs and practices, growing up in the heart of Utah. My youth was a faithful one. In fact, it was an Obsessive Compulsive Personality Disorder one, which meant I was the best darned Mormon you'd ever meet.
I remember the first time I knew, for a fact, that God loved me. It was a Sacrament hymn at church - I Stand All Amazed. "I tremble to know that for me He was crucified. That for me, a sinner, He suffered, He bled and died. Oh it is wonderful. Wonderful to me." I was seven years old, crying in my pew, and embarrassed beyond all belief by the heat spreading from my chest and face, bursting from my eyes in tears, and my throat in a young, unpracticed sob. Because it was wonderful. It was SO wonderful to me.
I remember scrubbing a shower clean, missing a church youth dance over a dramatic weekend. Angry tears spread down my face, and through grinding teeth I demanded of the heavens, "Doesn't ANYBODY care?" The anger vanished, and was replaced with a peace that could have had no other source than Heaven. Anger and frustration turned to gratitude for a God that comforted me, held me in His incorporal arms, and told me that He loved me, and that He would never leave me alone.
I remember my first experience with "anti-Mormon literature." I had just graduated from High School, and a friend and coworker, upon learning I was going to attend BYU-Idaho, took it upon himself to send me internet links to uncomfortable truths about the church, which I, in faithful over-confidence, gladly read. It was the first I'd heard of these things, which can now be found in the LDS Gospel Topics Essays. I was shaken, but only somewhat. The Spirit whispered to me that these facts were not disqualifiers of goodness. I accepted that answer as the whole of it, and carried on my confident way.
Several years later, well into my time at University, that same Spirit prompted me to go to the temple. THROUGH the temple. I felt a longing to receive my Endowment. I prayed about it for weeks. I fasted. I drove to sit in the temple parking lot. I basked in its glow, and the confirmation I received that God thought I was worthy and ready. I set an appointment with the Bishop, and told him that I felt I needed to receive my Endowment.
The Bishop told me no. He said there were things in the Endowment that I might have trouble with, in this stage of my life, and he denied my request. "If you're worried about how things will work out for your family, I promise you, God has a plan, and you will be happy with it."
My family?! I knew what he was implying. He felt I was worried about my family being sealed for eternity, since my parents were divorced. His comment was so far off base that I felt sick to my stomach. My family had nothing to do with my decision. My decision had nothing to do with fears or concerns regarding God's plan, and everything to do with wanting the blessings that I was already living worthy of. I didn't doubt my readiness. God had already made it clear to me. I was prepared to slit the throat of a lamb, if that turned out to be a part of the ceremony! I was offended by the implication that I would struggle with any portion of a ceremony designed for my empowerment. This man didn't even know me!
But because I was young, and he was old, and I was a girl, and he was the Bishop, I went my way. I cried. I quietly raged, and frankly, sat in church each Sunday distrusting and disliking this man that claimed to hold authority to speak on God's behalf for me, when he so clearly did not understand that God and I were already speaking.
A few weeks before my graduation, my life took another spiritual turn. I had interviewed for several jobs in my field, and had even received a job offer in that field at the same University I planned on attending for my Masters degree. I was thrilled to pieces, and life was really working well for me. Until the dreaded "stupor of thought." The same day I received a job offer, God threw all of my plans out the window. I sat calmly at work, on campus, when it hit. It was numbing. I went from thrilled at a job offer to weeping tears in my supervisor's office, rambling about how I'd wasted four years of my life, because, apparently, God didn't want me to work in that field? It was a vague impression. God needed me to do something else.
I prayed. I attended the temple. I fasted. I called and TURNED DOWN the job offer that SAME DAY! I did all the right things, and, several days later, received the dreaded answer - God wanted me to go on a mission. God filled my heart with joy at the prospect. I was happy to listen to God - not because I didn't want to work and get my Masters, but because I trusted His plan would be better than mine - and it was so obviously HIS plan. I anticipated miracles.
