Social Media & Election Anxiety

The last time I took a moment to sit down and write was two years ago. Two. Years. Ago. Since the time of my last post, I went back to college, completed an internship with AmeriCorps, finished my degree (University Studies with a minor in Sociology), and got a job at a public library. Seriously. Best job I've ever had, and I've been through many!

In the last two years, whenever I had something pressing on my mind, I would turn to Instagram stories to share. However, the week of the presidential election sent me in a spiral to the point where I needed to separate myself from social media. I logged out of all my apps and then deleted them for good measure. Hi, I'm Sarah, and I have no self control. I couldn't trust myself not to just log back in out of curiosity. So into the metaphorical trash bin they went. And you know what? I haven't missed them. In fact, I don't know why I didn't do this sooner.

Social media started out a great idea, a way to keep tabs on one another and see what's going on in each other's lives from making moves to getting married to checking off bucket list items. Somewhere along the way, these spaces became more and more toxic. Honestly, it started with the Top 8 feature on MySpace and went downhill from there, especially once social media became a tool for politics. In some ways it could be useful and informative. In others, people use the safety of their keyboards to say hateful things that they wouldn't otherwise be caught dead saying in real life.

It just gave me anxiety.

I had an anxiety attack at work the night after the election. It had been a long time since I'd experienced one, probably around the time of my last blog post actually. It started with the shakes. Then came the nausea. Last, but certainly not least, my heart rate picked up and I could not bring it down. I had one hour left in my shift and chose to suffer through it. I thought when I got to my car that it would subside. It didn't. Not until several hours later. I listened to "Science" by Niall Horan while I stood in the hot shower trying to calm my racing heart.

Can you feel what's beneath?

Is it stone-cold under your feet?

Are you numb? Can you touch?

Is the silence a little too much?

And all you wanna do is break out

So when you feel there's nothing left

Oh, there's still a heart beatin' in your chest

And when you're runnin' from the flood

Oh, you've got nowhere left to run

It's just science

Don't let it break you down

I didn't realize that election results could impact my mental health so much. I was not okay. Many of the people I follow on socials felt the same way as me, but as with any other reason for existing in an echo chamber, it wouldn't prove useful in addressing my mental health by remaining on socials and seeing depressing, anxiety-filled posts day in and day out, even though I felt the same way. That doesn't mean I'm not still worried, but I'm not letting that worry consume me. I am still finding ways to stay informed and prepare myself to act once the new administration makes its way to Washington.

This isn't to say I'll never use Facebook, Instagram, or Threads again. But this week away has certainly taught me that moderation is critical in the fight for my own well-being. For the time being, I'm going to see how long I can stay away and see how much better I am for it.

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Heard

The Instagram algorithm constantly shows me artfully designed posts portraying the journey of healing and grief, how it is not linear. I saw one the other day that had a feminine figure traveling along the line of a rhythmic heart beat. There were several upward angles, then there were a few big dips, some short flat lines that would characterize what it is like to live with grief. It's a friend I've welcomed. I initially resented grief because of the pain that inevitably rears its head, but if there is anything I have learned in the past five years traveling this tumultuous road, it is that grief and its accompanying anguish and sorrow is proof that I have loved deeply. That to love is the greatest risk in life.

I have often talked about the grief of losing my brother to suicide, the instant and agonizing heartbreak I felt when I got that phone call and every month that followed the despair I felt watching his casket lowered into his final resting place.

Grief is often felt when there is loss. Generally, it is associated with the death of a loved one. But grief is more broad than that. There are no limits to grief. When there is love in a relationship, for a community, a career path, a home, grief settles in on the sidelines, waiting for the moment something comes to an end. You break up with your significant other. You leave a beloved community. The career in which you once found much satisfaction just hasn't been enough for you lately, so you quit. You are forced to reckon with a decision to leave your home and start over somewhere new, possibly foreign and unknown. Grief makes its move.

So it was when I had a moment of reckoning with the church and realized my heart wasn't in it anymore. I couldn't get it to beat to the same rhythm no matter how hard I tried. I have been through all the stages of grief in my faith journey: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. The funny thing about grief is that there really isn't a destination. One cannot simply go through each stage, wrap their grief up in a tidy little bow, and be finished. It's an endless road comprised of twists and turns, the scenery fields of wildflowers, muddy puddles, rocky terrain, deep trenches. You could be in the most beautiful setting, but while you're not looking, you stumble into a ditch.

I have come so far in my faith journey through setting boundaries, maintaining relationships with people who remain in the church, feeling more at peace and less in constant anger. But no matter how well I'm doing, there are still moments where I find myself in the anger stage. Grief is not linear.

I believe the question people wonder to themselves isn't necessarily why I feel anger, but instead, why I choose to express my anger when I feel it? Is my intention to harm members of the church? Why can't I just keep it to myself?

This answer is easy. Bottling up my feelings makes me feel worse. When I feel worse, I'm bound to explode. When I acknowledge my anger about something I heard or saw about the institution I once found myself in love with my whole heart, I write. I have to write. I have to share. I want people to know why I hurt. I want people to know why I ache.

Why I rage,

Why I cry,

Why I shake.

Because when we feel we are acknowledged, seen, and heard, we can continue to make strides in our healing. The raging sort of anger begins to subside and transforms into the righteous kind. We feel less inclined to find reasons to be angry with the church day in and day out and instead feel anger when necessary, when we feel called to protect someone, to defend them.

General Conference weekend was hard. I tried my very hardest to keep myself in the dark about what was said, to allow members to relish the peace I know was felt during many of the addresses. But the moment I saw active, Queer Latter-day Saints reeling from some hurtful things shared over the pulpit, my heart ached. It continues to ache. When my heart aches, I speak. I speak because words carry power to connect, to inspire, to heal, to change. I cannot speak for everyone in the ex-Mormon community, but I know that many of us do not have the intention to destroy the church, but rather to improve it so that everyone can truly thrive.

Because when you've loved something so fiercely...deep down, all you want it the best for it. That's what I want. I feel anger, sorrow, hurt, sometimes even laughter at things I used to do, because the church used to be the biggest part of my life. I loved it. I found community with the people in it. When my brother died, my life changed. I changed. Things that didn't matter before began to matter to me. I began to see people for who they are and not for who they should be in order to be accepted. I was told to be careful, that I was heading down a dangerous path.

Eventually, it became too much for me to stay when the church I loved didn't seem to love me back. I felt othered. Walking away allowed me to question the things I had stashed away. Had there been more people in my corner, ready to hear me, ready to stand with me instead of change me and demand I be a certain way if I considered myself a members of the church, perhaps my entire belief system would never have imploded. Two years later, I find myself comfortable with the unknown and all the possibilities it has to offer.

While I am thankful for where I am now, I still grieve my life in the church. I grieve my community. I grieve believing I had the absolute truth. I grieve the relationships I lost because of the path on which I've found myself. I grieve the lens through which I saw the leaders I loved. If I were offered the opportunity to unsee what I have seen, I would be tempted to snag it.

That grief I feel leads me to speak when the heat has them bubbling. It's a different kind of fire in my bosom, but it burns nonetheless. We all have something we want to say. Imagine what kind of relationship we could foster between members and former members if we could open our ears to hear, and our hearts to truly listen.

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Possibilities

My mind been filled with fields of wild thoughts today. It could certainly just be my ADHD ping-ponging from one subject to another in this constantly whirring brain of mine. The thoughts, regardless of cause, are wild, and as frustrating as I find that I just cannot reach a definitive conclusion for the questions I have about the world around me, I also find beauty in it. Curiosity is something I want to live and breathe. It helps me understand the people who are different than me. Curiosity invites me to learn and develop as a human. It fosters empathy and creates room for growth. It causes me to ask questions, sit in discomfort, consider different perspectives, either form my own opinion or choose the option of accepting the unknown.

The hardest part about the journey I have been on in my twenty-seven years of living has been coming to the belief that the unknown is not as scary as I have made it out to be. Where I used to deal exclusively in absolutes, I now marvel at the maybes. Possibility is one of my favorite words. It confidently rests in the gray, extending an arm of invitation to see what could be rather than what is. The word is inextricably tied to hope, to faith, to desire.

