9 Things Mormon Girls Should Understand About Guys and Porn, But Don’t

Let me start off by saying that this post is for, you guessed it, Mormon girls.  By girl, I am thinking unmarried females in the 14-30ish range.  If you are older than that, or married, or are not female, you are welcome to read and comment if you like, just know that this has a targeted audience.

I am frequently surprised at the false ideas surrounding pornography use and addiction in the LDS culture, particularly among young, single women.  I’m not by any means an expert on the issue, but the fact that people want to constantly spill their guts to me has given me some perspective on the issue.

My purpose in writing this list is to help young women to have a clear understanding of the issue as they prepare for marriage.  I am only going to talk about pornography in the context of male usage, but know that I would never want to convey the idea that pornography is a “male” problem.  For more on female pornography use, please read Not Just to Young Men Only: On Being a Girl with a Porn Problem

Disclaimer: I am not married, and I also do not use porn, so my ideas should probably be taken with a grain of salt.  If I say that I “think” something, I am basically guessing.  As always, I am totally open to both perspective and correction.

  • Most men have viewed porn.  And by “view”, I don’t mean “happen to have seen a pop-up ad”.  I mean they have sought it out. And it’s not the creepy guys (well, them too, but not just them.)   It’s the Elder’s Quorum President, it’s your EFY counselor, it’s the kid who just came home from his mission three weeks ago, it’s the guy who is always first to start setting up and last to finish taking down, the one who goes to the temple every week, the one who gives the sweetest, most heart-felt testimonies, maybe even the onle you feel that you will never be good enough for- yup, him too.  Now there are lots of guys who have never chosen to indulge, and there are lots of guys who have worked hard to overcome the challenge.  I don’t make this point to say that you should accept that porn will be a part of your marriage- I make this point to let you know that you will probably have to be understanding on some level.
  • Sometimes the porn doesn’t start until after the wedding.  This is not to scare you.  Rather, it is to let you know that it really isn’t practical to insist on only marrying somebody who has never looked at it, because nobody is foolproof.  It is fairly uncommon, but sometimes men do get addicted to porn after the marriage.Just because he hasn’t doesn’t mean he won’t.
  • If he looks at porn, it doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you.  Fight The New Drug has a pretty cute phrase that has taken root in our community: “Porn Kills Love”.  While porn can certainly drive a wedge in relationships, I think our cultural consciousness has become confused into thinking that a porn user can’t love anybody, ever, or that they will begin to sabotage the their relationships in all kinds of extreme  ways (I’m thinking of a Mormon Message where the dad will no longer color with his kids because of porn).  While it is difficult to learn of a porn habit, I think it is even more (and unnecessarily) difficult to automatically believe that you are not loved because of it.
  • There are different kinds of porn.  It ranges from girls in bikinis to things too vulgar for me to write on my blog.  I had assumed that all guys looked at the really violent, degrading, extreme things.  Some do, but some don’t even watch the performance of sexual acts at all.  I am not trying to communicate that any kind of porn is okay, but sometimes understanding a little bit more of the details can be helpful in trying to work through a porn problem.
  • Marriage doesn’t cure porn.  I could go into more detail, but then I would rob myself of a 6th bullet point!  The reason marriage doesn’t cure porn is because…
  • Viewing porn and having sex are different experiences.  This may seem a little bit obvious, but let explain why this is important.  While viewing porn and being intimate with another person are both sexual experiences, one is all about immediate gratification and self-satisfaction, while the other often requires patience, understanding, and teamwork.  I think that sex was designed to be an appropriately  therapeutic experience.  Porn is also serves as a form of therapy- it distracts and numbs a frazzled mind or a hurting heart.  Thus, many porn users keep the habit not just for the sexual gratification, but also as a way to self-soothe.  Even when a sexual relationship becomes available to them, it is easier to get the soothing experience from porn, where they don’t have to do any work, than from actual sex, where they have to be concerned with the wants and needs of another person.
  • Masturbation and pornography do not always happen together.  They often do, but it seems to me that the assumption is that they necessarily go hand in hand.  I’m just here to let you know that if he masturbates that doesn’t means he’s looking at porn, and if he is looking at porn that doesn’t mean he’s masturbating.  That topic is going to get a post of it’s own one of these days if my readership thinks they can stomach it.
  • It is never because you are not good enough.  It doesn’t mean you’re a bad girlfriend or wife, and it especially doesn’t mean that you are underperforming sexually, or are not attractive or desirable enough.  The truth is that no one woman will ever be able to compete with the world of porn when it comes to the ability to engage and excite the natural man.  Please notice that I said “the natural man”.  The “spiritual man” most definitely can find his devoted mate more desirable than anything in the world, but I think that in order for that to happen, there has to be a level of emotional involvement.
  • People break the habit.  And they break it for good.  Sometimes it takes years of trying, but I could give you a list of men that I know personally who have been able to move beyond porn, and many of them are wonderfully happily married.
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Communication GAPs: On Not Being Offended Because You Really Never Know