My mission was hard. Naturally, working 24/7 for the Lord is all-consuming, and exasperating. It's full of disappointment, discouragement, despair, blisters, and, for an introvert, wanting a dang-gummed day all by yourself listening to something that didn't fit the required "would be appropriate for a musical number in Sacrament Meeting." I had a hard time. I started on anti-depressants on my mission. The humiliation of getting a $90 bill sent to my mom at home every month, for medications, was the worst. I felt guilty. Surely, I could fix myself. Did I not have enough faith?
We had success. When the weather was bad, I felt better, because instead of overcoming mental obstacles, I was given physical ones, and those were a lot easier to feel like I could be successful in at least something. We had baptisms. I had wonderful companions that understood me, and lifted that Depression just a bit more as we didn't take ourselves so seriously and felt comfortable laughing and having fun. I was getting into the swing of things.
After a year there was another transfer to another city, and another companion. One early morning, after a productive hour of independent study, we started companionship study. Maybe two minutes into it, God hit me with another surprise turning point. He told me to go home.
I sobbed. I asked my companion to please study independently a little longer. I went to our room and wept, begging God to forgive me. I assumed He was punishing me for a lack of faith, for my continued Depression, for my missing my previous companion and area. I pleaded with Him to forgive me, and that I would do better. I would try harder. I could do better.
He kindly told me that there was nothing wrong with me, but that He needed me to go home. This had always been a part of the plan. He gave me peace, which I desperately needed. He gave me confidence, that He continued to be proud of me, and that I had done nothing wrong. I called the Mission President, and informed him of my spiritual prompting. He asked us to take the 3 hour drive to his office, where again, I informed him of my spiritual prompting. I told him I could finish the transfer, but I needed to go home. God needed me home.
My Mission President was aware that I had a sick family member at home. His quiet demeanor, lack of general happy agreement and pride in my ability to speak to God, made me feel that I was disappointing him. Maybe he thought I was lying and calling it a prompting. Maybe he knew I was depressed and potentially just homesick for my family. Whatever he actually thought, he asked me to not tell anyone. He pointedly asked me to not tell anyone that I was going home at the end of the transfer. My companion would know, obviously, but he didn't want me to tell anyone in my zone, or even my district.
The last few weeks of my mission made me feel like I carried a dark secret. Something shameful and embarrassing. God had talked to me, and I was asked to keep it to myself. On the day of transfer, I remember our District Leader turning to me and asking, “Have you really been out a year and a half?! Why didn’t you tell me you were going home?”
Had I failed? Another baptism a few days before, but had I failed?
I was released late at night, after meeting a couple new family members at the gate. I carried the regular Return Missionary souvenirs - an accent and distinct mannerisms that were hard to shake. After I was released, I never spoke with the bishop or stake president again. The looks from congregation members in the ward were too much to handle. I could see it in their eyes that they assumed I was “weak,” or had committed some terrible sin. They were telling themselves my story. I wasn’t even asked to speak in Sacrament Meeting.
I ran away to a Singles Ward as fast as I could. I told no one about my early return. I got a job and moved away. I didn’t tell anyone there either. I met someone, and after several weeks of dating, I remember sitting in his car and confessing my “sin.” “Would it bother you if I told you that I came home from my mission early?” He scoffed. “No.” He later asked for the whole story, but that quick acceptance of something I carried as a needlessly shameful weight was relieving. It felt incredible to be accepted so simply for who I was, and not for any perceived error in my past. (I eventually married the guy. He was a real keeper.)
My Faith Crisis occurred during this time. There wasn’t a “day” that it started, though the questions and discontent likely came to the surface in my mission president’s office - where he told me to keep silent, rather than telling me that he trusted God did speak to me, and might have a plan for me that He was willing to talk to me about, individually. A simple, “I’m glad you know how to listen to the Spirit,” would have sufficed. Giving me a rationale on why he wanted me to not tell anyone would have been good too. But instead, I was left feeling that my Church had abandoned me, disassociated with me, for following God, for doing what I felt was right.