In a world where we are of many different belief systems, how beautiful would it be if we turned away from words like confusion, lost, wrong to define what we see and instead consider life as the galaxy in its vastness, stars innumerable. The possibilities of what lay in wait outside our atmosphere are endless. Depending on one's perspective, it might be terrifying, or it might be mesmerizing.

I have thought a lot about the words we use to describe our individual outlooks. In newspaper articles, we can detect how the writer might feel about a subject based on the words used in a simple headline. As writers, we choose our words carefully in an effort to establish a certain tone, to spark a particular feeling.

Here, I choose words like marvel, curiosity, and possibility to make room for hope and comfort. Because in a world where there is so much frustration, harm, and hatred, we need words that elicit hope for a better tomorrow. Words that won't make us shrink in anxiety that our world is going to hell in a handbasket. Because it isn't. Our world is beautiful, if only we allow ourselves to look at the bits and pieces of it that truly are.

I firmly believe it is important to look the bad in the eye. It is important to stand up when we see someone being harmed by another. We need to name it for what it is. Hate. It is important to stand up to hate in all of its forms. Admittedly, I have found myself in the internal cross-hairs of my advocacy for the marginalized. I have asked the question of Christians, "Didn't Jesus say, 'Judge not, lest ye be judged?'" and in turn placed definitive judgment on those same people with words I attached to their existence rather than their actions. If there is anything I struggle with more than anything, it is the way we love and care for only a fraction of the world--those who think like we do politically, religiously, socially, etc.

Words carry power. They can be a force for love and hope or a weapon for hate and despair. As my wild thoughts took root early this morning, I pondered what my life--what the world--would be like if we could see the potential for good in each person, hold them accountable when necessary, and help them along in this journey for which our destination is unknown.

The only thing we know for certain is that you and I are here, living and breathing in the same moment. Our spirits naturally yearn for human connection. Somewhere along the way, that tie has been tangled, the connection not lost, but limited. I hope one day we can again find our way back to each other and open our minds and hearts to the one thing that brings us all together:

Our humanity.

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Not This Fruit

 My mind has been whirling with thoughts about my faith journey that I haven't been able to form them into cohesive sentences about one subject in particular. But today, I watched a video of a woman who extended her heart to those watching about how it pains her to see horrible comments made by church members about marginalized people who are just trying to find room at the table. The very people for whom Jesus would have been fighting to save a seat.

The video sent me back to last year when BYU changed its honor code policy surrounding gay and lesbian relationships, sparking joy and celebration from the LGBTQ+ community on campus. I scrolled through Facebook that day stopping on an article from Deseret News. The report itself wasn't hateful, but I'd made the mistake of letting my eyes linger on the comment section. I couldn't believe what I was reading. It was as if the keyboard warriors forgot that people exist behind the label. Worse than that, they utterly disregarded the gospel of Jesus Christ, the very name they took upon themselves when they were baptized, a name they weaponized to justify their bigotry. After all, didn't Jesus tell the sinners to go and sin no more? Only, that was Jesus, the lone man who claimed to be even remotely capable of keeping hypocrisy at bay because he was supposedly, divinely perfect.

I remember sifting through the hate wondering how I could reconcile staying in a church I wasn't even sure held the absolute truth when this rhetoric was literally hurting people through violence and even suicide. I could continue to put a band-aid over my doubts about Deity and continue to foster community within the church, but knowing the people who sat next to me in the Relief Society room felt this way about other human beings made me feel physically ill. Community wasn't worth it for the fruit that came of it: hypocrisy and hate.

Anyone who tells their family that they can't stomach being active in a church that makes members feel comfortable reciting words of a document to people who live differently will likely be met with the sentiment: "The church is perfect. The people are not."

If only that were true.

When someone says this, they treat the subject as if there's this chasm between gospel and culture. But the two are undoubtedly connected. The culture is the fruit of the church. There is a reason members believe and say certain things because they were taught it from the pulpit. The bigotry we see on social media from devout members who faithfully attend the temple every month, pay a full tithe, sign up to feed the missionaries religiously is the fruit of a church that says evil is running rampant throughout the world and it's up to the righteous to shine their light, only it's far from pure. There are particles of judgment floating aimlessly in their path. Judgment wholly justified by what leaders have taught them.

I know what it's like. I was there. I would shine my light against bigotry and then turn around and sneer at the person who just got a new tattoo or posed with a cup of coffee in their hand while showing their shoulders on Instagram when I knew they were endowed and were meant to be wearing garments. But they were apostatizing. I was within my right as a righteous member of God's chosen church to be worried for their salvation. Fruit of the church.

I considered leaving, but I wasn't sure if I should. I was still holding on to that sense of self. This was my whole life. I toyed with the idea of maybe paying my tithes not to the church but to other charities since the church would get involved in things I wholeheartedly denounce. I thought about never going to church and only doing Come, Follow Me. Only, that solidified in me what I didn't believe for myself.

It got to be unbearable, the hypocrisy within myself and which other members exuded. I realized it wasn't worth it to continue faking my belief in deity to be this person: one who fights for one group who just wants to live their truth while sentencing another to a cage when all they want to do is live their truth. It just didn't make sense, and it wasn't healthy for me to continue living that way. It certainly wasn't fair for the people I was judging (and secretly jealous of if we're being honest). It was time to find a new path, a rockier, harder one. But the one worth the heartache.

It was time to leave The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. So I did.

I don't wish ill will on the church. I really don't. In fact, I hope it changes. I hope that one day, there will be leaders high in the ranks that will shift the culture of the church to be one of true, unconditional love, one that will welcome every single person and family with open arms, lacking in checklist items to be met in order to find full fellowship and charity within their walls. While I do not believe in the divine foundation of the church, I do believe in love, and I hope one day the church will find it to extend to others.

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God is Love & Love is God

My identity has taken a huge shift in recent months. I vocalized my standing with the church and made a very conscious decision to disassociate myself and my family from it. For being taught that leaving is the easy way out, I sure have been having a different experience. It has been anything but. I am wandering as I reconstruct and redefine my spirituality. That's okay. Some beautiful things can be found when we take a moment to look around us, discover the new, and revel in the grandeur life has to offer. I am looking for the right place to land.

I was on Instagram the other day when I came across an IGTV video by Morgan Harper Nichols. The post invited me to screenshot the video at any time to claim my word for the year. I stumbled upon the perfect word for myself.

Within (noun): an inner place

As I have grappled with the idea of Deity as I have known it throughout my life, this word could not have come at a more perfect time of reflection. I have been waist-deep in considering what makes a person spiritual. Is there an all-knowing God? Do I subscribe to the notion that Jesus saves?

Well, yes. 

...and no.

I think it's complicated, and I have yet to learn more about the origin of religion as I have known it. I'm leaning more towards the idea that I have the Divine within me. I am Divine.

This may sound weird (and frankly big-headed), but hear me out.

We are made of the stuff of eternity, the universe, of matter that can neither be created nor destroyed. Yes, one day we will be given back to the earth, and that gives rise to the idea that we are worth nothing, and because we are worth nothing, we must cater our lives to something Greater.

What is that Something? My answer is Love, and the capacity to give it freely and feel it deeply lives within all of us. For me, I don't need a personified mediator to extend compassion and empathy to others. I don't need a list of rules set in literal stone or plates of gold to know what is right, wrong, good, bad, beautiful, or ugly in the world because I can feel it all within me.

So that's where I am with God, Deity, the Greater Than I. Where do I stand with Jesus? Where can I turn for peace? Where is my solace?

I turn to love, to kindness. The two things Jesus himself advocated for during his ministry. I absolutely subscribe to the notion that love always wins, and that Jesus was a beautiful teacher who taught that I should learn to reconcile my experiences with my inner self. Of course, he always talked about God rather than the self, so naturally, I have some thoughts.

My absolute favorite scripture in all of the New Testament is Romans 8: 38-39.

"For I am persuaded, that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, Nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God."

This scripture has ruminated in my mind for several weeks as I have contemplated where my beliefs lay in the grand scheme of things. As I expressed previously, I believe that the idea of God is, in essence, Love.

But if nothing can separate me from Love, then that must mean that Love lives within me. There's that word again: within. Love goes everywhere I go. Love sees everything I see. Just as with the idea of a literal, physical God, anyone can choose whether to invite Them into their everyday conversations and experiences. Same with Love.

