Hi, I'm Kate.
I'm a mom, dog mom, divorcee, former teacher, barbershopper, future author, and public speaker. I was a mormon.
About me
Born in the covenant, I was raised as the fourth of six kids in a seemingly perfect Mormon family. Descended from pioneers on both sides of the family, I was born in the same valley where my ancestors had settled and where my parents met, Cache Valley. After my first eight years in Southern California, my family moved to the Mormon mecca of Provo, Utah just in time for my baptism.
My dad dedicated his life to the church as a missionary, institute teacher, institute choir director, bishop, gospel doctrine instructor, MTC choir director, stake president, member of an MTC branch presidency, and is now a sealer at the temple. Living in a predominantly Mormon college town, my family couldn't go anywhere without some young adult recognizing him from their time singing in the MTC choir or at the Orem Institute of Religion. My dad was a rockstar.
I kept him high on a pedestal and tried to do everything I could to make him proud of me. I was baptized at 8, graduated from seminary, earned my Young Women in Recognition Award. When I graduated from high school, I was finally old enough to be in my dad's show choir! As kids, my younger sister and I were in awe of the amazing college students who graced the stage as members of the institute show choirs my dad directed. We went along on week-long mini-missions disguised as institute choir tours, operating the slide projectors and spotlights, all while dreaming of the day when we could be on that stage performing the spiritual and secular musical numbers we had memorized by heart.
I sang in Latter-Day Celebration for three years while attending Utah Valley State College (now Utah Valley University). The first year was a little challenging because I was still so insecure. Halfway through my second year, things changed, but they got much worse before they got better.
The day after Christmas of 1997, tragedy struck. On the way to a family gathering in Cache Valley, my two sisters, Denise and Tonya, were killed in a car accident in Sardine Canyon. My younger brother and I were asleep in the backseat when it happened, so neither of us has any memory of the crash, but we later learned that a car heading south slipped on black ice and collided with my sister's car headon. Our sisters died on impact, but my brother and I survived and were taken to LDS Hospital in critical condition. Miraculously, we were able to be released in time for our sisters' funeral. Because my dad was the director of the MTC choir, the First Presidency caught wind of what had happened to our family, and Elder Joseph Wirthlin came to the hospital where he administered blessings to my brother and me. We were both unconscious when we received these apostolic blessings, but were later told that they were the cause of our miraculous release from the hospital in time for the funeral.
At the funeral, Elder Richard Scott spoke. I was deliriously drugged at the time, still recovering from my injuries, but I remember his talk, telling us not to talk about our sisters in the past tense because they were still alive in spirit. I took that to heart and tried desperately to feel their presence in the present. As painful as it was to lose both of my sisters and to have survived the car crash, I really did experience a great sense of peace. Having faith that I would one day see them again really did help, but even more powerful than that was all the attention I received. Not only was I an often neglected middle child, I was also the recipient of severe verbal and emotional abuse. Our seemingly perfect family was not perfect by a long shot, and the emotional wounds ran deeper than any physical injuries I suffered from the accident. In the weeks after the funeral, dozens and dozens of neighbors, family, and friends came to shower me with something I wasn't familiar with: positive attention, love, and genuine concern. Physically, I was still weak, but emotionally, I felt like a million bucks. It had to be the Lord blessing and comforting me after taking my sisters.
Two years later, I did as my patriarchal blessing all but promised me I would do: I submitted my papers to serve a mission. The Lord wanted me to go, and He wanted me to go as soon as I was old enough, so I didn't hesitate. Of course, it meant I'd have to miss my best friend's wedding since I'd be in the MTC, but life was all about sacrifice, and it was the sacrifice I was willing to make. Under my dad's direction, I sang "Called to Serve" with gusto, then gobbled down the fast food he and my mom had smuggled into the building for me.