I carried that grudge in my pocket - that awareness that leadership might not know what they’re talking about. In our first married ward, in a conversation with the Bishop, I mentioned my struggles with Depression. He told me, in no uncertain terms, that the “cure” to my Depression would come as I kept the commandments better. I had not confessed anything to him, and was, in fact, not aware of any commandments that I was breaking! I left his office feeling embarrassed and angry. I was angry that once again I had been misunderstood, and that leadership was always assuming the worst of me.
So began my Church History tour. I read everything I could about Church History. Innocently I can say that I was looking for confirmation that I could disagree with my leadership on issues, and still be a respected member of the Church. I had lots of leaders I had disagreed with, now. Could I still belong? Unfortunately, a lot of what I read was that I couldn’t. I read personal stories of people who’d been through similar situations. Worse situations. I read about people disagreeing with prophets in the past on an issue. So I read about the prophets of the past. So I read about people leaving the church and being excommunicated for disagreeing with prophets of the past. And unfortunately, I agreed with a lot of those people who had been on the “wrong” side of the Church.
Being married, a lot of things said in the temple began to bother me. (They’re better, now, but still not there yet, frankly.) I began to feel that maybe God loved my husband more than He loved me. For some unknown reason, God chose to bless my mortal husband, with all his mortal husband concerns, more than me. I was there, married to the guy, knew that we were equals, and yet the Church quietly preached that he was superior. The Church could say we were equals in the public arena, and yet have doctrines, policies, and ceremony that taught otherwise in secret.
Polygamy. I could not understand how the Church could preach being centered on the family, when ultimately, wives weren’t worth as much as husbands. Do wives even need to be happy with the arrangement, as wives of polygamous prophets past hadn’t been? If they want to have a personal, intimate relationship with their husband, all by themselves, that could be denied them in God's heaven? Don’t women have a say? Even in being excommunicated, women were excommunicated in a “lower court.” Like they were less accountable, stupid, or not as vital to the plan.
And what about our Heavenly Mother? Where was She? Was I doomed to be banished to silence and invisibility as She was? If She was actually a part of our doctrine, why did we not talk about Her? Was she not important? Will I ever matter? Now that I was married, and I’d fulfilled that purpose life had for me, would God no longer speak with me, and instead speak only to my husband? Did I no longer matter to God? Was I important as His daughter while I was single, but now that He’d made me into something great to give to His son, with a uterus, was I no longer worthy of focus?
Getting married was the harshest of demotions I’d ever received.
I studied these questions. I found a disturbing lack of answers. I became angry. I felt tricked. I loved my husband, and yet found myself at battle with him, because my Church, that I had dedicated my entire life to, favored him over me. I had done nothing wrong, and yet he was the chosen one. It was the men that mattered. And perhaps because I was a thinking woman, who had the audacity to claim that God spoke with me too, leadership was at odds with me, and it would only be a matter of time until they found some minor thing to kick me out over.
After decades of satisfaction, I found myself quite unsatisfied. I was afraid, I was offended, and frankly, I had little interest in being a part of this thing that had hurt me and betrayed me anymore.
This went on for a couple years. More study and research on church history. More study and research on polygamy in particular. Through my research, I was convinced that it was false. Polygamy was a lie. There were facts about polygamy the apologists shied over, because if they were made known, it would be glaringly obvious that mistakes were made. And then, after enough study and wrestling, I knew it, finally, in my heart, as that loving God I had once known returned to speak peace to me - that I was my husband’s equal, in every way. Any teaching, policy, or practice that taught otherwise was wrong - no matter who said it or where it was said.
I became satisfied belonging to “God’s church,” led by mortal men who made mistakes. I learned to be satisfied disagreeing on anything that felt wrong to me. I took my questions directly to God, and accepted only His answers. I prayed about multiple piercings. God told me He didn’t give a crap about that, so away I went to get more.