I am not perfect. Boy, do I know I am not perfect. But if there is anything I have learned about myself through this journey of healing, self-discovery, and transitioning my faith it's that I have this innate need to love people. That desire comes from within because it's from within that an immense power to change the world resides.

Victor Hugo famously said, "To love another person is to see the face of God." I get chills every single time I hear it because it is a universal truth that Love is greater than all of us. It transcends time and space. It is a power we all possess to see the good, to be the good.

We are not helpless creatures walking this earth in a vain attempt to walk golden hallways in Some Faraway Palace in the clouds. If we are individual powerhouses of Love, imagine what a world full of people who recognize they have the same power within them would be like.

Hate would be gone. Wars would end. Compassion would reign.

Maybe it's wishful thinking that any of these things could happen, but as I see more and more people advocate on their social media platforms, sounding a call for more understanding, listening, and learning, maybe we really could change the world just as hoped for through a second coming of a savior.

We have the capacity within us to save humanity if only we allow ourselves to fall into our humanness and love simply, with no conditions, readily willing to sacrifice our comfort for the pains of another to vanish. We can be one. We can be whole.

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We Were Made to Speak

The few of you who follow my blog know writing is a big coping mechanism for me. It allows me to unleash the fire that burns within me when something is on my mind. A lot of the time, I feel the need to share, to be validated, to generate heartfelt discussion, to offer a different perspective.

Don't get me wrong, that doesn't always happen. Sometimes my posts are misinterpreted. Sometimes they just don't resonate with people. I'm a writer, sure. I'm not a perfect one though. Some thoughts are well-received while others get buried in the sand. That's totally fine. Even though I know not every post will be a winner or the popular opinion, I still write because I need to give freedom to my thoughts. So I put pen to paper or....fingers to keys?

I publicly announced my departure from the LDS church a couple weeks ago. That was so hard, and as much as some people believe I was seeking attention, I didn't want to do it. I told the people who needed to be told and went on with my life chock full of pull-ups and messes. I knew people would talk about me behind my back, and honestly, I didn't really pay any mind to it because it wasn't directly affecting me.

Until it did.

See, gossip fuels certain feelings within us, so we feel the need to address that with the person at the heart of the gossip. This time it was me. I started getting some unsolicited messages that meant well, but deep down I had this pit in my stomach, this crippling anxiety just eating away at the very core of who I am: a thinker, a feeler. I was hurting that somebody felt they could simply remind me of something I had never forgotten, sending messages like "Happy General Conference Day!" when they knew I was disaffected from the church at the time.

I had let that go. I tried to just live my life the best I saw fit without the intention of ever coming out of the spiritual closet. I thought the gossip would stick to a small circle, but just as a wildfire does when left unaddressed, it spread.

That hurt too. Spirituality is such a personal thing; it's an experience that doesn't need to be shared with everyone. When someone divulged something I feel is so deeply personal in my own life to others, it pained me. It was painful to get more messages from people under the guise of following the spirit when I know there was talk. It was even more painful to have assumptions made about why I had left.

It had to be politics. It had to be the desire to do things contrary to church rules. It had to be that someone said something offensive. It had to be this, this, this.

Nobody asked. They just threw assumption after assumption in my face.

"Where do you get your information?" when I had said nothing about history. "Politics hardly ever bring the spirit" when I had said nothing about my political views regarding my faith.

What's sadder? I knew it was coming. I knew because I did this to others. I sent texts telling people not to jump ship, to think about what they are doing and what they are giving up, to consider the eternities. I might even go so far as to say I deserved all this.

But it still hurt. It caused me more anguish thinking of all the people who believe I am now someone to be fixed, saved, changed, altered. I am different to them. My identity has shattered not only as it pertains to the church but also people.

The consideration one makes to leave the church is not taken lightly. It rips them right open. It is disruptive and destructive, not because the person still believes what they were taught is true, but because who they are has so often been associated with being a Latter-day Saint. When that is ripped away, so is their identity.

There is this false idea in the culture of church that leaving is more convenient, that staying is harder, but it simply isn't true. For me, leaving was harder. Acknowledging my doubts was harder. Knowing that I once believed and decided to walk away was harder. Telling my family was harder. Hearing them cry was harder. Getting text message after text message was harder. Feeling like a project was harder, and it still remains that way.

Leaving is not easy, and I would never romanticize it as such.

The pain I already feel in addition to countless others who have chosen this road is exacerbated when someone says we should just go quietly. No need to announce it.

Sure, there isn't a guideline that I needed to post on social media, but it wasn't for them. It was for me. I felt I needed to share so I could put all the conversations about me behind me and make room for another chapter.

It isn't fair to expect a person to harbor any secret as it pertains to church or any other facet of life. When someone tells you to just keep it to yourself, more problems arise than are spared.

We weren't built to keep things in. We were made to speak.

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A Cry for Compassion

Note: This post is about suicide loss, suicidal ideation while pregnant, postpartum depression, and my views on abortion. If you are experiencing suicidal thoughts, please call the Suicide Hotline. 1-800-273-8255.

Had someone asked me five years ago whether terminating a pregnancy was murder, I probably would have nodded vigorously, casting no doubt that abortion was wrong. There was no gray area. God had a plan, and abortion wasn't part of it.

But my life has changed drastically since then. I lost my brother to suicide. I fell into the pits of grief, despair ruling my world, darkness overcoming my body, my life, my marriage.

Of course, it wasn't always bad.

Even in grief, I could find little pockets of joy. I even became pregnant just two months after Christian died. I was elated thinking this was a gift from God, maybe even a little blessing from my brother telling me how sorry he was for leaving. I treated my pregnancy like any other overjoyed mother-to-be would. I raced to make my first obstetrician appointment. I immediately told my parents, my friends without a second thought. I smiled. I cried. I expected everything to be perfect, even in the midst of grief from putting my little brother in the ground at the age of fifteen.

I wasn't okay.

Something they don't tell you is that pregnancy and grief don't mix well. With hormones raging and anger looming, a woman's thoughts turn sinister. I felt immense guilt about my brother dying. It was bad enough that I couldn't do anything to save him. Why should I be able to experience the gift of life? How could I be a good mother if I couldn't even pay attention enough to recognize the signs that he was hurting?

The intrusive thoughts came violently. I wanted to die. I should die. But then I would be labeled a murderer for killing my baby. No one would pay attention to me if I died. They would merely label me a baby killer, giving no thought to my mental state, that maybe I shouldn't have been pregnant at all. Of course, the shame set in, and that only made matters worse. I didn't deserve to live, to be a mom. How could I when this is how I thought?

Only...it wasn't me.

But how could I tell these things to my obstetrician when I had read horror story after horror story of women who had been arrested for opening up and asking for help. There was no way I would risk having my baby ripped away from me. I just had to survive.

Miraculously, I did.

I had a beautiful baby girl, a beautiful birth. I was going to be okay. Gone were the days of suicidal ideation while pregnant, of being scared that I might actually hurt myself. I forgot all about it as I stared into my darling little girl's eyes.

Until I fell pregnant again just four months later.

At first, I found it amusing. It was going to be an interesting ride. But ultimately, we would be okay. Right?

Wrong.

I had a hard pregnancy. It was painful just like the first one. My grief from losing Christian wasn't as fresh, but it still lingered in the background ready to pounce at any given moment. It did. Many times. Top that with pregnancy pains, a husband with a brand new job that kept him from home longer than expected, and the frustrations of being a new mother, and you've got yourself a recipe for prenatal depression.

Despite the intrusive thoughts and suicidal ideation returning and the shame nestling into the core of my soul, I made it. Again.

On the day before my scheduled induction, I tripped and fell while walking to my car. Right on my stomach. I froze. I couldn't answer the EMTs when they got to me.

They took me to the hospital--but not the one my OBGYN had scheduled me to have my son.

Because I was only 38 weeks despite having excess amniotic fluid which was the reason for my induction, the doctor on call for L&D refused to induce me right there. It was fine. She waited to see if I would dilate to a four and would then admit me to have the baby. She said she would break my water once I reached six centimeters to help me along, but per the hospital rules, she couldn't help me until that point.

