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I’m A Disappointment To My Parents

My parents would vehemently deny it, but I know I’m a disappointment. They love me, but I can feel a sadness that presses over them: I haven’t lived up to their expectation of a good, Mormon life; I haven’t become what they wanted. In fact, I’m the opposite.

I was always meant to carry the Mormon legacy—all of my siblings were. We hail from Parley P. Pratt and the Willie and Martin Handcart Companies. “Pioneer stock” runs through our veins and the sacrifice of our ancestors were told with pride and reverence. They were brave and obedient till the end; so, we must strive to be like them. Our people made and lived Mormon history; so, we’re not just Mormons, we’re generational Mormons. 

This means my decision to leave really hurts because I “broke the line” binding these generations together. When we talk about heaven or the afterlife, we sometimes talk about the metaphorical large family gathering where everyone sits down at a feast. Empty chairs wait for us and some will never be filled. My chair is one of the empty ones. There’s still time to repent and “return to the fold,” but I know that won’t happen. It’s not that I’m too far gone, it’s just that I know I can never believe the same way ever again. I won’t be with my Mormon family in the next life—my husband and kids included.

With so much at stake, how can I not be a disappointment? This isn’t just about securing a comfortable place in hereafter, it’s about being together forever. We can’t now, because of me. I’ve become someone my parents raised me never to become. I didn’t “keep to the faith,” “hold fast to the iron rod,” or “endure to the end.” Instead, I failed spectacularly and am lost, just as Laman and Lemuel were lost to Lehi and Sariah. From my parents perspective, they have every right to be disappointed.

The last time my parents said they were proud of me was when I told them my oldest child would be baptized. This happened before our conversations about my disbelief or my slow “inactivity,” but they knew I was struggling.

“I’m so proud of you, September,” Mom said. I knew she meant it as encouragement, but I felt weighed down. Was she proud becasue I was doing the “right” Mormon thing? How proud would she be if this conversation was about my child not being baptized? Would she still say she was proud of me?

I’d taken the time to sit, talk, and listen to my child about this matter, so it was a real possibility that she wouldn’t be baptized. If she was unsure or unwilling, I would’ve put a stop to it immediately. A choice is only a choice if she were fully allowed to decide. Brushing aside her fears or anxieties or pressuring her into baptism wasn’t letting her choose for herself. While I wasn’t surprised over my daughter’s desire or willingness, I did take some comfort in knowing she looked was looking forward to the ceremony and wasn’t at all worried. I also let her know she could always change her mind. 

How proud would my mother be if she overheard that conversation? Would her heart swell or break? Did it matter that I had this conversation, or did it only matter that the outcome favored the Mormon way? How would she react if she knew I told my daughter it was okay to go against he Mormon norm? How could my mother be proud of me when this was my daughter’s decision and I was just being supportive? I wasn’t moving forward because, deep down, I knew “it was the right thing to do” and I hope my mother didn’t think that. I hope my mother wasn’t proud just because I was doing what she deemed correct.

Honestly, when it comes to my parents, I wish I could ask them these questions:

  • How proud are you, really? Are you proud of the woman I’ve become, Mormon or otherwise? How far does your pride stretch? Are you proud of the growth I’ve gone through, even though it lead me away from the church? 

  • Are you proud of my thoughtfulness, my tenderness, my empathy, and my intellect? These traits directly lead me out of the church.

  • Are you proud of the many ways I steadied my family and marriage during this turbulent time? Every step I took, I took with care. I knew leaving would hurt, but I was also hurting every day I stayed. Are you proud that I was able to balance my authenticity while honoring my family’s feelings?

  • Are you proud of my voice? I no longer say what you expect, but are you proud, regardless? I’ve become less afraid to speak up and do what I know needs to be done. I’m not quiet anymore. Is that okay? Can you be proud of me, still? Even when we disagree?