I was called to the Florida Fort Lauderdale mission, Spanish-speaking. Even though I was living in the Sunshine State, the little black raincloud of depression enveloped me. I'd struggled with depression and insecurities all through my childhood and youth, but it was nothing like this. As a missionary, I wasn't good enough. I wasn't worthy enough. I didn't speak the language well enough. I hated myself, I didn't want to be there, cried daily, and my poor companions were beside themselves wondering what was wrong with me. I wondered the same.
I begged my mission president to let me go home. He refused. He told me that other missionaries suffered from depression, and assured me that we were all going to be okay. He arranged for me to see a therapist through LDS Family Services, but even with that help, I continued in misery.
Things turned a corner halfway into the mission, thanks to therapy and a godsend of a companion, and I started to enjoy life on the "mish." I didn't convert many people on my mission, but who cared? At least I beat depression, I learned a little español, and I made some very dear, life-long friends in the mission field. "And if it so be that you should labor all your days in crying repentance unto this people, and bring, save it be one soul unto me, how great shall be your joy with him in the kingdom of my Father!" I was that one soul, so maybe my mission was just for me.
After my mission, I did my best to stay on the straight and narrow path. I attended institute. I served as my single ward's Relief Society president. I worked in the temple. I wanted to prove to God that I was still His servant, even if I hadn't been a particularly successful missionary.
I went to school to become an elementary school teacher. Not necessarily because I wanted to be one, but because college was the expectation, I was good with kids, and I had absolutely no idea what I wanted to do in my life. Depression came and went all through school and into my career. My inner critic, in the voice of my mother, was on repeat. I'd never be good enough. I was worthless. I was doing everything wrong. But I persisted, because my ancestors persisted, and life was all about sacrifice, right?
In my second year of teaching, in a time when I'd risen above the clouds of despair, I met a man and fell in love. Sure, he was 14 years older than me, had recently been divorced, and had three children, but he loved me and he was a Mormon and I loved him. So six months after meeting, we were sealed in the temple. Eleven months after that, we had a baby, Morgan, and postpartum depression hit me like a ton of bricks. Our marriage went south, mostly because he just couldn't relate to my mental illness. After six years of marriage, we divorced. Our divorce was and continues to be amicable. We split the custody of our Morgan 50/50, and he's never faulted on alimony or child support. He's a good man. We just couldn't make it work.
Soon after the divorce was finalized, I met another man on an LDS dating app. I wasn't particularly attracted to him, but he demonstrated empathy like nothing I'd ever heard from anyone outside of my therapists. When I told him about a challenge, he'd respond, "Wow, that must be really difficult for you." I felt validated. I felt heard. Sold.
With encouragement from both of our bishops, my new beau and I married far earlier than was healthy (again, only six months). We had four kids between us, and our daughters were the best of friends. Unfortunately, my new husband and I were not. The relationship was very unhealthy, with lots of gaslighting and codependency. But life improved significantly when, three years into our marriage, we learned I was pregnant. We were over the moon! Unfortunately, however, our little boy died in utero, five weeks before his due date. We grieved together and cried together and our relationship improved. As with the deaths of my sisters, I was comforted in knowing the gospel was true, and that we were promised that we'd be able to raise our little boy in the celestial kingdom.
I continued teaching, my husband continued working at the university, we continued to attend church together, and our kids from our first marriages continued to grow. Our marriage was never a particularly happy one, but it wasn't supposed to be, was it? Obedience. Sacrifice. Endurance to the End. That doctrine had been pounded into us since birth and there was no way we were going to waver from the straight and narrow. At least we were working toward happiness in the next life.
On my shelf
On the Mormon Spectrum
# Why I left More stories of 'Why I left' the Mormon church
This past summer I turned 45 years old, and for my birthday I got a sweet midlife crisis. In a matter of months, I ended my 18-year teaching career to support my husband in his new career out of state, I quit grad school halfway through the program, my shelf came crashing down and I left the LDS church for good, my second husband and I divorced, I severed ties with my parents and others who refused to show empathy or respect my boundaries, we sold our home, I packed the place up single-handedly, and wound up homeless and unemployed. And all parts of this midlife transition were tied to my decision to first stay in, then ultimately leave the church.