While I had been working through my own concerns with the church, my husband had been privately having his own spiritual questions and wrestles. In December of 2019 my husband confessed his plans to "step away" from the church, to me. Surprisingly, he'd made the decision prior to the the $100 Billion whistleblower reveal against the church, which had rocked me to my core. To say I was devastated about my husband's decision is putting it mildly. As the good husband he is, he assured me that if I wanted to raise our children in this church, he would support me and them in that, and continue to attend with us. But he didn’t believe it anymore.
For weeks I put aside my own concerns and swung my pendulum back towards rigid righteousness once more. I feared for my family’s sealing. I feared that my husband would become a vile sinner, which "obviously" everyone who leaves the church does. I stopped speaking my honest thoughts and concerns about the church, and parroted the narrative on everything - hoping that through my “increased righteousness” I could somehow fix my husband.
We attended several other churches as my husband requested, something I had never done before, and which, in the beginning, I responded to poorly, with flight or fight-type responses. My husband began drinking coffee again, which he hadn't touched since joining the church in his late teens. I promptly stashed it away in the highest cupboard of the kitchen out of sight, until the smell radiated through my Mormon home to the point I could no longer hide it. He removed his garments, which I responded to in a complicated mess of emotions, calling his perfectly normal new underwear "juvenile" and "childish." I was a wreck. I was angry.
Over the next months, God was able to calm my heart on the issue. He helped me understand that "the truth is in the middle." Not everything about the church was all good. Not everything about the church was all bad. I had swung far “righteousness” as my husband had swung far “it’s all a lie.” In talking with him about it, we came to that mutual understanding, and eventually to a place where we studied history together - comfortably feeling able to tell each other the things we had learned, and delving into the fascinating mortality of it all - that mistakes do not cancel out all the good that is there, either. The truth was in the middle.
I began reading everything. My days were full of learning, studying, and growing. I felt an obsessive drive to know everything. It was empowering coming to my own conclusions about which parts of history could have been divine, and which parts weren’t. It was reevaluating everything I’d been taught and just assumed was good. God prompted me along the way to stick with it. He pushed me and inspired me to learn more, read more, listen more.
And I didn’t always want to. Reading one particular history book regarding women and authority, my heart broke. My children were running and playing, hammering out their own happy tunes on the piano, when I broke. I set my book down and stepped into the other room - the kitchen. My grief drove me to my knees, so I knelt and prayed. “God, I feel I know too much to ever be happy again. Have I done wrong to do all this reading? Am I wrong? What can I do to fix this?”
The prompting was no sweet spirit, but an inner hardening to courage. God didn’t tell me it was going to be okay, and that I could take a break and relax. The answer was clear. “Keep reading.” I wiped my eyes, stood up, grabbed a Diet Coke, and continued on studying.
I came to a place of religious humility. There were only a few things I accepted that I knew, and that I knew solidly. God was real. God loved me, and had directed me many times, and would only continue to direct me. Who or what God was didn’t matter. God was real, and that was enough. And God was love. Anything that hurt or devalued any of God’s children was not from God. And so, with love as my goal, and God as my motivator, I fought on. I eventually came to recognize the symptoms of grief in myself - grief for what I had once had, but had lost. Anger, denial, bargaining. I went through all of the stages.
Finally a day came where I removed my own garments. I had come to a place where I could not answer the temple recommend questions - I vowed I would never give the Mormon church another cent’s worth of tithing. I felt that they had taken my life’s charitable giving and made a business out of it. I would not pay them my tithing, and I could not, in good faith, say that I felt Russell M Nelson was a prophet of God.