  • Are you proud of the ways I’ve pushed forward, dug deep, and didn’t turn when things became heavy? I sat in a lot of uncomfortableness and pulled out parts of myself so I could examine and better understand. Do you know that I sank deep and then swam myself back to the surface, breathless and crying? Would you call my actions brave? Or would you say I’m lazy and easily offended? Do you know how I shook with fear and sadness, but kept moving out of hope? 

  • Are you proud of where I stand, even though the picture of my life is completely different from what you envisioned for me? Does your pride only come when my life looks a certain way? Are you proud that I followed the path that I felt was correct? 

  • Are you proud of the ambition and dreams I possess that have nothing to do with raising children or being married? Do you see how those things enrich my life?

  • Are you proud of me, even though I can no longer call myself a Mormon?

I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to ask my parents these questions. I hope they’re proud of me—even with all my un-Mormon ways. I know they love me, so, for now, that will have to do. We can have this unspeakable wedge between us because we love each other enough to know some things need to stay unspoken—for now.

Truth is, I’m learning to live with their disappointment. There was a time when the most important thing was keeping my Mormon community happy. I couldn’t face their disappointment, so I continued on as if nothing had changed. However, for every day I stayed, I disappointed myself. Leaving, for me, was one of the greatest acts of self love I could muster. Now, the further I move away from the church, the more I feel their disappointment but the more I feel comfortable with myself.

Glennon Doyle sums it up nicely in her book, Untamed:

 “I’ll abandon everyone else’s expectations of me before I’ll abandon myself. I’ll disappoint everyone else before I’ll disappoint myself. I’ll forsake all others before I’ll forsake myself. Me and myself: We are till death do us part.”

I’m a disappointment to my parents, but not to myself. 

Until next time,
September Marden

Photo by Tai's Captures on Unsplash

Smart Enough to Know About the Coronavirus, Not Smart Enough to Know About the Church

I started writing this post two weeks ago. Honestly, it could’ve been shorter than that given how fast everything has changed. When I wrote the very beginnings of this post, I wasn’t a homeschool mom. I’m still, technically, not a homeschool mom as my children’s teachers are giving me daily lesson plans. However a big portion of my day is now being spent on the managing of my children’s education. I’m pulling out workbooks, digging for learning activities, and setting up schedules complete with “creative breaks” and “outdoor time.” Everything else in my life has come to a screeching halt, writing included. I’ve been working on this article in bits and pieces as my children finish math worksheets and coloring pages.

I almost scratched this post because, hot damn, we all got bigger problems right now. I’m not one for fearmongering, but the empty shelves and panic buying has me concerned. Everyone is on edge and a random thought I had two weeks ago seems completely irrelevant to all the other thoughts crowding around in my head. 

Two weeks ago, I had a conversation with my parents over the phone. It was our normal weekly call, the one where we try to check up and catch up. I love and hate those calls. Before my faith crisis I loved them, but now…well, it’s hit or miss. My parents are wonderful and loving, they’ve accepted and managed my disbelief as well as could be expected, but there’s a disconnect now that wasn’t present before. Questions feel loaded, phrases are carefully worded, and conversations will suddenly become stilted. But sometimes the conversation just naturally flows like it did before, the connection suddenly there again. It’s not exactly like it used to be, but it is there. Two weeks ago the Coronavirus was that conversation. 

It started out normal. We live in an area where COVID-19 is practically in our backyard. At the time it was only a handful of cases, but we were still watching it closely. My children’s school started taking precautions by canceling events and we were all washing our hands like a pagan ritual to the god of science.

We started discussing the many ways we were minimizing risks when my dad started telling me about an article he read. This particular article had facts about the virus and how to treat it. Some of these facts weren’t adding up so I asked him to send me this article.

Turns out the article was actually a meme he saw on Facebook.

Yes, you heard that right. 

A meme. 

On Facebook. 

No sources provided, no links to the CDC or any research papers (not that there are many out there right now.) Let’s just say this particular meme had a certain political leaning that has tried to downplay the severity of the virus. After poking a rather large hole in one of the arguments, my parents were good natured enough to laugh at themselves. We then had a very good discussion on verifying sources, identifying actual and reputable article, and a quick lesson about how virus and diseases spread (complete with examples of herd immunity). 

