Where to begin?

Normally, when I feel the pull to share something that feels big or I imagine others might react to it in a big way, I reign myself in. This practice of essentially “sleeping on it” has been healthy for me in a lot of ways. I’ve learned over the years that the internet, as much as it can be a place of community and support, is not a healthy place for me to live process. It has also kept me quiet in times that I, or others, didn’t want me to be.

For years, so much of what I have written has been pushed out of me by my hurt and anger. Though Elder Oaks may disagree, I don’t see anger as a bad motivator. I’m immensely grateful for it. Many times, when my grief and pain wanted to swallow me whole and pull me back into line, my anger was a life raft that kept me afloat.

But today, my drive to write and share feels like something I’m unsure I have ever felt before. In the past, sharing my truth was like pushing a thick substance through a strainer with holes much too small. I had to grit my teeth, brace myself, and push, but now, it’s free-flowing. The substance is still dense, but the strainer, the block, is gone.

So today, I will start with an experience, a dream I had in 2017, that I’ve only ever shared with my sister, husband, and therapist. I don’t know what I believe about dreams or most things anymore, more on that later, but I do know this dream is one of two dreams that felt different than any other dream I’ve had. It feels real and visceral, whereas others feel imaginary and unimportant.

Just a loving heads up that there is a SA reference coming up.

Also, please note that moving forward, most posts like this will be reserved for paid subscribers. I won’t try to tell you how large or small of an impact $5 will have on your budget, but I will tell you that as a self-employed person, paid subscribers enable me to do this work and support my family.

It was evening, and I was on one of the top levels of the Church Office Building. Where most floors of the COB are filled with bland cubicles and conference rooms, this upper level’s floor plan was open and beautiful. With live piano music playing lightly in the background, a large, but select, gathering of people enjoyed a cocktail-esk party. General Authorities and big LDS names mingled and snacked on hors d’oeuvres. I was so excited and honored to be in attendance.

Stepping out of the dream for a moment for context. At this point in my life, I only recently left employment at the church to work full-time at my recently launched temple dress company, Q.noor. I was deeply committed to devoting all of my time, talents, and interests to the building up the kingdom of Zion. I had just begun hosting conversations online concerning the church that, though sensitive, I hoped would help. While working on a team that made videos for the twelve apostles, I heard a member of the twelve say that there were some things they, the leaders, wanted to say but couldn’t. They needed average members to spread these things, whatever they were. I didn’t know what he was referencing, but I was happy to do my best to answer that call. This was the mission and banner that I shared and posted under.

Regardless of the pushback I got from some members, I felt like I was on a special mission. Unfortunately, my mission made me a bit of a pariah. In 2015, it wasn’t popular to talk about the church in such a bold way, especially not in a nuanced, open, and public way. Peers who sent me “thank you” and “you’re so brave to do this important work” DMs privately, were nervous to be associated with me publically. It was, and continued to be, immensely lonely. This is why, in this dream, to be included, recognized, and appreciated for my work by the highest levels of the church felt incredible.

Ok, back to the dream.

As I hesitantly entered the main gathering area, an apostle who I had never worked with before but always appreciated approached me with open arms. He walked to me like he knew me. This was everything to me. He wrapped his arms around me and gave me a huge grandfatherly hug. I felt so seen and so honored to be singled out by him.

I soaked in the moment and then began releasing the hug at what seemed like the appropriate time. As my muscles slackened, sending the universal “hug over” message, surprisingly his didn’t. That awkward moment of “oops the hug isn’t over” ticked past. I attempted to gently, as not to offend, push away, but felt his grasp tighten. He pressed his body against mine, and I immediately began to panic. Not wanting to cause a scene, I tried to wiggle out of his grip, but I only felt more of him press against me.

At this point, I desperately screamed for him to stop. Everything and everyone at the party stopped to look in our direction. With all eyes on us, his arms abruptly released and he looked at me with shock and surprise. Still panicking, I felt the world collapse as I read disapproval, of me alone, register in the crowd’s eye. Humiliated, I ran from the room, down an escalator, and raced across an empty ground-floor lobby of the COB. I burst through the front doors and felt the relief of fresh cold air fill my lungs.