Guys, GAP is having a great sale right now- 40% off the entire store.  I have been there three times this weekend.

During my visit on Friday, I was squatting at a low shelf searching through stacks of jeans trying to find my trusty dark wash size 14 skinnys when I heard a woman near me say something like, “Do you guys not have these jeans in over a size 10?”

A few seconds passed before I realized that nobody was responding to her.  I took a quick glance around and realized that we were kind of alone in our corner of the store.

“Might she be asking me???,” I thought to myself.  “Do I look like I work here?”  I was wearing a mint green promo T-Shirt, grubby, jeans, sandals, and a ponytail.  I didn’t have a cart of a lanyard or a badge or a radio or, I thought, any of the other items that usually gives one away as an employee of a retail store.  Surely she couldn’t have been talk to me!  But…nobody else was around, so, surely, she was.

I found myself amused at the honest mistake and was interested in finding out what led her to make it, so I look up and i asked,

Do I look like I work here?

Are you seeing why this was problematic?  I was asking her an honest, friendly question about my outfit and what it may or may not have resentful.  But the way she heard it was, “Of course I don’t work here, you dumb broad!”

She responded with something like, “Oh well you just really looked like you knew what you were doing.” (Which, granted, I did.)

I tried making a friendly remark, which was probably also interpreted as annoyed and rude, and she walked away without responding.

This poor woman- she was asking for help, and she got rudely snapped at by some stranger with a bad attitude.

The thing is, this stranger wasn’t snapping, or being rude, and actually had a fine attitude.  It’s just that the words I used (which suited the circumstance perfectly) were also words one might used if they were trying to be cuttingly sarcastic.

I offended her.  No offense was meant.

So next time somebody says something rude, assume they are trying to be sweet and just happened to use words that sounded rude to you.

“What is wrong with you?” could be an honest expression of concern.

“Your outfit isn’t great” could mean that your outfit is flippin’ awesome.

“Get out of my face” could mean that you owe it to yourself to take a nice vacation because you’ve been under a lot of stress lately and you would first need to get out of their face since their face is not on vacation.

And even if they do mean these things the rude way, they will stop meaning it once you act oblivious to their jerkiness.  :)

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When Your Mission Ends Early and It’s The Best Thing That’s Ever Happened to You

Guys, this is the post I’ve been afraid to write.

On this blog, I’ve talked about all kinds of sensitive subjects- mental illness, abortion, gay marriage, and pornography to name a few.  While I am usually pretty open about my mental processes regarding these tough issues, I actually tend to stay fairly guarded when it comes to how they affect me personally and emotionally.

This post, however, is going to be the mother of personal and emotional.  It’s the post I’ve been needing to write for about 6 years, and afraid to write for just as long.  Brothers and sisters, today I’ve been assigned to talk about:

My mission.


I struggled with depression from my late childhood on up through college, however, by the time I was able to serve a mission, I was on a pretty good combo of meds that kept me balanced.  So off I went to preach the gospel.

The first few months of my mission were wonderful- challenging and frigid cold, but wonderful.  Somehow though, things took a turn for the worst- and I lost my mind.

I cried every day- usually during personal study time and after we were done planning for the evening.  Truth be told, there was no good reason for me to be so upset, but my depression-laden mind told me that I was a horrible and a useless missionary, and that I would never be able to do anything good or important on my mission.  I began to see the downs in the normal ups and downs of missionary life as being entirely my fault. (Ex: Feeling like an unfruitful tracting session occurred because of my general ineptitude.)

I had a hard time understanding why God was doing this to me.  I had always been told that it was Satan who gave us sad, unproductive, and pessimistic thoughts, and that I simply needed to draw closer to the Savior.  Well, at that point, I was literally knocking on people’s doors day in and day out, had moved halfway across the country, put my school on hold when I was only 6 months away from finishing my degree, and had cut off almost all contact with my (nonmember) family all for the cause of Christ.  How could I have been any closer?  I remember, as I knelt in prayer one night, wondering if this was some kind of a joke.  If there was somebody who deserved a little bit of piece of mind, wasn’t it me?