When I left the church, everyone was just as surprised as I was. I'd never breathed a swear word, I'd eschewed coffee & alcohol just as I'd always been taught, I'd avoided inappropriate R & MA-rated media, I didn't drink caffeine and I always wore my garments, even while working out. But, like other exmormons, I'd had some experiences that weighed heavily on my proverbial shelf, until July 2023 when everything finally came crashing down. These shelf breakers include the following:
1) In 2021, my then 13-year-old Morgan came out to me as non-binary and pansexual and asked that I use they/them pronouns when talking about her. I was shocked and had no idea how to respond to this. I'd considered myself an LGBTQ+ ally before that, but it's one thing if I'm supporting someone else. It was completely different when it was my own child.
A few months prior, while serving as the Young Women's president, I had one of the girls come out to me as transexual. At the time I reminded her how much I loved her and how much God loved her, and did all I could to support her. It was then when I studied the church's teachings about LGBTQ+ youth and read in the handbook that we were to use the pronouns they were assigned at birth. I tried the best I could to love and support this youth, but I wouldn't use their preferred pronouns.
It was the same when my own child came out to me a few months later. I told Morgan I wasn't ready to use those pronouns, and for a good year, we really struggled in our relationship. I did all I could to learn about LGBTQ+ youth through a gospel lens. I listened to podcasts like Listen, Learn, & Love; I joined a support group, and spoke with LDS parents with children who identified as LGBTQ+. I still wasn't ready. Finally, in the spring of 2023, Morgan was in a play where the cast and crew used their preferred pronouns. I saw the difference it made in Morgan to be referred to by these pronouns of choice. Morgan was more confident and radiated happiness. I decided then and there that if I had to choose between supporting the church's doctrine and loving my child, I'd choose to love my child. The church's treatment of LGBTQ+ individuals weighed heavily on my shelf, but even then, it wasn't quite ready to break.
2) Also in 2021, I heard a talk from a very nuanced member of the gospel speak about the covenant to "mourn with those who mourn and comfort those who stand in need of comfort." She spoke of how great Latter-Day Saints were at mourning with those who had lost a loved one or a job or were suffering from illnesses. The compassionate service commitee and the elder's quorum wouldn't hesitate to come to the rescue. However, when people leave the church, members aren't so compassionate. Instead of treating these, who have lost their faith, with love and compassion, Latter-Day Saints often ostracize them and don't seek to understand their pain. This good sister speaker encouraged the congregation to reach out to their exmormon friends in love and understanding.
This message really resonated with me. I had a bunch of family and friends who had left the church, and I realized I had never made an effort to understand why they had left. So I started asking them, out of genuine curiosity and concern, what caused them to leave. Every time I asked, I heard stories of pain and sorrow, and oftentimes they were surprised that I had asked at all. Mormons typically didn't do that sort of thing.
The way the church teaches its members to judge former members as "lazy learners" and "sinners" added additional weight to my shelf.
3) An extrodinarily heavy weight was added when I realized that I'd been abused my entire life by my mother. Her explosive rage and inability to ever apologize caught me off guard one day when I called her to say hello. As she yelled at me for having the audacity to call her when she was in a bad mood, I realized that I was never the problem as I'd been led to believe. I'd spent my entire life feeling as though I was responsible for her anger, and it dawned on me for the first time that it had never been my fault. I tried setting boundaries with her, letting her know that if she treated me that way, I'd have no choice but to leave. She yelled at me for calling her out on her behavior. I turned to my dad for support, but his response was, "That's just the way she is. You've got to forgive her. That's what the Lord would have you do." I was livid. My mom was a bully, and my dad was enabling her. Neither of my parents were willing to protect me, not as a grown woman, not as a child. Not ever.