She lied. She never came to see me until the very end. The point where I had been writhing in agony for upwards of five hours from a failed epidural, and intense pressure that told me I needed to push. Five. Hours. I was screaming. The nurse told me to be quiet, that I just needed to breathe. I tried to no avail. I asked for the OB. She said she was busy. I needed to push. She wouldn't let me. She said my body wasn't ready. But I knew it was.

I tried to advocate for myself. I pressed and pressed to have her break my water. It still hadn't broken, even at nine centimeters.

I don't remember what choice words I used in my delirium from the pain when the OB finally graced us with her presence, but I finally convinced the woman to break my water. Isaac came twenty minutes later. With a bump on his head from sitting in the birth canal for too long. I knew my body. I had known all along.

The birth experience alone gave me PTSD that lasts till this day, but my postpartum period was far scarier than anything I had experienced while pregnant mental health wise.

I won't go into detail for the safety of myself and my readers, but my experiences through pregnancy, birth, and beyond are the reasons why I and my husband have decided I will not be going through another pregnancy.

For the sake of my children and marriage, more babies are not in the cards for me or my family. The quality of life I want to provide for my kids supersedes any societal pressure to have more mouths to feed and bodies to clothe.

As soon as I was able, I met with my gynecologist and started on the pill. I was good for almost two years, but my mom brain took control, causing me to forget the pill more often. This obviously wasn't acceptable due to our family plan, so I recently switched to an IUD for more security.

But the PTSD and anxiety over the potential to get pregnant is still there. I am still traumatized by the grueling pregnancies I suffered despite the beautiful humans that emerged on the other side. I am still terrified, even two years later, of getting pregnant again. So much in fact that I rarely ever want to be touched. After all, birth control isn't one-hundred percent effective. But I'm a married woman who deserves to have a beautiful sex life, who shouldn't be subjected to the idea of celibacy in my monogamous partnership.

Why don't I just get a hysterectomy? Get my tubes tied? Or even removed?

Women's bodies are regulated every which way in America from birth control to tubal ligation to abortion. As a twenty-six-year-old woman who has only had two pregnancies and two children, it would be borderline impossible to find a doctor to perform any lasting surgeries on me. Most doctors and insurances require a woman to either be 35 or have had three or more pregnancies before they would even consider putting a woman under to give them permanent birth control.

Should my IUD fail and I fall pregnant, I would likely get an abortion.

Why?

Because at the end of the day, my children deserve a mother who is mentally fit, alive even, to be there for them. To hold them. To comfort them. To love them.

How would it be fair for my children to lose their mother because some random person who has never spoken to her thought she shouldn't be allowed to get an abortion? That somehow putting her own  mental health and her children's quality of life above a pregnancy is grounds to be labeled a baby killer?

Words hurt. They cut like knives.

These faceless women being cast aside for terminating their pregnancies were handed an impossible choice. More often than not, a woman doesn't want to get an abortion. It's the last resort. But many have only allowed ignorant judgment to reign.

Choice isn't about loving or promoting abortion. It's simply allowing a woman full autonomy over her body, knowing what is right for her and the circumstances in which she finds herself.

I have never had an abortion, nor do I ever hope to be faced with a decision to have one performed. But I do hope that my story can shed some light on the matter, and maybe open up someone's heart to be filled with compassion for the impossible, painful lived experiences of women who have ever considered or had an abortion.

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A New Path

My faith has been slowly melting away since the day my brother was ripped from this life, a victim of depression's ravenous hunger. It isn't my faith in God that has been the problem--not entirely, at least. As people, we have given churches the power to dictate how we should feel, what we should believe. If we don't? An existential crisis settles into the limelight. It has nowhere to go, but only waits to be noticed. It's inevitable. After all, the only light on stage rests on unanswered questions, anger, frustration, grief, pain. One can only stare off into the void for so long before they must acknowledge what is glaringly obvious.

My whole life I've been told to put any questions I have on the shelf. You don't question. Ever. But if you do, those questions are only to be doubted, for they can never be explored and understood. Although, mine must have been provided by Ikea because it is incredibly rickety. When all those questions and doubts are messily stacked onto a cheap piece of material, it's bound to crumble.

I have tried for the last four years to be the person I was before my brother died--the spiritual giant returned missionary. But I can't. I can't accept the things I accepted before. I'm different. I think differently. I feel differently. I trust differently. I fear differently.

...and I feel wrong for it. But why should I when I have felt a more immense love for my neighbor? When I allow somebody the dignity to follow their own path? When I try to be a good person? When I consider that perhaps God would rather His child live happily outside the church than to yield to the mentally debilitating pressures mounting inside of it?

Yet, I feel wrong for asking questions--the same questions my brother asked before he died. I feel shame for wondering why my family is held spiritually hostage as a means to make me conform to a culture and theology I don't agree with. That same shame is found in my support for LGBTQ+ people and their love for any person. It's found in the disgust I feel when I look in the mirror while I'm wearing garments--not because of what they mean, but rather how I feel about myself. The shame accompanied with membership in the church is very real, and it's almost always served with a heaping side of mental illness.

[enter anxiety and depression, stage left]

The depression I have felt over the last few years has been immense, and its onset has ranged from my subsequent grief to years of suppressed questions to frustration with feeling something so far from the spirit when I hear what are supposed to be God's divinely appointed servants speak about things close to my heart.

I have thought much about my children and the way I want to raise them alongside my husband. I have heavily considered the ramifications of stepping away from the church and living more freely devoid of callings, assignments, expectations, and rules.

A few words my little brother said a few weeks before he died as he heard me judging another person who had left the church were these:

"Why does it matter?"

As I sit here typing these words, my heart is broken, my eyes are wet, and my soul is pained by the judgment I have previously passed on others for the way they chose to live. For some reason, I thought it was my place to think less of a person because I had the truth, and they were somehow lost. I would send conference talks, quotes, past posts they had made in an effort to get them to see what they were turning away from.

Ironically, and perhaps fatefully, I find myself in the same position: aching, yearning for the shame, depression, and anxiety to fall away so I can live my truth free from the painstaking judgment of others on the basis of a religion that taught to refrain from judging, to love God, and to love their neighbor.

As a mother, knowing what I have felt, knowing what my brother felt before he died, and knowing that my children will likely suffer from mental illness even without the church and its teachings, I just cannot subject them to the same shame I felt, that my husband felt as we were growing up, and especially what we are feeling now.

The pandemic has opened my eyes as I have seen Christian after Christian disavow peer-reviewed studies, claiming they will not live in fear, and yet, religion is just that--living in fear that if they don't live up to a certain expectation, they will be burned at the last day, thrust down to hell, ripped from their families.

If the Celestial kingdom is indeed a reality, and I could become a goddess, my husband a god, but the stipulation is that we have to turn the other way while our children take their lives, murderers and rapists run free, and I have to condemn those who love a person of the same gender, I don't want it. Any of it.

So the verdict has been given. I am forging a new path for me and my family, one out of necessity to mine and my family's mental health, conscience, and spirit.

I sincerely hope those who know me personally will continue to love me and refrain from silent and subtle, even loud judgments. For everyone is on their own journey.

This is mine.

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But, but, but...

It has been a hot, hot, hot minute since I've written anything on this blog. Since my last post, life has just taken off. We have two toddlers. Corey got promoted. I started a new Instagram dedicated to books. Charlotte started speech therapy. We moved to Utah. I'm going back to school. We bought a house. Coronavirus turned the world upside down, and we're still navigating this new normal. It's been quite the journey.

But you know what else has changed since my last post over a year and a half ago? My heart. My opinions. The way I see others and the way they live their lives.

There's a common phrase used in the Christian culture:

Love the sinner. Hate the sin.

Let me tell you why this phrase is rather toxic and frankly fosters erasure.

Last month alone was a whirlwind of movements for change. We experienced the height of the Black Lives Matter movement, fighting for an end to systemic racism and police brutality, and the month of June is Pride to celebrate and advocate for the LGBTQ+ community.

Sidenote: It's been five years since the Supreme Court ruling that made gay marriage legal in all fifty states, and just last week, the Supreme Court of the United States ruled that an employer cannot discriminate against an employee based on their sexual orientation or gender identity.