Usually when I prayed during this time, I just felt empty space.  However, at one point I began to experience something even worse.  When I would attempt to pray, my mind would immediately be filled with vivid and horrible images of my own death.  There were a few different scenes that played out in my head, but the one that I saw most frequently was death by lethal injection- and I was the one doing the injecting.  I imagined that I had a syringe in one hand, extended the opposite arm, and injected myself with some kind of poison that would kill me quickly and painlessly.  For some reason, the poison was blue.

And God was nowhere.  I realize that this makes people uncomfortable- but I honestly felt then and continue to feel now (in respect to that period of my life) that God was simply not available to me.  There are probably some people who are thinking to themselves, “she must have have been doing something wrong!  Where was her faith?!  God always helps us when we ask for it.”  And I reply with a polite, “Go to hell.”

Well, you don;t have to go to hell, but the idea that I was suffering because I was unworthy can burn next to the devil himself.

I of course do not claim perfection, but everything I know about life, the gospel, and truth in general tells me that my pain was requisite of my sin.

This is part of the reason why I have been afraid to wrote this post: The only way I can understand what happened is that God refused to comfort me.  And it felt terribly cruel.


I didn’t choose to come home.  My mission president became aware of the extent of my struggles through another sister.  I didn’t want her to tell him per se, but I wasn’t upset that she had.  He called me around 10 pm on a Sunday night and told me to pack all of my things and come to the mission office first thing the following morning.  You should know that the mission office was a five hour drive from where I was serving.

I didn’t think he was going to send me home.  I thought he was going to turn me into a Visitor’s Center sister.  Either way, I wasn’t sure what his intentions were, but I knew that God was involved.  The drive from my area to Independence the next morning was one of the most peace-filled experiences of my life.  I didn’t know what was going to happen, but the Spirit told me that God had been hearing my prayers, and that he was finally going to help me.

Upon arriving at the mission office, my mission president immediately invited me into his office, sat me down, and, perhaps before saying anything (if he did say something it was brief and inconsequential) handed me my plane ticket home.

Arrangements had been made for me to leave before I even knew that was going to happen.

I hear a lot about the crazy shit that other missionaries do, and sometimes still feel a little bit bitter that I was dismissed so thoughtlessly while other people caught to spend their whole missions goofing off and having little regard for the work.

I probably sound a little bit contradictory right now, as I look back on that experience, I feel both resentment at gratitude.  I still haven’t quite worked these feelings out, but the rest of the story is only about love.


After that meeting with my mission president, he sent me across the parking lot to the Visitor’s Center to use a phone to call my family.  My mom answered, and I of course just began to bawl.  I explained to her what was happening.  I could here the smile on her face as she exclaimed, “Oh honey!  This is the best news I could have gotten!”  She then told me that everybody who really loved me, and really knew me, was just going to be proud of me.

That was hard for me to believe at the time.  I was so fearful of coming home- how could people respect me after I had failed at the one thing I felt like I was good at?  From the time I had joined the church 5 years prior, everybody told me how great of a missionary I would be.  I had a testimony, I was a good teacher, and I was obedient, but, when it came down to it, I was not a great missionary.

When I arrived at the airport the next day, I called a good friend who had had to come home early from her mission for medical reasons from a pay phone.  Man of man, was I grateful to have somebody who understood and who didn’t pass any kind of judgement.

I had a layover in Dallas on my way home.  It is weird to be a missionary, in an airport, alone- especially in my condition of trying to decide how I was going to hide my face in shame for the rest of eternity as soon as the next plane touched down in California.  I ended up at  food court where I bought a taco for $8.  The young cook who gave me my taco called me “sister”, and I somehow established that he was also LDS, and had actually recently returned home from his mission.  I told him that my mission was over and I was heading home, and he congratulated me without knowing that my mission had only lasted 5 months.  I felt a little bit guilty for not disclosing it, but hey, he didn’t ask, and either way, there was something comforting to me about being acknowledged as a missionary one last time.