What had just happened to me? Who should I talk to? Who would believe me? What am I supposed to do in this situation? A million things raced through my mind. I knew I didn’t want to go back to the party, but it was a dark winter night, and I needed to call a ride. I turned back to the front doors to wait in the warm lobby for someone to pick me up. I pushed against the door’s horizontal bar that a lifetime of entering LDS church buildings made so familiar to me. The bar compressed into itself but the door didn’t budge. They had locked me out. I was cold, alone, and scared and they locked me out.

I woke up sobbing. I felt sick, dirty, and so confused. What was wrong with me? Why would I dream of such a disgusting thing? I needed to tell somebody about this dream that I couldn’t shake, but it would take years before I found a therapist who could help me process it. This dream haunted me for years.

The shame I read on the party attendees’ faces, the people I most respected and admired, and the fear of being locked out has had a lasting and chilling effect on me. Until relatively recently.

On August 3, 2023, after a particularly grueling day online, I met my sisters at Thanksgiving Point theaters to see Barbie.

I silently sobbed as I watched the final monologue where Barbie speaks with Ms Mattel.

Ms Mattel: Being human can be pretty uncomfortable.

Barbie: I know.

Ms Mattel: Humans make things up like up, like Patriarchy and Barbie, just to deal with how uncomfortable it is.

Barbie: I understand that.

Ms Mattel: And then you die.

Barbie: Yeah…. Yeah. I want to be a part of the people that make meaning. Not the thing that’s made. I want to do the imaging. I don’t want to be the idea. Does that make sense?

Ms Mattel: I always knew Barbie would surprise me but I never expected this!

Barbie: Do you give me permission to become human?

Ms Mattel: You don’t need my permission.

Barbie: But you’re the Creator. You… don’t you control me?

Ms Mattel: I can’t control you any more than I can control my own daughter. I named you after her, Barbara. And I always hoped for you like I hoped for her. We mothers stand still so our Daughters can look back and see how far they’ve come.

Barbie: So being human is not something I need to ask for or even want? I can just… That’s something that I just discover I am?

Ms Mattel: I can’t in good conscience let you take this leap without you knowing what it means.

Take my hands.

Now close your eyes…

Now, feel.

Barbie: Yes.

In the moment, I felt what Mormon me would have called The Spirit tell me to be free. Something inside of me told me that I didn’t need to keep twisting myself into knots to make myself fit into what the Mormon church wanted of me and I didn’t need to keep twisting the Mormon church into what I wanted it to be. At that moment, I released it all.

I sobbed alone in my car long after the parking lot emptied as a massive storm blew across the point of the mountain. With a fresh heart, I watched the most beautiful sunset through a spectacular lightning storm.

Over the last 522 days, I have wrestled with what this means for me and my life.

I know, thanks to therapy, that I don’t owe anyone anything, especially these most private parts of my experience. I also understand that given the way I have so publicly been a member of the church, many people would want to understand where I stand now. There have been many times that I have wanted to clear things up, but it never felt right.

Running out of the front doors of the church has been a long time coming for me, and I’m so happy that it has finally felt like the right time to do so. It feels so serendipitous that in September of this year, the Salt Lake Tribune invited me to write an end-of-the-year piece. For four months, I, again, wrestled with the general prompt they gave me. Literal days before my mid-December deadline, I told Kyle I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t get myself to write anything positive about any hopes I had for LDS women in 2025. He replied “So don’t. Be honest.”

Once, again, I was free.

Now, openly on the outside of those large brass doors, I am overwhelmed and so relieved to report that I don’t feel cold, and I am anything but alone.

Like when you take what you think is going to be a big gulp of water, but what you get is Sprite, I am shocked to say the least.

The very best, and possibly most surprising part is, I don’t even care to turn around and check if they locked the doors.