Still desperately clinging to my belief that the church was true and that my parents had just misinterpreted things, I did a deep dive into the Gosepel Library. I searched everything I could find about what the prophets had taught about anger and abuse. Over the pulpit the teachings to abusers were great: "If you're an abuser, you're in the wrong and you need stop and you need to repent." Then I looked at what they had to say to the victims of abuse. It was always the same: "If you've been abused, you need to forgive your abuser. Forgive 70 x 7. Forgive your abusers or God's not going to forgive you." Some leaders went so far as to tell the victims to take responsibility for the abuse they received.
It was appalling.
No wonder my dad supported my abusive mother. The church had taught him to do just that. You'd think that I'd leave the church after learning this, but I didn't. Sister Kristen Yee gave a talk in October Conference of 2022 in which she spoke of the importance of boundaries. She taught that on the path to forgiveness, it's okay to take your time before you forgive, and it's okay to forgive someone and still not let them into your life to hurt you. I felt this was an answer to my prayers, and held onto hope that one day the Church would teach boundaries as often as they taught forgiveness. Even if they did make that kind of change, my shelf was irreparably cracked and it was only a matter of time before it would break completely.
4) In early 2023, my husband made the unilateral decision to take a job in Seattle. We were living in Utah County at the time, so this was to be a pretty big transition. His youngest was scheduled to graduate from high school that spring, but my Morgan still had two years of high school remaining. He didn't have any minors to worry about transplanting, but I did. Morgan didn't want to leave their dad and their friends behind to move to a new city where they wouldn't know anyone and would have to live with their mom and stepdad who were struggling to get along. I asked my husband if he'd consider waiting another two years until Morgan graduated, but he told me the Lord was telling him that this was what he needed to do. I was put in the impossible situation of having to choose between my husband and my child.
In hindsight, I know what the answer should have been: Morgan in a heartbeat. But I was still struggling with the guilt from having already failed one eternal marriage, and feeling as though I'd be damned if I didn't give this marriage everything I possibly could. When weighing my choices, I spoke with some LDS friends who encouraged me to follow my husband to Seattle. I only had two more years with Morgan, they reasoned, but had made a promise to spend all of eternity with my spouse. I spent Spring Break in Seattle to make an informed decision. I absolutely loved it there! I could see myself living in the PNW, and took that as an answer to prayer. I decided to follow my husband to support him in his job.
That meant I'd have to leave Morgan behind, because I wasn't about to force them to make a move they didn't want to make and resent me for it. I promised them we'd FaceTime every day and that we'd fly to visit each other as often as we could. We were going to make this work, but in my heart I was still devastated.
I quit my job and gave away 18 years of teaching supplies, figuring that if my husband could change careers, I could too. Teacher burnout is a real thing, and I was feeling it in full force. I was halfway through my master of arts education program, and figured I'd finish it up and use my degree to find a career as an education director at a children's museum or theater.
At the beginning of July, my husband went to his company's headquarters for two months of job training while I stayed behind to sell the house, complete the summer semester of grad school, then pack up and join him in Seattle after Labor Day. I wasn't particularly excited about starting this chapter of my life with him away from family and friends, but I really loved the Pacific Northwest, and I viewed this move as a Hail Mary pass to save our marriage.
My shelf was getting heavier by the day. I asked myself why my husband had the authority to decide when and where we moved. I questioned how on earth a loving God could put a mother in a position to have to choose between her husband and her only child. I was angered by the way the sacrifices I'd made in our marriage went unnoticed by both God and my husband. The weight of these concerns, along with everything else that preceeded them, cause my shelf to crack even more.
On my commute to school, I stumbled upon a podcast called Latter-Day Struggles. The objective of the hosts, it seemed, was to support Mormons in their faith struggles and help them to become more loving and nuanced members. That's what I wanted for myself, so I binged the podcast every day to and from school, and often for hours into the evening. I couldn't get enough. I felt seen and heard. I understood that I wasn't crazy or wicked for having questions and concerns about the church's policies and doctrines. My doubts were valid.