Corey and I started a new nightly ritual last month where we have watched one episode of Queer Eye each evening after the kids go to bed. Let me tell you. That show has me in tears by the end of nearly every episode. We have both fallen in love with Karamo, Tan, Jonathan, Bobbi, and Antoni. Each of these queer men have had unique experiences, exhibit love and compassion to the people they serve on this show, and have honestly helped us see a whole different side to the people who identify as LGBTQ+.

Because they're just that. People.

Ever since Christian died, my opinions and biases have gradually shifted. There's something about losing someone you loved so dearly to suicide, knowing they were hurting in such a way that they made a choice to take their own life. It changes you. It makes you understand that validation is a crucial component of being a compassionate, loving, Christlike human.

You're probably wondering, 'Okay, Sarah. I'm sorry for your loss. It's sad but wonderful that you have made something of your brother's death, buuuuut what does any of this have to do with this phrase: Love the sinner. Hate the sin?'

I'm getting to that. I promise.

The very first words in the introductory lesson full-time missionaries from the LDS faith teach their investigators are: "God is our Heavenly Father. We are his children."

As His children, we are commanded to love our neighbor. We cannot truly and fully love someone by condemning, by hating a part of who they are. It just isn't possible. If every time you meet up with your gay friend and think, "I love him so much, but gosh, I just wish he weren't in a relationship with another man. Can't he just learn to live happily and confidently alone?"

There are no I love you buts in following the second greatest commandment the Savior Himself extended to us when He gave the higher law. When the Law of Moses was essentially thrown out and replaced, the nitty-gritty specifics of discipleship went right with it. This higher law is what I like to call the heart law. What matters most in how we live our lives, walking in the footsteps of the Savior is not only how we treat one another, but how we think of one another.

We are all sinners. No one is perfect. Everyone is fallible. You make mistakes. I make mistakes. In the words of Jean from The Perfect Man, "I make whoppers." Because of my status as a sinner, I would be a hypocrite to say, 'Well, I love you, but I hate xyz about you.'

We just cannot foster a community of love based on but, but, but. If you are loving your neighbor, whether you are a Democrat, Republican, LGBTQ+ and in a relationship, single parent by choice, supporting various movements for change, believe in women's reproductive rights, have given up a child, have an addiction...

I could go on and on and on. But if you are loving your neighbor in a way that does them no harm by showing genuine care and compassion, you are loving God. It's that simple.

Next time you read a news story about or meet someone who is different than you, put yourself in the Savior's shoes. He atoned for everybody, but let us remember that the Atonement of Jesus Christ was not only for sins. It was for all the pains, the hurt, the discomforts, the sicknesses we will ever face in our lifetimes.

Imagine the pains of a transgender person being intentionally misgendered on a daily basis because their identity is invalid and "crazy".

Imagine the hurt of a lesbian woman announcing she is in a relationship with another woman, and instead of support, she is met with malice, ridicule, and Bible verses.

Imagine the discomfort of a Black man every time he is stopped by a police officer, feeling an aching anxiety that there is a chance he might not go home to his family.

Imagine the sickness, or rather, the mental toll of a person being invalidated because their life, their love, their belief is wrong, apostate, sinful, disgusting.

Look inward. Are you contributing to those feelings that Christ suffered for without cost to anybody but Himself? His love in that garden was absolutely unconditional.

Love the sinner. Hate nothing. Embrace who they are.

Let's normalize that way of thinking, especially in the Christian community.

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Love Anyway

Choices. Life is full of them. There are so many instances where we find ourselves at a fork in the road trying to decide whether we should go this way or that way--and do you know what's great about that? The choice is entirely our own.
Of course our choices can affect those around us, but when we chose to follow the Savior, we chose agency--not only for ourselves, but for everyone.
This has been weighing on my mind a lot lately with the political climate rising, causing much discord among those of differing religious views.
But I'm not here to talk about politics.
Just choices. Only choices.
The fact that we even have the freedom to choose our own paths is such an amazing gift given from God Himself. He wants us to be happy and comfortable and the great thing about our loving Heavenly Father is just that--He loves us. No matter what. Nothing will separate us from the love of God (Romans 8:38-39). He loves all of His children, whether on the path I follow or on a different path.
The ultimate goal our Father in Heaven has for us is eternal life, not just immortality--to inherit everything He has. But I think it's easy to forget that He wants all of us to be happy in this life, too.
May I be frank?
Not everyone is happy in the Church.
It is so much easier said than done to hold on when there are serious doubts. We have to be understanding.
Some would consider themselves spiritual giants--that no matter what questions arise, there is absolutely no way their foundation could crumble. But that isn't the case for everyone.
How can we be more understanding?
Something I have learned over the years is that being supportive and loving of the decisions of another--even if you do not agree--is far more Christlike than shoving my beliefs down someone's throat.
So a friend of yours goes to Starbucks every day. So they get a coffee.
So a man loves a man. So he wants to be with him.
So an active member goes to see Beautiful Boy. So it's rated R.
So a loved one has major doubts about the gospel. So they want to forsake their membership.
So you don't agree.
Love. Anyway.
The Lord said He would forgive whom He would forgive, but we are commanded to forgive all men (D&C 64:10). If we truly feel someone is doing something against our religious principles, love anyway because that is the epitome of forgiveness.
We should never resent someone for the choices they make to walk a different path, and we should most certainly never push.
Imagine a physical altercation where someone pushes another person. The victim is forced further away from the other. Such it is with the gospel of Jesus Christ. When we push--even if we feel it is out of love and concern--it only causes them to put more distance between themself and what we hold dear.
I remember when I was a teenager and my mom threw all of my short shorts away because she wanted me to dress modestly. That only pushed me over the edge where I would wear one thing to a friend's and then change into their clothes to go out. What my mom thought was helping only made it worse. In the next few years, my mom would learn the difference between invitation and force.
My mom would become as patient as she could while I tried to figure out who I wanted to be, what I wanted to believe, and how I wanted to live. Because she took a step back while still being a parent, I became less distant and even confided in her about my life, and even gained a testimony that would later send me to Idaho to serve a mission.
Despite my choices, she loved me anyway.
Our purpose as members of the Church, and missionaries if you will, is to "invite others to come unto Christ."
Invite, invite, invite.
When we talk about the gospel with another, let's not do it with the intention of guilting them into grabbing onto the rod. We must do it with the intention to increase their faith that will inevitably send them reaching for the gospel.
If there is someone you care about walking the path opposite yours, do them (and yourself) a favor:
Support and love them anyway.

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Shaping My Identity

This week in my psychology class, we're talking about personality. The idea my proessor shared with us the other day is that who we are has an effect on what kind of personality we have, which begged the question that she wrote up on the board. Who are you?
Underneath the question, she wrote, "I am...". She asked us to finish this sentence twenty times. Sounds like a lot, right?
So I started writing.
I am...a wife.
I am...a mother.
I am...a Mormon.
I am...a daughter of God.
I am...a suicide survivor.
I stopped, and I literally almost cried. Right there. In the middle of class. I just needed a break. I couldn't believe I had literally just taken pen to paper and had written those words. I've blogged about my experience with being left behind because of suicide, but there's just something about seeing the phrase handwritten in my personal script.
In trying hard not to release any tears, I looked down and saw that I was not only wearing my most recent Out of the Darkness t-shirt, but I was also wearing the jacket I had earned as an incentive for raising a certain amount of money for the organization.
I picked up my pencil and continued writing.
I am...an advocate.
I am...the change.
I did feel a little silly giving myself so much credit, but that thought went away rather quickly.
When my brother died, the only thing that kept me going is advocating for those who struggle with the same things he did. His death and the way it happened--as much as I hate it--is a part of my identity. I will never be the person I was before his suicide. Never.
But why be dealt a card that you have to live with for the rest of your life and not make something worthwhile out of it?
I've literally decided to take the sourest of lemons and make lemonade, and that's through being the change in how the world views suicide, and how it can be prevented.
The shift in my identity since Christian died is the sole reason why I drafted post after post asking for donations to a foundation I truly believe is making a difference. It's the reason why I changed my major. It's the reason why I share so many mental health articles on social media. It's the reason why I'm so concerned with my friends when I know they're having a difficult time--even if it is just because of an upcoming exam causing unrelenting stress.
Just like with any of the other "I am..." phrases I came up with, my identity drives me to act. Being a wife leads me to check in with my husband to make sure he'll be okay if I go out with a girlfriend. Being a mom means putting my child before myself, talking mostly about them on social media, and missing them even when I'm gone for a few hours. Being a Mormon means everything in my life is centered on my beliefs--what I wear, what movies I see, how I spend my Sundays. Being a daughter of God means that I come from heavenly parents, who love me, that I am divine, and I try to treat myself as such.
Being a suicide survivor means I can't stand idly by and watch other families suffer the way mine has. It's who I am, and it's who I've been shaping up to become over the past year and a half since I was struck by suicide.
What experiences have you had that have shaped your identity to be what it is today? Who are you?