Other people get huge welcoming committees when they come home from their missions. I had one person at the airport waiting for me- my dad.  He didn’t have a sign, or a balloon, or even tears (prior to my mission I had been an adventurous college student who only visited my parents when obligated to by the closure of the dorms, so being without me for a few months wasn’t a world-rocker for him).  He was just standing there at the bottom of the escalator, with his sleeves rolled up and his tie off and that “it’s been a long day at work” look on his face.  On the day I left with my family to go to Utah to enter the MTC, my dad sat down on my bed and said, “Juliet, I know this is important to you, and I know how much you want to do this, but I want you to know that you can always come home- whenever you are ready.”  I had dismissively jumped up and assured him that there would be no coming home for the 18 months everyone was planning on, but 5 months later, as I rode down that escalator in that airport, I got the feeling that he had known something that I hadn’t, and I was grateful that his offer to accept me back home whenever I was ready still stood.

On the way home from the airport, we stopped at a church building to meet with the first counselor in the stake presidency so that I could be released- it was just the three of us.  During that meeting the counselor said something that would become incredibly important to me and that I have oft repeated to others: “You don’t owe an explanation to anybody.”

We then went home, where my mom was sitting in her nightgown watching TV.  She was happy to see me, but, like I said, five months really isn’t that long for parents of twenty-somethings, so it wasn’t really an emotional or exciting reunion.

I then called my good friend Ryan Shapiro.

Ryan: Hello?

Me: Hi Ryan.

Ryan: Who is this?

Me: You don’t know who this is?

Ryan: Oh my gosh…IT’S JULIET!!!!!!

And then the rejoicing continued.  He had missed me, and was thrilled that I was home.  What a comfort it was to be met with such joy.

Do you remember the friend I called from the airport before I left?  Well, next I decided to drive over to visit her and her family (husband, 4 kids, 1 niece who was living with them at the time).  I knocked on the door and was greeted with not just hugs and smiles, but, get this: a banner, balloons, and a cake.  They threw me a welcome home party!  I then was brought up to date on this new dance craze called the dougie and was wowed by a middle schooler’s ability to perfectly recite every word of a song called “Fergilicious”.


I didn’t stay with my parents long.  Withing a few weeks, I had headed back up to Santa Barbara where I had lived for the three years prior to my mission.  This is also where just about all of my LDS friends lived.

I had been so nervous about coming home early, but not only did people nit shun me, but people weren’t even awkward around me!  They were happy to see me!  I was quickly invited to take over an open spot in an apartment of LDS girls, and they really were needing somebody to be the 1st counselor in relief society.  About a month passed between me being sent home early from my mission and my call to be in the RS presidency.  I was met with love, trust, and enthusiasm.

I heard an account of a girl who hadn’t met me hearing of my early return and speculating that I had done something wrong.  Apparently, another girl, who had known me for a few years scolded her with something like, “Don’t even say that! Juliet would never do something wrong on her mission!”  Bless her heart- she may have had more confidence in me than I deserved, but I am immensely grateful for the sentiment.


Upon returning home, the depression let up immediately.  Suicidal thoughts no longer roamed in and out of my mind, and I felt capable, important, and happy.

Oftentimes, I hear that people come home early from their missions, for whatever reason, and never really make it back to church again, in part due to people being judgmental, isolating, and even cruel.

But let’s recap what happened to me when I returned home:

  • I was congratulated by a (granted, uninformed) stranger who made my taco.
  • I was told by a church leader that I didn’t owe anybody an explanation.
  • I was accepted whole-heartedly by my family.
  • I was thrown a party.
  • I was offered a place to live.
  • I was extended a leadership calling.
  • I was defended by people who knew me to people who didn’t.
  • I was met with joy, excitement, and, most of all, love.

At the place in my life where I thought I was going to see the worst of the Mormon people is where I found the very best of the Mormon people- kind, accepting, and eager to support and connect.  By the time this happened I had been a Mormon for about 5 years, but this was when I knew that the Mormons were mine, and that I was their’s. This was when I knew that they would stand by me no matter what.

And they, collectively and individually, are still standing by me.


I received a blessing in the MTC from my district leader.  In it, he said, “Juliet, you mission will be a success in the eyes of the Lord.”  Well, you should know that I achieved a grand total of zero baptisms as a missionary.  That’s right- on paper, my mission was a waste of 5 months and few thousand dollars.

So how was it a success?  I believe that my mission was never supposed to be longer than five months.  Being a missionary was an amazing and life-changing experience, but far and away, hands down, without a doubt, the most valuable part of my mission was the end of my mission.

