Hi, I'm "Quiet Courage"
I was Mormon. I performed faith for decades out of fear. Now I'm focused on authenticity and integrity.
About me
My parents joined the church when I was a toddler. Throughout my childhood and teenage years, I dutifully participated in all the normal church activities, but something felt fundamentally different about my experience. While others seemed to naturally develop testimonies, I found myself questioning why that spiritual connection eluded me. The conditioning was strong—I blamed my "hard heartedness" rather than questioning whether the problem might lie elsewhere.
At eighteen, I moved in with my grandmother and stopped attending church for two years. The loneliness drove me to seek connection, leading me to enroll in a church class at a local community college—partly for free parking, partly hoping to make friends.
At twenty, while my peers were serving missions, I was enjoying this newfound social circle. My friends consistently encouraged me that serving a mission would strengthen my testimony. Despite not truly having one of my own, I decided to serve. I was called to New Zealand.
My first temple visit on May 23, 1984—just 24 hours before entering the MTC—was deeply unsettling. The cash registers at the entrance, the unexpected ceremonial clothing, the confusing ritual itself. The phrase "get thee behind me Satan" kept running through my mind during the ceremony. But I'd already quit my job, delayed college, and announced my mission. My parents had taken time off work to drive me to Utah. Too much was already in motion to voice my doubts.
The eighteen months that followed were the most difficult of my life. The rigid regimentation, the complete subordination of individual identity, the psychological toll—it was profound. More than three decades later, I still occasionally dream about my mission. When I returned home, the friends who had encouraged my mission largely disappeared from my life.
After my mission, I stopped attending church for six months. But when my future spouse and I became engaged in 1986, I made a promise: I wouldn't let her attend church alone. I kept that promise for decades, even though it slowly tore me apart inside. I was conditioned that no good Mormon woman would marry a man who doubted the church. I loved her and feared losing her if I wasn't active. So I embarked on a decades-long performance, trying to "fake it" until I could convince myself of truths I'd been told I should already know. The church had conditioned me to believe that "the church is true, I just need to figure it out for myself." Any deviation was positioned as my fault, not a failing of the organization.
On my shelf
On the Mormon Spectrum
# Why I left More stories of 'Why I left' the Mormon church
In the mid-1990s, I began researching church history online (the internet was relatively new at the time). I found an electronic copy of the Nauvoo Expositor and read it beginning to end. What struck me was that William Law and the other publishers still believed in the church as originally taught—they were raising concerns about Joseph Smith's secret practice of polygamy and his teaching about becoming gods.
I learned Joseph Smith publicly denied polygamy while privately being sealed to at least thirty-three women, some as young as fourteen. Emma was actually the twenty-first woman sealed to him. I began purchasing history books, particularly those not published by the church. I have a memory of reading "No Man Knows My History" in the church foyer during Sunday school—someone noticed the large picture of Joseph Smith on the cover and was happy I was reading about the prophet, unaware of the book's critical perspective.
I can pinpoint when my testimony shifted: reading a 1954 BYU address by Apostle Mark E. Peterson, who taught that Black people could enter the Celestial Kingdom but would serve as servants there. This statement was incompatible with principles of divine love and justice. It brought into focus all my unanswered questions about history, the temple, my mission, and now race.
When I tried sharing what I was learning with my spouse, our conversations became strained. Knowing what I could possibly lose by continuing down this path, I literally packed up all my books in boxes and stored them in the garage. I couldn't discard them, but I tried to set aside my doubts. The cultural messaging made me believe leaving would end my marriage and that my children would view me negatively.
For the next twenty years, I placed all my concerns on "the shelf." As my professional life evolved, I became increasingly focused on integrity, and each year made it harder to compartmentalize my doubts. I experienced two serious episodes of anxiety and depression during this period, primarily triggered by work stress, but I believe my hiding my feelings about the church played a role as well.
During the mid-2010s, a bishop called me in for a "casual conversation." He observed I wasn't fully engaged, and when I responded that I was a good person—treating my spouse well, raising wonderful children, conducting myself ethically—he said, "There's good, better, and best, and you should focus on being 'better' and 'best.'"
The path to "better" wasn't about character or how I treated others. It centered on institutional participation: temple attendance, tithing, increased activity, embracing callings. I asked myself: Is it ever enough? I had built a life I was proud of. Our children were becoming thoughtful young adults. I tried to live ethically, and people considered me kind and decent. Yet I felt I was being told I wasn't enough.
This realization was clarifying: I'm a good person. I don't need the Church to validate my worth or serve as the sole intermediary in my relationship with God. The system felt more focused on institutional loyalty than on personal spiritual development.
COVID-19 provided a socially acceptable reason to stop attending. Long before lockdowns ended, I had already decided I would not be returning. After stepping away, I discovered Mormon Stories and the Sunstone Mormon History Podcast. These resources helped me realize I wasn't alone—others had walked similar paths, struggled with the same questions, paid similar prices for seeking truth.
Looking back, I'm struck by how much fear shaped my adult life—fear of losing my spouse, my family, my community. The church's conditioning ran so deep that it took decades to find courage to live authentically. My TBM wife and I are navigating this transition together, and our relationship has grown through this journey.
I've learned that questions are essential, not dangerous. Doubt isn't something to be ashamed of but an expression of intellectual honesty.
The journey from conformity to authenticity isn't easy, but it has been liberating. I'm no longer trying to convince myself of beliefs that didn't resonate. I'm focusing on living with integrity, loving deeply, and pursuing truth courageously—wherever it leads.