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Saturday

Sunday morning rolled around and my eyes grew heavier and heavier as I tried to wake myself up to get ready for 9 a. m. church after a long night with the baby. I turned to look at Corey as he slept soundly next to me and then to the baby in her crib -- out. I allowed the drowsiness to claim my body and I opted for another hour of sleep. We would go to the eleven o'clock ward again.
When I woke up, my phone read that it was nine thirty. The baby had woken up. It was time for a bottle. I fed her. I burped her. I needed to shower.
I handed Charly off to her dad while I greeted the hot shower with glee. I needed to be rid of my sluggishness. The high-and-sometimes-uncomfortable water pressure could do just that in a matter of mere moments, and can be oddly refreshing although painful.
As I tried to make myself presentable enough to sit in the chapel, I heard the baby begin to cry from her swing. I set my curling iron on the ground and gave Charly her pacifier to calm her just long enough for me to get one more wave in. Getting ready would prove to be challenging.
By the time we made it out the door, church had already begun and the baby was still in her pajamas. She would definitely stay in the car seat during sacrament!
We pulled into the parking lot, reverently walked into the building, and sat down on the sofa by the entryway just in time to sing along to the sacrament hymn. I found my stress from the morning swept away by the Spirit I felt as we prepared to renew our covenants.
We chose to remain in the foyer for the duration of the meeting while Charly tried to fall asleep. The previous week she had gotten fussy while the sacrament was being passed, and my anxiety flared up. I had raced out of the room with her in tow as to avoid collecting judgment from those who expected absolute silence. Anxiety told me it was better safe than sorry.
As we listened to the speakers, I felt peace, but it was quickly interrupted by a few straggling members of the ward we were supposed to attend. I wasn't bothered by their conversation by any means, but rather the volume at which they spoke to one another. Corey and I continued to sit quietly, it becoming increasingly difficult to hear what the speaker was trying to convey to his audience. The Spirit was gone, and my stress came racing back.
Usually I am not one to become irritated when I am in the foyer during sacrament meeting and people decide to socialize at a high decibel. So why was I particularly upset yesterday?
It's the week.
That week.
The week I've been dreading.
I have found my patience to be very limited in several capacities this month. This was one of them. Perhaps I thought that if I listened intently, I would hear or feel something that would make getting through the week--especially Saturday--a little easier, a little less grim.
Driving home from church was anything but pleasant. Apologies kept finding their way out of my mouth after turning a cold shoulder to my husband numerous times in less than twenty minutes.
But how could I turn my attitude around when I am mentally shivering at the thought of even acknowledging what Saturday is and what it means?
I unbuckled the baby from her car seat as soon as we set her down inside the apartment and took her straight to the bedroom to change her diaper. I buttoned her onesie up and saw she was rather alert so I put her hands in mine and started to play with her arms.
She smiled for the first time as a reaction to me--and she kept smiling as I moved her arms up and down, side to side. It was just what I needed to make the day more pleasant and be reminded that the Lord is in all the details of our lives--meaning He sent Charly to us just in time.
Honestly, I have no idea what I would do this week while Corey's working if I didn't have our little girl to keep my mind--for the most part--occupied. Based on what I saw myself conform to yesterday when only the thought of Saturday instilled fear in me, I know now that the Lord didn't bless me with pregnancy just to comfort me during nine of the months following my brother's death, but He blessed me with Charly when He did because He knew the year mark would be unbearable without her.
This month, Charly has grown in so many different ways. It has been nothing short of a blessing to witness her different milestones the past few weeks.
I wouldn't be so bold as to say she's been a distraction from the fact that my brother is gone, but her being here has helped me in various ways to lessen the pain grief has brought over the last year.
I never thought motherhood would be entirely healing--and it's not--but the Lord knew that this calling would give me the ability to better navigate the road of loss and alleviate some of the emotional suffering.
I do not know how I would get through any of this without the knowledge that God exists--and more than His reality, that He loves me. I barely made it through the first few months following Christian's death when I let my anger cast a shadow over His outstretched arm. I will say it again: He is in all the details of our lives. I know He's been in mine.
Even sitting in the foyer of the church while loud conversations were taking place, I felt His hand--I felt His hand because I was there. The gospel gave me a reason to be in the building at all to partake of His goodness. I felt His hand because I took the sacrament. I renewed my covenants.
That was enough to be grateful for--and I was reminded that I can rely on the Atonement this week, on Saturday, and always.

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Absolutely Terrified

Can I be honest? Like brutally honest? Okay good, because I'd be shocked if anybody told me not to be considering my blog is built on honesty.
I'm scared to have this baby. Like terrified. But not for the reasons you might think.
I'm not scared for the contractions that will make me want to scream in someone's face. I'm not scared to push a baby out of my body. I'm not scared to be a mom.
What am I so afraid of then, you might ask?
I'm terrified of bringing Charly into this world--a world without my baby brother. I've been dreading the day she'll come...but with anticipation no less.
It literally makes no sense to me that I would be so focused on the negative than on the positive, and believe me, I'm trying to flip the script, but it's easier said than done.
My mom had posted on Facebook earlier that she can't wait to welcome this bundle of joy fresh from heaven, and I guess that's what sparked the feeling that I should share my thoughts with you.
To feel with every fiber of my being that heaven is real has been the single most comforting thing in the wake of my brother's death. I've been given witness after witness that there is a place we go after we leave this life, and because of that, naturally I've been thinking about where we came from. And that answer, too, is heaven.
So why am I still so terrified?
There will never be pictures. No memories. She'll look at a family picture when she's able to put names to faces, look at Christian and say, "Mommy, who is that?" I don't think any amount of time can or will pass before that question will stop me from making a run for the first pillow I can cry into.
Sure, I've been told time after time that Charly's getting to know Christian now, and while that's comforting, it's equally disconcerting that she will forget any encounter she might have had with my little brother upon coming here to be with my family.
But then my mom said something that struck me and made my heart a little more grateful.
I've been having false labor contractions, but my parents didn't want to take a chance of missing the delivery of their grandbaby if said contractions were to shift into true ones. As my mom talked with me on the phone about leaving earlier than planned she said through choked back tears:

"I don't want to miss this because...Charly will be the last one to have seen my son." 

While I feared for the future of my child stripped of the privilege to know her uncle--or rather fearing for myself welcoming a future for my child who will never know her uncle in this life--my mom instilled gratitude in me with her words. My child will be the last one to have been with and interacted with Christian, and for that I am truly grateful. I suppose I need to learn how to stomp out my jealousy and anger with gratitude.
It's been a long, rocky road the past ten months. Regardless, I am reminded as I write this post how lucky and blessed I am to have been afforded the opportunity to carry this baby for the last thirty-eight weeks--something I know so many women are not able to do.
This is why we have moms. They help us change our perceptions on situations that may otherwise cause emotional chaos.

Thanks, Mom.

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Mending the Cracks

I often wonder why I never gave up on the gospel while I was going through my anger phase for roughly six months. Although I didn't have burning questions about the history of the Church, or whether Joseph Smith saw God and Jesus Christ or made it all up, I am still confused as to why I didn't leave when I was so angry with God.

This was a thought that entered my mind while the spirit was tormenting me during sacrament meeting to bear my testimony, but I declined to do so. Why? 

This is still of a very personal nature to me as I tackle head-on my challenges with Heavenly Father--although, they were never with God, but with His opponent.  

However, I digress. 