It honestly was a wonderful conversation. It allowed my parents to ask questions they weren’t sure where to turn for information. It allowed me to tell them about my sources and why I was taking the precautions I was taking. Suddenly everything I’d been doing was then seen in a different light. Some of their fears were eased, although they became more serious about this whole ordeal. In the end my dad said, “Wow, you’re really smart in how you’re dealing with all of this.” I’m not going to lie, it felt good to hear. 

After hanging up, a thought struck me: I’m smart enough to know about the Coronavirus, But not smart enough to know about the church. At least, that’s how my parents feel, think, and act. 

The same way I gathered information and checked sources about illnesses and vaccinations was the same way I learned about the church’s history and issues. I looked into sources, I read counter arguments, I used the knowledge I had to make the best decision for me, and then did my best to follow through.

My parents were more that willing to listen and agree with what I had to say about the Coronavirus because they know I’m well read on a variety of subjects. They know I’m level headed, that I don’t make rash decisions, and I’m thoughtful in my approach. They listen to me because they know I know my stuff. 

Yet, when I talk with that same confidence and passion about the church, they refuse the listen. Suddenly, I can’t possibly know what I know. Whatever I’ve read must be anti-Mormon literature, which “everyone knows” is full of lies and misconceptions. I’m being lead away by Satan. I wanted to sin and I’m just mad at imperfect church leaders. To them, my reasons for leaving aren’t based in reason and careful consideration.

It breaks my heart, just a little bit, to see that disconnect. They know who I am and the type of person I’ve become, yet there’s a huge blindspot when it comes to the church. I can and will be believed in any other topic I wish to speak about, but never when it comes to the church. 

I know it has to be this way for them. If they did listen and consider my reasons, it would hurt their testimony and they might leave the church, too. You’d think I’d want that. That because I have left, I must want them to leave as well. 

Like most things, it’s complicated. Leaving the church meant I shed a lot of shame and guilt. I’m more reasonable, less judgmental, more vocal, and less fearful. However, I also intimately know the pain that comes from stepping out of Mormonism. It’s because of that pain that I hesitate when it comes to others.

I think of my faith journey like falling off a cliff and plunging into ice cold water. It’s hard to breathe and I wasn’t sure which way to swim to shore. It’s a hard journey. It’s exhausting and full of many lows. I struggled, and still struggle, with finding my place. I survived the fall, but I’m not sure my retired parents would. Their whole community and world is built around that church. I made it out okay, but I also had a safety net of non-Mormon friends, a good therapist, an understanding husband, and much longer life ahead of me. It was easier for me to swim for that shore than it would ever be for them.

For my children, at least, I’m providing a path down the rocky cliff. Their journey will not be a sudden fall. I can’t say the same for my parents. 

So, this is just how it is. They’ve put a wall between themselves and my knowledge for protection. It’s a sad truth and means this disconnect I feel will continue until they take it down, brick by brick. I can’t be the one to penetrate a wall they willingly built.

At least they believed me about COVID-19. So for now, that will have to do. 

Stay healthy and well, everyone, and please remember to wash your hands. 

Photo by Ibrahim Rifath on Unsplash

It’s Not Really About The Coffee

I want to talk about coffee. It’s a bit strange that Mormons don’t drink coffee. Off the top of my head, I can’t think of any another religion that bans it. It’s one of those strange enigmas for non-members, yet it’s divisive among believing members. There’s no gray area when it comes to coffee and Mormonism. If you believe, you don’t drink it. Period. Unless you do—then only in secret because it’s just not done. Coffee is beverage non grata.

So leaving the church means coffee suddenly became a very big deal. I drink it daily now as it’s part of my morning routine: get up, pack lunches, make breakfasts, get the kids (and myself) ready, drop kids off at school, come home to a quiet house where I sit on the couch and drink my cold brew. My husband knows I drink it. My children know. On the weekends or vacations I fix a quick cup with my breakfast rather than enjoy it with the slowness of a quiet house. The smell of mom’s coffee is a more recent addition to my children’s lives. 