Before my mission I loved Jesus, loved the gospel, and liked the Church.  I still love Jesus best of all, and the gospel is still second on the list, but now I love, not just like, the Church.


My God, who had seemed absent while I suffered in Kansas, surrounded me with compassion in California.  Every act of love shown by a fellow human felt like God’s hands reaching through them.

Thank you, God, for taking me out there.  Thank you, even more, for bringing me back home.

And that is the post I’m no longer afraid to write.

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The Physical Illness of Depression

These last two days, I have been on the struggle bus.  I usually to describe being like this as “being off”, “not feeling well”, or just “not feeling quite normal”.  Really, I’m depressed.  But I hate that word.

When I hear the word “depressed” I think of somebody who is unambitious, unmotivated, pessimistic, and most of all, somebody who is acted upon, instead of somebody who acts.  I know this isn’t fair- some of the greatest, kindest, most accomplished people I know have dealt or are dealing with depression- but the idea of associating that word with myself makes me feel so very small.

I keep asking myself, “What is wrong with you?!” I keep trying to reason myself into feeling better.  I keep calling people, hoping they will cheer me up- they try. But nothing really “snaps me out of it”.  I will snap out of it, but your guess is as good as mine regarding when or why.

This depression thing, is not just in my head, it’s in my whole body.  It’s not only a mental and emotional, but a physical condition.  Let me sum up my experiences over the last two days for you:

  •  I cried hysterically over something that was inconvenient. Like, barely able to speak because i was crying so intensely.  I knew it wasn’t worthy of such a reaction, but I just felt so out of control, and like my physical response was not aligning with my cognitive understanding of the situation.
  • I couldn’t focus in my institute class.  Like, I got up and left because I just couldn’t pay attention.
  • I am going through an episode of “I am the ugliest person alive and therefor nobody could ever love me.”
  • I just feel so mentally tired.
  • I don’t really feel like talking.
  • When I do talk, I often lose my train of thought, stammer, and take longer than normal trying to find the words to use to say what I mean.
  • I had to decide if I wanted to fill out a Health Insurance application today or in a few weeks after I begin my new job.  I ended up just taking a nap because just deciding when to do it was so overwhelming.
  • The missionaries came over for dinner and I hid in my room because I did not feel capable of acting happy enough to talk to them.
  • Walking 200 feet to my car feels exhausting.
  • Also, I haven’t taken a shower since Tuesday morning (It is now Thursday night).

The symptoms of me “not feeling normal” are a combination of the mental, the emotional, and the physical.

I know that if you were able to perfectly see my body, at the molecular level, something would look different today than it looked a week ago.  Being depressed is as much my choice as having a headache is my choice.

I wish that all the well-meaning friends I have were actually able to fix my mood- I wish it was just a matter of mood.  Understanding that depression is more than just a bad attitude is a little bit scary, because then you know you can’t just make up your mind to not be depressed anymore.

However, it is also a little bit liberating to know that depression is something that happens to you, and is not something you just are.

I really hate the stigma that surrounds mental illness, and I want to be loud and proud about the fact that people who suffer from depression are perfectly normal…as long as they are OTHER people.  I don’t feel so confident in sticking up for myself.

If you have or are experiencing depression, know that you are i great company, and that there is no shame in seeking help.  If you had an infection, you would have no reason to be ashamed of taking an antibiotic.  Likewise, there is no shame in seeking professional help for mental illness, including taking medication.

If you don’t know what depression is like, and want to know how to help someone you know who may be struggling with it, try reading this.

One last thing- I’ve found that, often, the quickest way for me to feel better is to take care of myself in some physical way- either by going for a walk, taking a nap, drinking water, or eating an actual meal.  Additionally, I’ve found that my negative moods tend to come at a certain point in my menstrual cycle.  These things suggest to me that the depression really is a mental manifestation of a physical illness.  When praying, talking, convincing, and meditating fail, just take a nap.


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Stranger at the Pulpit, Don’t Say You Love Me

You know the scene.  It might be in fast and testimony meeting, or perhaps in a regular sacrament meeting.  Maybe even in a Sunday school class or at a fireside.  But, let’s be real, it’s probably happening in Relief Society.

“I just love all of you!  I don’t even know you, but I love you!”

This is where I turn to my nearest friendly neighbor and pretend to gag myself with my index finger.  If there are tears involved in this exclamation of love, I might actually throw up in my purse a tiny bit.  Why, why must you say you love me?  It’s annoying.  You don’t even know me.