It was finals week for the semester in my master's program, but I didn't care. I couldn't focus on anything other than my faith unraveling before my eyes. I emailed my professors and told them I couldn't complete my final assignments and accepted the consequences in my grades. It was as though I was in a suspensful mystery, just moments before discovering whodunnit. The podcast gave me both the curiosity and the courage to read the forbidden anti-Mormon documents I'd heard about from some of my exmormon friends. I then spent three days doing little else but reading the Church's Gospel Topics Essays, A Letter to My Wife, and The CES Letter. I felt "the scales had fallen from my eyes." I could see clearly. It all made sense. Everything I had been taught about the church was utter bullshit, and I was finally free to wash the stench from me.
As soon as I finished reading the last of the CES Letter, I texted a couple of my exmormon friends: "I just learned the church isn't true. Let's get drunk!" My friends congratulated me for my discovery and planned a "coming out" party for me later that week. Through some exmormon Facebook groups I learned that a couple of our mutal friends had also left the church (they were both PIMO), and we invited them and a few others exmo friends to celebrate with is. These dear ladies taught me how to drink alcohol responsibly. They made sure I ate enough food, drank enough water, and paced myself between drinks. They listened to me as I told them everything that led to the breaking of my shelf. They shared their experiences. We supported one another. It was a beautiful lesson early on in my exit from the church: community was essential to survival. And I'd found my community.
The next day was the first day of the Sunstone Symposium in Salt Lake City. Another exmormon friend met me there and brought me my very first coffee. At the symposium, I was pleased to know I wasn't alone. Best of all was that Valerie Hamaker, the host of the Latter-Day Struggles podcast was presenting! I went to her workshop and stuck around afterward to talk to her. Up until that point, I hadn't shed a tear about my exit from the church, but when I went to meet her, the waterworks started flowing. I bawled to her how much she and her podcast meant to me, and I told her how grateful I was for the work she was doing. It made an incredible impact on my life. I felt liberated and happier than I had in years.
But I had other issues to iron out, the first being my miserable marriage. Once I realized Mormonism was a lie, I knew that there was nothing keeping me eternally sealed to my husband. I was no longer bound to him in both this life and the next. I could sever ties with him, and who'd give a fuck? But I didn't want to hurt him, so I called him the day after I had finished reading The CES Letter and let him know I was leaving the church for good. He was hurt and confused, bothered that I hadn't included him in this decision. I reminded him that I had kept nothing from him as I expressed my concerns with the doctrine during the previous few years, and that it was MY faith we were talking about, and he could believe whatever he chose to believe. I sent him links to the material I read, and he said he'd read them. We decided we'd talk about it again in a week.
On July 30, the week was up. It was a Sunday and that morning I decided to go to church one last time. I skipped sacrament meeting because I was completely done with that, but I was a nursery leader at the time and I really loved the kids I was called to serve. I wanted to go one last time for a little closure. In the months leading up to the loss of my faith, I didn't feel comfortable teaching the lessons. I didn't have a strong testimony in any of the things we were asked to indoctrinate the kids with, so my partner teacher taught the lessons and I was in charge of music and games. And every week was a blast. I'm grateful to have ended my time in the church in the very best of church callings.
Once the kids were picked up by their parents, I told my partner teacher I was leaving the church and that I'd never come back. She was kind and showed me love, but I could tell she was pained. I get it. I'd spent decades feeling the same kind of grief when I learned someone was leaving the church I "knew" to be true.
After nursery was my scheduled temple recommend interview. I decided to go. Once the member of the bishop and I got the small talk out of the way, he pulled out his phone to refer to the questions he'd be asking me. I told him, "I'm going to save us both some time and stop you right there. I came today to tell you that I can't answer any of the questions you're going to ask me in the way anyone would want for me to get a renewal. I also want you to know I'm leaving the church." And with that, I gave him my recommend. He was completely caught off guard, but I was radiating confidence, and he knew there was nothing he could say to have me change my mind. He took things in stride. He asked if there was anything the ward could do to help. I asked him if they'd still be willing to help me pack up and help with the move as we had just sold the house and needed to be out in a month. He said they would. I thanked him, shook his hand, and left the church building for the very last time. It felt amazing!