I went to the store and bought myself undershirts and underwear. I knelt in the closet, a weeping mess, and begged God to forgive me, once more, for something I had not done wrong. I told God I could not wear garments that held such strong stipulations with them - a recommend of requirements in order to purchase and “righteously” wear. I told God that the covenants I had made with HIM were sincere - I wanted to give God everything I had. I had interpreted that covenant to mean God, not the Church.
I begged God to forgive me, that I could not wear those church-sanctioned garments anymore, because they made everything so complicated. I told God my relationship with Him was pure - and it hurt too much to carry the Church and all their baggage in His place. I told God I felt I had authority to set apart my own garments - garments that no temple-recommend questions could take away from me. So I prayed over my newly purchased underclothes, heartbroken, and set them apart for myself. A week later, I had symbols tattooed on my wrist - symbols that, while not masonic, were also “temple building” symbols. I took the temple covenants I made WITH GOD, and owned them for myself. I felt a confirmation that it was accepted.
Despite all these changes of belief, was not satisfied with the idea of "throwing the baby out with the bathwater," though it was a dichotomy I felt increasing pressure from within the church to accept - either believe everything without standing for what you feel is truth, or leave, and abandon the wonderful strengths the church has. As the months wore on, I saw friends threatened with excommunication as well as officially excommunicated for things that I agreed with them wholeheartedly on. Their "problematic" stances were scientifically accurate and appropriate, or Biblically mature and educated analysis of situations breaking the hearts of thousands upon thousands of Mormons. The prophet turned around and called us “lazy learners and lax disciples" - a description so far from anything accurate, loving, or empathetic, that the words rang with nothing but deep-rooted, unknowing contempt for "doubters" like myself.
I was grateful for a friend, who pointed out a beautiful logical conclusion - when you no longer believe in the truth claims of the church, when they are disproven by a study of history, all you have left in the church is the people. All you have left to guide you are the leaders. In order to find value from the church, frankly, the people have to be good, and the leaders have to be good.
I had done my digging into the Church's history, and found plenty of holes - plenty of inconsistencies and unrighteous motivations - things which I felt that God had confirmed to me that I was correct in making conclusions about. I didn't believe in the truth claims of the church, and so all I had were the people. And I saw the Church - the leaders - forcibly and abusively removing some of the very best of them for being authentic Christians.
But I loved these people deeply - the local ward members, the old Young Women leaders of my youth, the Sunday School teachers who taught with sincerity and passion. Mormons were the friends I grew up with, they were the people who loved me and played a role in raising me. They were neighbors. They were strangers who cared for me. They were my community. I loved these people, and the Mormons were my home.
In the last few months of my official membership in the Church, I felt God’s prompting whispered truths leading me to a place of peace in making the decision to leave. It was in driving down the road one day, and having God place the parable of the mote and beam in my mind - with the whispered teaching that my job is not to remove others’ imperfections, but rather to concentrate my efforts on my own. For so long I justified my continued membership in the church by telling myself that I was staying so that I could fix the church and the culture from the inside. God comforted me to know that that was not my calling - not my burden. My responsibility was to make myself a better Christian, and to raise my children with the values and principles that would help them to become who THEY need to be in this life.
At the same time God whispered the scriptures to my mind: “O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, thou that killest the prophets and stonest them which are sent unto thee.” God mourned with me the leaders of the church, who would not listen to the wisdom of theologians, of Christians, of the teachings of the scriptures and CHRIST HIMSELF. It was humbling to ask myself, sincerely, what I thought I could do that even Christ’s scriptural example and teachings could not do.
God gave me permission to leave, but I still couldn’t. Being a Mormon was all that I knew, and the unknown world outside of Mormonism was still too unknown, uncertain, and frightening.
Until I found out I was having a daughter. I was pregnant, and at a 16 week appointment, I was surprised to see on the ultrasound that my “boy mom” identity was to be shattered, as I was very much pregnant with a little girl. Driving home I cried. I cried for joy at the prospect of having a daughter - something I thought I would never have. And I cried for joy because she was the last straw that broke the chains of Mormonism for me.