This statement was likely made by some woman who refers to herself as a “hugger” and insists on hugging you because…I don’t know…you both showed up to church I guess?  I like to hug, but I don’t give my hugs out like pretzels.  They are sacred and are reserved for those who I really like and do not see often enough.

Oh, and no matter what, please don’t act excited to see me in that high-pitch whisper voice.

A few days ago a good friend told me about a girl she had been working with who did exactly that (acted excited to see her in a high-pitch whisper voice)  who had really grated on her nerves.

We asked ourselves, “Selves, are we bad people?  Are we wicked for not wanting strangers to tell us they love us? Or act like they love us?  And why don’t we love everyone like they do?  Are we bad? Do we even have souls anymore?” After all, Christ loved everybody, didn’t he?  And isn’t that his message, to love as he loved?

And then- light bulb. Are you ready for this?

Christ did love everybody.  But Christ did not love strangers.  

There are no strangers to him. He knows us perfectly, and perhaps it is the perfect knowing that makes the perfect love possible. And we our counseled to be “no more strangers”.  Christ has also said, “if ye are not one, ye are not mine.”  Can you really (really) be one with people whom you don’t know?  I don’t know if I can.

So, no I don’t think we are bad for not loving everybody.  We don’t know everybody.

This might sound a little bit bratty, but I choose to continue to dislike it when strangers tell me they love me, even if I am part of a collective group which they have generally good feelings towards.  It isn’t love they’re feeling, it’s something else.  I don’t know what, but it’s something else.

I am eager to accept the love of those who have reason to love me.  Knowing my name and my face isn’t a good enough reason for you to love me.

Let us all love, but first, let us all know.

Now, you know what to do.

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I’ve Been a YSA for 10 Years and I’m Done Making Friends

I’ve been in the YSA scene for a long time.  In July, it will be a decade.

The dominant attribute of these last ten years has been my search for companionship.  Now, there’s the understandable search for a permanent mate, but I have also been on an endless search for friends.

Now, you are probably thinking, “but don’t you have friends?”  I do have friends, and have always had friends.  There have been a smattering of times when I didn’t live near anybody I considered myself close to, but I had a substantial list of people who I knew loved me and were only a phone call away.

I wasn’t looking for friends because I didn’t have any- I was looking for friends because that’s just what I did.

I wouldn’t even sit by my current roommate, Elizabeth, at church.  I love her- I positively adore her.  We do a lot together and enjoy being in each other’s company.  But, in my mind, church wasn’t for people I already knew, it was for getting to know new people. Always new, always more. Never satisfied, always empty.

How was I bred this way?  Firstly, I feel a deep sense of responsibility towards those who don’t have friends, who may be lonely.  How can I fulfill my responsibility to them if I am caught up with my regular group of friends?  Secondly, we are told pretty frequently to “get out there and meet people!”  I took the admonition very seriously.  Thirdly, and unignorably, I do still want a husband, and it would seem that that would require getting to know some new people.

I live in Mesa, AZ.  If you’ve never been here, don’t worry.  You’re not missing much.  Except for house parties with 300 people.  And 5-stake New Year’s Eve dances where there is hardly enough room to walk, let alone actually dance.  And game nights where half of the people who shoe up have no idea whose house they’re even at.  For some reason, Arizonians like to do things big- bigger than other places I’ve lived.  There are always new people to meet.  And the bigger the event, the more I felt like I needed to be there.

I needed to be there to make friends, to make connections, to be happy! But, like I said…I already had friends.  But I wasn’t happy.  Just a few weeks ago, I was driving home from a ward Family Home Evening activity that was not a particularly good experience, when I though to myself:

When will I have made enough friends, and will be allowed to actually start enjoying them?

I have gone to party after party, event after event, looking for human connection.  Desperately seeking it.  But I walked into those parties with some AMAZING people right at my side.  I gave them the designation of “wing girl”- really, a tool to help me get what I wanted in somebody else. I had friends.  And I was loyal to them.  And I loved them.  But I always needed more.  I always needed to be looking.  I always needed to be finding.

I recently decided to overhaul my Sunday habits in an effort to make it a more Christ-centered, uplifting day.  One of my new “rules” was that I was no longer going to socialize on Sunday.  I could talk to people, laugh with people, hang out, invite, share…even flirt.  But not socialize.  What’s the difference?  In my mind, the difference was that I was no longer going to seek after new friends for the sake of having new friends.  It’s worked marvelously.