I didn't follow the prompting to bear my testimony because I simply am not ready. The Lord may know I am, but I don't yet. I'm just not there. I'm not at the point where I can vocalize my thoughts, but only translate them into writing. 

I have never thought as promptings as "little commandments" but instead, I have always seen them as the Lord giving me opportunities to make changes whether in myself or instill impressions in others. I didn't take that opportunity to change anything in that meeting, and maybe I should have, but I feel more comfortable doing it from this outlet for the time being.

Instead of walking up to the pulpit, I allowed the spirit to fester, and I pondered the strength and position of my testimony. I thought about how it was possible that I stayed in the gospel when I didn't want God to be part of my life after "what He did". Why did I still listen to the prophet? Why did I still admire the temple? Why did I still pick up my scriptures from time to time? 

It just didn't make sense to me. 

Allowing time for meditation during sacrament meeting today gave me an opportunity to reflect, and put the pieces together.

I stayed because Jesus Christ is my foundation. 

Because I didn't care to see to my testimony being nourished during this time, each building block of my testimony got a crack or two, but my foundation remained in tact. With a solid foundation, it was more difficult, near impossible, for Satan to break my tower of faith. 

Instead of having to build my testimony again, I just needed to mend it. By having a sure foundation, the blocks didn't crumble, and I was more easily able to simply mend the cracks--of course with the help of the Savior through His Atonement. 

I think all too often we give up too quickly. Perhaps had I allowed the anger to fester longer my foundation might have crumbled eventually leaving nothing but spiritual dust. But I saved my own testimony in time before the destruction could have transpired. I am so grateful for that.

I find it interesting that, for me, my problem was with God, yet I still trusted His son--and it literally makes no logical sense because God is the one who sent Christ out of pure love for His children. 

This just serves as a testament to me that I am too vulnerable as a mortal to just choose to walk away when I have a spiff with some part of the doctrine, or in my case, a person. I cannot bring myself to do so because I know I would be making the wrong choice--even if my relationship with God is or was weak. 

Jesus truly does save. 

He saved me from choosing the wrong path. He saved me from abandoning my worth as a daughter of God. He saved me from the torment I would have experienced for the remainder of my life from throwing away the hope of a life after death, or that eternal families is a true principle stemming from his earthly ministry. He saved my testimony. He saved me from deserting the one pure thing in my life: the gospel. 

The gospel of Jesus Christ is the only thing that can bring everlasting peace. 

The road has been so incredibly rocky since last summer, but despite the ditches and the bumps, Christ has been there through it all. He knows me personally, and because of this, He understands exactly how to succor me.

Although it was a process, I'm there. 

The cracks are mended, and not with glue. The cracks are literally gone. 

I'm beginning to feel more like who I was before it all went wrong. I'm beginning to see the joy in my demeanor when I get ready in the morning. I'm beginning to acquire that fire I left behind at the onset of my grief.

The cracks are mended, and I am changed. 

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Be the Change

I'm in awe at the response my last few posts have received. I am happy to note that my life has been less in shambles and the pieces are being put back in place with a little help from on High. The past month and a half has been difficult with school weighing on my shoulders, though much more bearable now that I'm on speaking terms with the Man upstairs. He's the key to travelling a bumpy road with joy.
It's quite obvious that life isn't all rainbows and butterflies. I've always hated the phrase: "When life hands you lemons, make lemonade"...especially since my family, immediate and extended, has lost so much in such little time. However, I've come to appreciate that phrase. Life handed us the sourest of lemons last summer--two, in fact. As my soul purses its lips in aspiration to be redeemed from the sourness, I begin to think, what can I make of this? 
Many of you know I've been studying English as an undergraduate, and I thought for the longest time it was the right degree to pursue. I love to write. I love to share my insights. But as the time passes, especially since grief was thrown in my basket, I took inventory of my passions.

English--as a whole--is not one of them.

It is true that I love books, and I love blogging, but that's basically where I hit a block in the road. I don't feel like there's anywhere to go from here--at least not for me.
How can I take my two passions, words and insight, and do good?
Gandhi said, "Be the change you wish to see in the world."
I never felt that I could really be the change with the degree I had chosen unless I were to sit at home and be a mommy blogger all day. Except my posts aren't suitable for that sort of career--neither is my mindset. We all know the most successful mommy bloggers are those who generate new ideas for decorating a home or spicing up a relationship--both of which are so not me, and let's face it, when I do have those ideas, they're entirely recycled from others (especially from Pinterest).
It's not ingrained into my personal being as a young woman in today's society to be a stay-at-home mom for the next thirty plus years. I personally believe that motherhood and a career can be complimentary of one another. I plan to merge the two--and when I set my mind to something, I achieve it. I want more for me, and I want more for my children. There's no doubt I'm a woman of action.
Since being hit in the face with depression from the outside and its opposite, I have decided that I want to shift gears a bit--okay, a lot--and focus my career on preventing other families from suffering a loss such as mine. Even more so than preventing grief, I want so badly to help adolescents like my brother who are fighting strenuously to combat and cope with their mental illnesses and other trials which could lead to depression, anxiety, and other disorders.
Today, I changed the course of my life; I changed my major. I changed my major to something that will allow me the opportunity to exercise my passion of advocacy for the mentally ill. I changed my major to something that will allow me to make hands-on change--to be the change. I have chosen to pursue a BS in Marriage and Family Studies, then go on to receive my Masters in a similar area, if not counseling.
Never in my high school career had I thought to engage in any coursework outside the realm of English, yet here I am four years later going against my adolescent judgment.
I have found it increasingly interesting that out of all my English courses that I have drooled over in boredom and disinterest, the one that ever intrigued me was my Young Adult Literature course where I learned how to use literature to help teens in various aspects of their lives. I didn't know then why I felt that way. All I know is it led me to where I am today: an aspiring counselor for adolescents.

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Walls

Since the end of high school, I've always been one of great faith and devotion to my religion, and have always carried an immense love for God. I studied my scriptures to the point of the binding losing its strength. I served a mission for thirteen months where I lived and breathed the gospel of Jesus Christ. I was adamant about praying to God day, night, and times in between. I walked the walk, and talked the talk. Why? Because I loved God.
And I still do.
But I've had a minor (okay, quite major) setback.
Up until now, all the experiences I've shared have revolved around my brother's tragic passing--which, understandingly, is the underlying reason for my spiritual withdrawal and every little struggle in between since that horrible day.
My last blog post revolved around my anger towards God for not telling anyone that Christian was struggling and how to help him--and quite frankly, that sent me running far, far away. I began to build walls between me and God, and I most likely did it as a result of being hurt. I receded into a spiritual hole that consisted of nothing but me and darkness. We've become rather close, Darkness and I.
See, when I decided to shut off communication to and from heaven, I've always felt lonely. Sure there'd be times of laughter, and little bits of happiness here and there, but ultimately every inch of sunshine had been hidden behind a great mountain--one that I created as a result of fleeing because of my pain for which I blamed God.
I've fought myself about building these walls to keep God out. After I wrote my previous post, I finally had it with the loneliness and silently cried to myself, "I don't want to feel this way anymore!"
I still haven't prayed. I still haven't read my scriptures. I haven't been to church in weeks.
In all honesty, I felt like I couldn't do any of those things with this anger weighing on my shoulders. It didn't feel right sitting in church and feeling angry at God when I was supposed to be there to worship Him. How could I worship Him when I felt He was to blame for everything going wrong in my life?
Little by little, the walls have come down and I'm beginning to feel guilty for ever blaming Him at all. I'm ready for a reconciliation. I've stopped trying to tell myself to forgive Him because, well, there isn't anything to forgive.
I've still been scared of going back, of putting my trust in Him. But today, I had a boost of confidence. Here's why:
Elder Oaks was a guest speaker at BYU-Idaho's weekly devotional this afternoon, and the words I use won't do justice to the feeling of love I felt emanating from God when he walked in the room.
College students are noisy--especially when there are over two thousand in a single auditorium--but as soon as this apostle walked into the room, it fell silent in mere seconds. We stood out of respect as he entered, and I felt something inside me that I haven't felt in months. I knew in that moment that the spirit was telling me that I am loved by a Heavenly Father who has called this man, among many others, to ensure that I will make it through this life and all my struggles with as much help as possible. Immediately following that inspired thought, I felt that there is no way God doesn't love me if He has provided all the resources He has--His Son being the most vital and precious--for me to find everlasting joy and eternal peace someday. There's absolutely no way.
I've yearned for this feeling when I've attended church and religion classes, but I haven't felt anything as a result of those walls.
I find it no coincidence that just days before I had this experience, I plead with myself to start breaking down the barriers and letting God back in--and instead of calling Him "God", start calling Him by what He is and has always been to me--my Heavenly Father.
This has been the toughest journey to travel, and I know without a doubt that God is there, and He did not allow my brother to take his life out of spite for my family or Christian. I know that God loves all of His children, and He will never leave us even if we turn our backs on Him--which I have been doing.
For months, He has been waiting for me to run back to Him, and tonight, I'm sprinting. For the first time in five months, I'll pick up my own scriptures and read because I want to. For the first time in five months, I'll kneel down and pray because I want to. For the first time in five months, I'll call God by His rightful title and rely more fully on His son's infinite Atonement.
Tonight, I'm grateful for my Heavenly Father.