There was a time, though, that I did all of this in secret. Coffee was only consumed when everyone else was at school or work. I wouldn’t dare try to sneak  it on the weekends. Regardless, the barista at my local Starbucks knew me by name because I was a frequent visitor.

It’s so strange how something so normal and so small can cause such upheaval. I understand because I grew up with a very real belief that God didn’t want me to drink coffee. I thought coffee (and alcohol) were some of the worst things a person could put into their bodies. Now, I’m in this weird place where I’m so far removed from that thinking that it almost feels foreign to me. I sometimes forget that coffee caused a lot of turmoil. I now order it with ease and out of habit, but occasion I’ll still look around out of fear that someone will see me. I have to remind myself that all these strangers don’t care, that my good friends don’t care. This is all normal for them. It’s not a big deal.

But trying coffee for the first time was a big deal. It was September, a few weeks after school started up again. I know this because pumpkin spice latte was back and I wanted to see what all the fuss was about. I hadn’t believed in a long time (maybe a year or two) and but I was still fully immersed in the church. I was going through the motions, not because it was a well oiled habit. I actually felt more like a grating marching wanting to be put out of its misery. I was trapped and frustrated. My faith crisis was a silent, heavy weight within me. I wasn’t living a full life. Every time I came upon a limitation, my anger flared. I felt desperate, full of bitterness that was constantly bubbling up whenever I was alone.

I don’t know why I chose that particular morning. Maybe something I read on reddit set me off or maybe I just felt it was time. What I do remember was the questions bouncing around my head: Why shouldn’t I have coffee? What was really so bad about it? Would God really love me any less? If abstaining from coffee was really about obedience, and if God could see into my heart, why would he need to test me? I don’t demand obedience tests from my own children. 

Most importantly: if Joseph Smith could manipulate women into secretly marrying him and still be revered as one of the holiest men in earth, then why the fuck can’t I have a cup of coffee?

So, I picked the nearest Starbucks with a drive thru. I figured I wouldn’t be seen that way. If my car was recognized, they’d assume I was after some hot chocolate. Even so, I took a quick look around before practically spitting out my order. I had an urge to whisper or mumble it, but I knew the barista wouldn’t fully understand and ask me to repeat it. If I had to repeat myself I would’ve chickened out. 

I took it home so I could sin behind closed curtains. I’m not being dramatic. That is exactly what I did. I refused to take a sip until I was home. I literally went through the house and closed all the curtains tightly. Then, I curled up on the couch with the cup clasped between my hands. I remember how strong it smelled. I half worried the scent would become embedded in the cushions and I curled myself tighter as if I could make this act smaller.

I hated it. It was disgustingly bitter. Why the hell anyone would want to drink such a nasty thing?

I took another sip. And then another. And then another. I made myself drink half of it before walking it out the the dumpster where I hid it under a bag of garbage. I even peeled the sticker off so if anyone found it, it wouldn’t be traced back to me. The rest of the day I felt jumpy, as if everyone could see what I’d done, like a big stain on my shirt. I knew they didn’t know, that I was being irrational, but I couldn’t help feeling that way.

The story doesn’t end there because that night, as I laid in bed next to my husband, I felt as if I should confess. I never kepts secret in my marriage and this was a big one. We’d hadn’t talked about my faith crisis yet, but he knew I was struggling. This, though, felt like a whole other level of falling away. It’s one thing to struggle with faith, but it’s something else entirely to act against your faith.

I didn’t want to keep secrets, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell him. I imagined and knew what would happen if I did. At that moment his arms were wrapped around me and once I uttered “coffee” he’d pull away. He’d turn from me and a chasm would open between us.