More recently, I considered extending that frame of mind to my mid-week institute class, which is attended by a hefty group of YSAs.  Or even church functions in general.  The issue with that is that almost all of the functions I attend are church functions.  Doing so would change the way I interacted with social situations entirely.  It would change me, change my friendships, and maybe change my life.

Well, I put it to the test last week at institute.  I wasn’t going to try to meet new people.  I was going to strengthen the friendships I already had.  Instead of constantly gazing around the room looking for my next target, I sought out the people who have already proven to me that they love me and are good for me.  I reached out to them, I was joyful to see them, I took comfort in their kindness.  It was a beautiful experience.  On the surface, it probably didn’t look very different than normal, but it felt different, and it was different.

In the past, I always left social gatherings feeling empty and unaccomplished, because my opportunity to seek out new people had ended.  But last Wednesday, I left feeling full, and grateful, and loved.

I of course have no aversion to making new friends, but I can honestly say that I am content with what I have.  Not only content- I am thrilled.  I recently heard a quote referenced that said that anytime somebody we love walks through the door, we should go insane with joy.

Well, I guess that you can just call me crazy then.

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Motherhood as a Case Study in Sacrifice

We all have mother’s, but beyond that fact I’m not sure how much universal commonality we can really find on the topic.  All of our motherhood situations are different, and that makes giving a talk on such a broad topic fairly challenging.  So I’m going to be a little bit deviant  The topic of my talk is not actually motherhood.  The topic of my talk is sacrifice, using mothers as a kind of case study.   I know that we typically think of it as “giving up something good for something better”, but I want to invite you to try and see sacrifice through a slightly different lens, the idea that sacrifice is a manifestation of our love of God and our love of others, and that that love is the ruling motivator in our lives.


First, the woman who, sacrificed more, and for more than perhaps any other woman who has ever lived.   We know that it was Eve who first partook of the fruit, and that is was she who bid Adam to do the same, so I don’t feel like I am being too radical in suggesting that just as much as in Adams case, Eve fell that men might be and men are that they might have joy.  She had the courage to leave her comfortable and peaceful home in the garden of Eden, where she was immortal and walked and talked with God, to fall into mortality, to labor by the sweat of her brow, and to bring forth children in sorrow for a few hundred years on earth before dying and returning to dust from whence she came.  And this she did so that she could fulfill her role as the mother of all living, and that, through her, we would all have the opportunity to realize our potential through the experience of mortality.


The next mother I would like to talk about is not a literal mother at all.  Mother Teresa is best known for her work among the orphans, the elderly, the sick, and the impoverished in the slums of Calcutta.   She came from a rich family who were known for their philanthropy, and enjoyed many of the privileges of being well-educated and well-cultured, but took upon herself a vow of poverty when she became a nun.  She once said, “ ”I will be a saint” means I will despoil myself of all that is not God; I will strip my heart of all created things; I will live in poverty and detachment; I will renounce my will, my inclinations, my whims and fancies, and make myself a willing slave to the will of God.”  Her language may sound severe, but surely it was this fierce dedication to God that gave her the desire and the ability to leave behind her worldly riches and devote herself to the kind of life that would earn her a place in the memories of billions of people as literally the kindest and most peaceful woman who has ever lived.  She has done a lot for people, but so has Oprah Winfrey, and for some reason the phrase “Mother Oprah” feels a bit awkward.  They are both very giving, and very generous, but I wonder if its the fact that Mother Teresa sacrificed so much so tirelessly that it just feels natural to people everywhere, both rich and poor, catholic and not catholic, religious and irreligious, to refer to her as “mother”.   She said, ““A sacrifice to be real must cost, must hurt, and must empty ourselves. Give yourself fully to God. He will use you to accomplish great things on the condition that you believe much more in his love than in your weakness.”

A few years ago I flew from Salt Lake City where I had been working to Tuscon to be with my sister Megan for the birth of her first child.   She started labor at around 3pm, and labored long into the night.  She was in one of the bedrooms of the birthing center, and I was waiting restlessly outside in the hallway where there was a noisy heater that kept switching on and off- I preferred having it on, because it muffled the sound of my sisters moaning and groaning, which honestly made me kind of queasy.  But after several hours of listening to this, probably around 2 or 3 am, I thought to myself, “Wow, this baby she is about to have should live his life every day with so much confidence, happiness, and gratitude.  If he only knew what this poor woman was going through to give him life, he would would think of himself as the most worthy, most important, and most loved person on the face of the earth.”  I then realized that what I was thinking about this baby was true of myself, and also every person. Some woman went through a great amount of pain and struggle to bring each of us into the world, not to mention physical and emotional sacrifice that mothers usually make for their children for the entirety of their lives.  Just as a side note, my amazing sister labored until the sun came up, and until the sun went down again, totalling 30 hours of labor, 24 of which were without medicinal pain relief.