I was raised my whole life doubting my worth because I was a woman. I had spent years listening to men, men who had authority, and men who thought one way or the other, the women who disagreed with them, in many cases, literally, be damned. And now I had a girl. And there was no way I would turn her over to these men who would teach her she was anything other than perfectly worthy and capable, exactly how she was.
Resigning was my sure-fire way to protect my children. They are young, and impressionable. I wanted to protect them from the life that I lived - doubting myself, holding others, who “sinned,” in disdain. I cannot raise them with false illusions of inequality, or the image of a God who loves conditionally. That is not the God I feel comfortable teaching my children to follow, and I would not risk anyone else teaching them or implying that, and shaming them into obedience, because God is so much better than all of that, and those teachings cheapen Him.
I have left the Church at great personal loss. I will have perpetually disappointed friends and family members who will never be fully pleased with me, regardless of how good I am, how spiritual I am, how kind I am. Being a Utahn, I have lost friends, and I assure, will lose more opportunities for friends as I become a dangerous, spiritual pariah. I have journeyed from comfortable self-assurance and 100% certainty down a road of questions. I used my faith to jump, to sky-dive, with no clear view of where I would land. It is a frightening, alienating, torturous experience, as I am afraid of heights by nature.
In all my resigning, however, I do not accept any man’s claim to have authority to deny or grant me salvation, which is offered by no one other than God. In this, God has given me great confidence. There are many things I am all too happy to leave behind, on this journey. Things I no longer believe in, things I know cannot be right or true. Things that have caused myself and others undue pain and suffering.
There are many things I will take with me - things which are mine, and which I will always keep. I will be taking the Book of Mormon with me. I don’t agree with the narrative of its origin, but I am satisfied that it is a wisdom text. (Frankly, if the Mormons actually read it and followed it, I’d probably still be a member!) I will be taking with me some vague agreement with the King Follett discourse - that man’s purpose is to become like God - and God is one who nurtures others in their own growth.
I will be taking with me a heavy heart and desire for the community and fellowship which Mormonism can be so good at providing. I will take with me a love for service, for doing good when good is needed. I will take with me personal revelation. I will treasure the church for the upbringing they gave me - the assurances that God was real, and that I, even I!, could have a relationship with God, and communicate with Him. That relationship with God has led me along this life path, and I will ever be grateful for the trust I have in Him, which CERTAINLY came from this church, which fostered that empowerment in the beginning.
I don’t believe in the necessity of temple ordinances, but oddly, I love the temple, and I’ll be taking that with me as well, like my Book of Mormon wisdom text. I have always found insight and empowerment in the temple. The biggest takeaway? Heaven is now. You are admitted to the presence of the Lord in THIS life. God is with us NOW. I don’t have to wait for permission.
Eve’s has been the example I have followed, in this path. She went from an existence of comfort, having all the answers because there were no questions, to making a very real choice to attain knowledge.
It’s uncomfortable. It’s painful. It’s raw. It’s alienating. It’s traumatizing.
It’s liberating. It’s empowering. It’s eye-opening. It’s seeing there are no “others.” It’s humbling.
I have been through the valley of the shadow of death, on this faith crisis. I have cried like I have never cried before. I have spent literal years wrestling, weeping, questioning, doubting, learning, studying, growing, and praying. And there is no joy quite like God’s affirmation that you have done something you were always meant to do. That you are known. That you are loved. And that you are on to the next step of your personal-betterment journey.
I recognize that my story is my own, and that many will have come to different conclusions than me, have different experiences than me, and disagree with me outright. I love that God is like this - that God gives answers to individuals. I'm also sorry if my conclusions and decisions disappoint. I know it's inevitable in this culture that many will be disappointed, and at a loss for how to proceed forward with our relationships.
The truth is I am very much the same person I have always been, and have no intent to go about "sinning for funsies." I hope that my story does not change OUR story.