After church, I called my husband in Washington. I knew what was coming before he picked up, and I'm confident he did too. I asked him if he had had the chance to read from the links I had sent him and he said he had. He then said he didn't read anything he didn't already know, and that he still believed. I couldn't understand how, but I didn't argue with him. He asked me whether I thought we could make a mixed-faith marriage work. I told him no, I didn't. In order to make it work, we'd need a rock-solid foundation in our marriage, and we both knew that we didn't. We never did. We rushed into our marriage because we were horny and our bishops told us we needed get married quickly so we wouldn't sin. Had we waited any longer before we married, I'm convinced we would have saved ourselves ten years of wedded anything-but-bliss.
My husband then got defensive and told me he wouldn't pay me any alimony, and I told him he'd better. I'd quit my job for him. I couldn't get a new job teaching because it was the beginning of the school year, and I was up to my eyeballs deconstructing my faith, single-handedly packing up the house while he was out of state, and now needing to find a new place to live. I told him I deserved to be compensated. We agreed that I would get a large portion of the equity from the sale of the house. That still didn't solve my housing problem. My soon-to-be-ex-husband had an apartment ready to go in Seattle, but I had no job, no money, and no place to live. And I had a month to figure it all out before we were scheduled to be out of the house.
I spent the next couple of days reaching out to friends and family in my inner circle telling them about all of the changes. I needed them to know before I broke the news to everyone. And, as I was redeemed from the Cult of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, I was planning on breaking the news to EVERYONE!
That Thursday was my 45th birthday, and my gift to myself was to be fully authentic. I had a lot of changes going on in my life, and I wanted everyone to know, especially those who were coming to my birthday party scheduled that afternoon. So I wrote a Facebook post, announcing to everyone I knew that 1. I was no longer planning on going to Seattle with my husband as we had decided to divorce. 2. I was leaving the LDS church. (I needed them to know as I had no intention of pretending anymore.) 3. I needed a place to live and didn't have the money or time to even find an apartment. (I'd be getting the money from the sale of the house only days before I was scheduled to move out.) 4. I needed a job, so if they knew of anything, could they please let me know. I posted it that morning and got hundreds of likes and comments. Most of my Facebook friends, Mormon and non-Mormon, responded in love. A handful, including my parents, did not.
In response to that post, I had a never-Mo friend reach out to me and offer the basement of her family's home to me for a few months until I could get back up on my feet. We met for coffee to make arrangments and I was more grateful that I could adequately express. I had a place to live!
I spent the remainder of the month packing, cleaning, dejunking, holding yard sales, and deconstructing my faith. It was quite perfect timing to be ridding both my house and belief system of things I didn't need anymore, and some of those things and beliefs overlapped. I started a TikTok page during this time under the handle Midlife Exmo Momma. One of my first videos was of me burning my marriage license from the temple and the copy of The Family: A Proclamation to the World that accompanied it. As I knew I'd be consolidating my life into 10 x 10 storage unit while living in my friend's furnished basement, I felt free to get rid of more than just papers. I burned my temple clothes, my missionary journals and handbooks. I tossed my scriptures and every journal from my youth with pages filled with self-loathing. Too many of my entries were like the first part of 2 Nephi 4: "O wretched (wo)man that I am! Yea, my heart sorroweth because of my flesh; my soul grieveth because of mine iniquities." I had no room in either my heart or my storage unit for these things, so I didn't hesitate to toss these reminders of the lies I wanted to leave behind me.
Decluttering my home while decluttering my faith was both inspiring and symbolic. I was reminded of the KonMari Method, which I'd used before when dejunking my home. As I cleaned out my closet, I had to make decisons about what to keep, and what to give away. I would only keep those items that "sparked joy," and everything else would go to the yardsale or the thrift store.