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When the Promptings Don't Come

Finding it an utter bore after staring at the television for five straight hours, watching the tissues collect in the nearest trash bin, my nose needing to be "snifflled" every few seconds, unwrapping cough drop after cough drop, scrolling through memes on Facebook that seemed to have given back my laughs, I began to think. That's usually what happens when you're sick. You get cabin fever, and your mind begins to race. But if that's not what happens to you, perhaps you aren't human!
A good friend of mine shared some of her thoughts and experiences on following promptings today, which--ironically--prompted the thought: Well, what if the promptings don't come?
I feel like in the Church, we only talk about what to do when we feel prompted, but seldom--if ever--talk about what to do when the promptings don't come.
I haven't yet voiced my frustration about none of my family members receiving promptings to help my brother when he was in his darkest moment before he ultimately took his life. Well, here it is.
We're leading into the sixth month since his death, and the one thing that continues to bother me most about Christian's passing is that God seemed to be absent. Where was He? I find myself beginning to relate more and more to the popular song by The Fray.

Why'd you have to wait?

Where were you? Where were you?

Just a little late.

Sometimes I feel like I'm being suffocated by these very ideas when they pass through my train of thought. Everything was falling apart. Why didn't God tell me to text my brother that morning? Why didn't God tell my mom not to leave the house? Why didn't God tell my dad he needed to come home early from work? Why didn't God tell one of my siblings to stop by the house? Where were the promptings?

I've always assumed since I've been baptized and was given the constant companionship of the holy ghost that in every instance and if I was worthy, something would whisper in my ear, and I could be a hero.

Such isn't the case. In fact, when my older brother called, Corey and I were talking about going to the temple that evening. 

I guess this is what confused me even more. I was so excited for the temple, to be closer to God, only to have my brother ripped away from this life without so much as a little godly intuition that something was wrong. How is that fair? Wasn't I promised to receive promptings?

I received them all the time on my mission like what to say--or what not to say--during a lesson, whose door to knock on, that I needed to come home early, that I even needed to serve in the first place. 

Why would God give me a prompting to knock on a door of someone's home who wouldn't even accept the gospel during the time I was there but refrain from sending my brother any assistance during his time of need?

This is the level of rawness that's been affecting my relationship with what I would refer to as the "almighty God"--quotations inviting sarcasm. The phrase "mighty to save" must have carried a much different denotation.

Of course, I'm working to overcome this spiritual setback with the Man upstairs, and for the most part, I'm beginning to understand just where He was when we were all going about our days as normal while Christian was losing his fight with depression.

As hard as it is to say, my little brother had his mentally ill-stricken mind made up about dying--the pain going away for good--and God can't strip us of our agency. Isn't that why we're here? 

I look back to that day and realize that God was with Christian, and with all of us, but there wasn't necessarily a need for someone to physically rescue him. But I know he was aided by some on the other side of the veil. Perhaps the need for Christian to be helped came from somewhere we can't see. 

The promptings won't always come. 

While God is no respecter of persons, He respects our right to choose. 

When the promptings don't come, don't blame God. Don't blame yourself. When the promptings don't come, know that God was never absent.

When the promptings don't come, know that God is still God and He sees the bigger picture.

The only thing we can do when the promptings don't come is ask ourselves, "What can be learned from this?"

Death doesn't seem at all like a learning experience--especially when it's tragic. But it is.

I have learned in the past year since losing three relatives, close and more distant, how crucial it is for me to accept Jesus Christ as my Savior and Redeemer and follow Him. Because of Him, the Plan of Salvation isn't just a blueprint sitting on a table waiting for its Architect to take action. 

It is in full force, and I couldn't be more grateful for the knowledge it brings that despite what I have previously felt are discrepancies in the Lord's actions regarding my family, He knows what He's doing, and He will reunite us with my brother again.

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Why I'm Not Broadcasting My Pregnancy

We all have those friends who post daily about their pregnancy regime, what baby likes and doesn't like, how the baby bump is growing, how excited they are for baby, etc.
I'm going to be incredibly honest and personal in this post, and my purpose isn't to offend anyone, so if you become offended, please don't point your finger at me.
A few months after Corey and I were married, we decided we wanted to make an addition to our family. I'm not quite certain how much money I spent on take-home pregnancy tests and doctors visits, but to no avail, all came out negative. I'll never forget each moment my excitement was quickly stolen by the single vertical line on each test I took every month for one year.
Frankly, we gave up. Our determination to grow our family was shattered by the notion that perhaps we couldn't have children--at least right now. To elaborate, my patriarchal blessing tells me that I'll give birth in this life--but to rely on modern technology and medical advances as I develop a baby within my body.
What could that mean? Before fighting this battle with my husband, I was under the impression that maybe I'd just need some extra medication during my pregnancies, but after having tried to conceive for a year, that thought changed.
I began to get jealous of those who seemed to have pregnancy come easily to them. I scrolled through Facebook to see friends who had just gotten married post their first ultrasound. It wasn't fair!
I cried. A lot. I told myself and my husband every time I'd take a test that I wouldn't be upset at the outcome if it were negative--but I lied, every time.
Shockingly, in October, less than two months after my brother died, I went in for a doctor's visit because I thought I had some infection--but had already given up on asking for a pregnancy test during my visits--only to find out that I was pregnant.
I didn't want to believe the doctor when he told me. I didn't want to get my hopes up for them just to be stripped away days later.
This is where I'll get extremely emotional.
Days before this miracle laid itself in our laps, I had vented to my mom about how jealous I was of my siblings who had children to bring them joy in the midst of their despair when all I had were textbooks and a desk at work.
My husband's a wonderful man--and he does make me happy. I'm definitely not discounting the peace he has brought to my life during this tragedy. But there's something about holding a child in your arms that brings you peace, knowing they are closer to the veil than you are.
I count this pregnancy as nothing short of a miracle from God--almost like a gift from my brother beyond the veil to my husband and me through God Himself--as if Christian was rooting for Corey and me, begging the Lord to let us have this one little joy in the middle of our pain.
I can't bring myself to boast about this pregnancy--broadcasting it from every corner--when I know where I have been in terms of trying to conceive and in what circumstance this little miracle came to be.
Fight me if you want, but I feel this ball of sunshine Corey and I created comes from far more than biology working together for our benefit.
I call bull if anyone tells me the timing of this pregnancy was merely a coincidence, and we were just finally successful in conceiving. I just do.

There's my story for you, but let me pull this all together and make sense of the title.
Let's take a step back to the beginning of our story: jealousy, pain.
Finding the opposite of success in trying to increase your numbers brings a lot of emotional discomfort, and provokes much jealousy when someone's posting constantly about their pregnancy.
I'm definitely not saying that it's wrong of you to share your excitement with the world, but as far as I'm concerned, I choose to stay more private than public when it comes to this baby--especially because of the circumstances which are rather special.
To expectant mothers and fathers, please be mindful of those on your feed who may be struggling, or incapable of conceiving children of their own. Try to refrain from being braggy as you share your journey with your friends.
The way you document your pregnancy is completely and utterly up to you, and I'm not here to tell you to keep your excitement to yourself, but all I am saying is this: be mindful, and be caring.

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