I couldn’t face that chasm, that sudden withdrawal I was certain would happen. A wedge was already forming as my discontentment rubbed and chafed him. We had a lot of silences and unspoken words surrounding my struggle, but this would be a new silence. It would be the silence of disappointment, of anger, of hurt, of betrayal. This new silence was one I wouldn’t be able to live with.

Because coffee is against the Word of Wisdom, which means I broke a temple covenant and am unworthy to enter the temple until I fully repented. Being worthy for the temple is the epitome of a Mormon life, so he’d want me to talk to the bishop to get this all sorted out.

I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t talk to the bishop. It would mean me confessing to all the disbelief building inside of me. I would either defend it—letting my anger and frustration come out and burning the fragile bridges I was desperately trying to keep—or I’d cower and let myself be led where everyone wanted me to go. I would “repent” and be the success story my husband and bishop would want. It would mean continuing to pretend what was happening wasn’t actually happening. It would mean continuing to hide and I knew I couldn’t do that any longer. I couldn’t go back to believing anymore than I could go back to childhood.

So I stayed silent and two days later I ordered a Mocha Frappuccino (which went down much easier).

As I write this out, I can’t help but think how ridiculous this all sounds. Even for other Mormons leaving the church, it sounds way dramatic and over the top. I’m half embarrassed, half defensive because this is what happened to me. I know it’s almost incomprehensibly strange to those outside of Mormon culture. It’s coffee for goodness sakes. How can this possibly be such a big deal? How could coffee nearly ruin my marriage? 

Yet, I feared it would and I acted on that fear. As I write this, I’m certain that other marriage have ended over coffee.

Except, it’s not really about the coffee. Marriages don’t end over coffee. It’s about the disbelief, the stepping away from a religion you never imagined leaving. It’s about the changes that happen while going through that process. Sometimes those changes are incompatible with who you once were and the relationships you once had. Drinking coffee (or more accurately, stepping out of Mormonism) creates a sudden distance from loved ones and that distance is filled with their fears, their uncomfortableness, and their sadness. For me, it was also filled with the desire to keep whatever love and closeness there was. 

A lot of progress has been made since that first cup. I eventually told my husband, but it took time. We had to go to marriage counseling first. I never gave him specific details, never told him how long I had been drinking coffee without him knowing. I would’ve told him if he asked, but I think he’d rather not know. It took months after to order coffee in front of him—and only after a brief conversation. A few months later I finally bought my coffee from the grocery store so I could stop spending so much money at Starbucks.

Even with all the progress I’ve made in my marriage, some milestones still haven’t been reached. My parents and siblings don’t know, although I’m sure they’ve guessed. That is another thing that fills the space between us: unasked questions. They’d rather not know the answers and I’m still trying to steady the rocking boat for them. But until something dislodges—either they ask, I tell, or I drink it in front of them—that silent space will remain. It’s as if we can all pretend this hasn’t happened—even when it definitely has.

So coffee really isn’t about coffee. It’s about all the thoughts and feelings around what it represents. To me it represents my freedom and becoming. It was my first truly un-Mormon act, my first acknowledgment that something had to give and I had to stop going through the motions. Which is why I won’t be giving it up any time soon.

To my family, it represents my apostasy—I am no longer connected to them in the hereafter. The space just isn’t mental, but physical as well. I will be the empty chair at the (proverbial) dinner table. They will have to visit me in the lower heavens. I am lost to them because I no longer conform to Mormonism and it’s created a heavy sadness in them. If I could give up the coffee—return to my belief—I could be with them again.

It won’t happen. Coffee means too much to me. I can’t exchange all I’ve learned and become to make them feel safe and happy. To do so would break me. 

So, I will drink my coffee and wait for the day they ask me why I left and what I know. It may never come as there’s still so much fear surrounding disbelief and broken testimonies. Mormons are the great holders of unasked questions. 

Thankfully, my husband and I have managed to close that gap. He believes, I don’t, so our main focus is love and respect for one another.  Still, it could’ve gone very wrong. My marriage could’ve ended over a cup of coffee.

For the record, I still don’t like pumpkin spice lattes.