I decided to do the same for my belief system. I spread out all of my beliefs before me to determine which ones sparked joy. The beliefs, or values I kept were those that were not unique to the Mormon church. I held tight to beliefs that virtues like kindness, compassion, service, love, laughter, hard work, gratitude, and honesty would make for a better life. However, the beliefs that were unique to the Mormon church,like Joseph Smith's divine role as prophet, polygamy, The Book of Mormon, celestial marriage, the priesthood, temple work, etc. etc. etc. could all go into the "give away" pile. No, not the "give away" pile. The "burn to ashes" pile, because these beliefs are going to do anyone any good.
By the end of August, I was finally done packing up. I scheduled my move the day before my husband would be arriving from Washington because I had no desire to see him, and I didn't want to make things awkward or confusing for the ward who was planning to help with the move that next day. I didn't want my things to end up in his truck or vice versa. It'd be better if I was gone before he arrived. I didn't want to inconvenience the ward twice, especially since I was moving on a weekday, so I hired a moving company to pack up my things and deliver them to my storage unit.
On the day of the move, I was all alone. My family wasn't talking to me since I'd publicized my departure from the church, and my friends in the ward either couldn't or wouldn't help. I spent the morning sobbing, not wanting to face this day alone. I made a TikTok video, just letting the feelings out, and a fellow exmormon saw it and messaged me, offering to come help. I gave her my address, and she came to the rescue. I felt loved by a complete stranger! Another angel was added to my new community. Another exmormon friend called while I was waiting for this new TikTok friend, and when she heard how upset I was, she took the day off of work, pulled her teenage son from school, and they came down to be with me. These incredible friends helped me finish cleaning the house and stayed by my side on one of the hardest days of my life. And they were members of my exmormon community.
I don't mean to throw any of my ward members under the bus. I'm sure they were genuinely busy. One friend told me she couldn't make it, but had pizza delivered to those who were helping. After work, my ministering sister and brother showed up and helped me put the things I was taking to my friend's place into my car. I'm beyond grateful for these good people who came to rescue me in my time of neeed.
I moved into the basement of my friend and spent several weeks recovering from a tremendously difficult month. I applied for jobs and substitute taught and continued deconstructing my faith through TikTok. In early December I secured a job teaching, and had the financial confidence to move into an apartment of my own. Morgan didn't love spending their time in the basement aparment because there was only one room and it wasn't our space. I got us an apartment that felt like home.
So I returned to teaching, even though I knew it wasn't I wanted to do. It felt wrong. I had left teaching behind, but I was returning to it anyway. When I left teaching and my marriage and my religion behind me, I did just as Marie Kondo suggests we do with our clothes that don't fit us anymore: put them in the "give away" pile. It does no good to hold on to pieces that are too tight or too lose or too whatever. If it doesn't fit you any more, it doesn't fit you anymore.
And so it was with teaching. After 18 years and a major midlife transition, my role as an educator didn't fit. In fact, it was painful trying to put it on again, so after only seven weeks of teaching, I quit. If there's anything that my midlife transition has taught me it's that no relationship and no career is worth my peace or my mental health. Gone are the days when I would "sacrifice my time, talents, and everything with which the Lord (or whoever or whatever else) has blessed me . . . even my own life, if necessary." I believe in boundaries now.
And so, here I am today. At the time of this post, I have a good idea of who I was, I'm beginning to better understand who I am, and I have a clear vision of who I want to be. I want to do all the things: I want to be a paid public speaker, an author, a podcaster, a life coach . . . I want to take the lessons I've learned from these crazy life experiences, and use them to help others. I want to support those who are going through transitions of any kind, especially leaving high-demand religions like Mormonism.
And so, as I embark on this new chapter of life, I do so with gratitute to have landed with a community that is supportive and relatable and does a hell of a good job at "mourning with those who mourn and comforting those who stand in need of comfort." Thank you.