In matters of sacrifice, Jesus Christ is our exemplar. Hebrews 12:1-2 says, “…let us lay aside every weight, and the sin which doth so easily beset us, and let us run with patience the race that is set before us, Looking unto Jesus the author and finisher of our faith; who for the joy that was set before him endured the cross…”  My interpretation of this scripture is that we were the joy that was set before him.  Christ knows us, loves us, and desires to be with us forever.  The agony of the atonement was unimaginable and inexpressible, but his love for us is even more so.    he suffered the grief of the garden and the cruelty of the cross because he sees us as a worthy reward for his pain.  Jesus is the love of my life and I am trying to be perpetually satisfied in him.

It may seem strange that up until now I have made no mention of my own mother. Many of you know that my mom was recently diagnosed with 4th stage brain cancer.  But, honestly, no matter what happens, I know that I am still one of the lucky ones, because I got the best mom in the world for at least 27 years.  I was a sensitive and preoccupied child, who grew up to be a sensitive and preoccupied adult, and my mom has constantly sacrificed for me.  She forgives me for my weakness, and loves me for my eccentricity.   Truly, as abraham lincoln said, everything that i am, or ever hope to be, i owe to my angel mother.  And in the words of Maya angelou, I am her baby, and that is better than being anybody else in the world.

Why I Don’t Wear Makeup in May

First of all, let me do the obligatory apology for dropping off the face of the blog earth.  My reason is that I normally blog about things that really matter to me and that really get me thinking, but lately, those have not been the kinds of things I can be public about.  Now…moving on…

It is May again, and you know what that means!  It’s time for my third annual round of No Makeup May.

For those of you unable to detect the obvious, No Makeup May is when, during May, I wear no makeup.  No blush, no lip color, no mascara, no eyeliner, no concealer, no foundation, and last but certainly not least in terms of difficulty, no brow pencil!  I wear moisturizer and chap stick and will continue to have my brows threaded, and that’s all that happens to my face.

Why do I do this?  Well, a few reasons.

1. It saves me time.

2. It saves me money.

3. It gives me something to blog about.

4. It gives me an opportunity to discuss issues surrounding beauty and confidence.

5. Most of all, it is a way that I glorify God.

Let me expound on that last one a little bit.  I am a lover of nature, and see God’s love reflected in the beauty that abounds in the natural world.  Mankind has made some beautiful things, but nothing that compares with the majesty of the grand canyon, or the serenity of the ocean, or the wonder of the silent snowfall.  I believe that God’s creations cannot be improved upon.

And I believe that about his greatest creations- us- as well!

“I will praise thee, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made..” says Psalm 139, verse 14.  I feel that one way I can praise God is to show gratitude and satisfaction for what he has given me.  That includes my face.  My smooshy, big forehead, eyes too far apart, no eyelash face.  In other words, my fearfully and wonderfully made face.

I recently became inspired to set down my preoccupation with my personal goals and standards of success, and to instead strive to be satisfied in Christ on a daily basis. I want to feel complete and joyful each day by relying on his love and his atonement and allowing those things to really penetrate my mind, heart, and will.  This year, No Makeup May is a step I’m taking toward that.  My aim is to not be distracted with what I think others think of me or with what I think of myself, but to abound in the evidence that I am created and loved by God.  And to take a break from my perpetual need to find something about myself to be dissatisfied with.

Every year I ask for joiners, and every year I get zero.  I ain’t even mad though.  I get that this is not the kind of thing everyone cares about.  And to be honest, I don’t know if I’m ready enough to be satisfied in Christ that I would be able to give up my flat iron or Velcro rollers.

But if there is someone out there who wants to give it a try, I invite you to join me.  And talk about it. And write about it.  I would even invite you to post no makeup selfies, but we know how I feel about those.

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The Untold Love Stories of the Scriptures

When I study the scriptures, I try to really “read between the lines” to get a sense of the humanity of scriptural characters. I love the scriptures.  I also love love.

We have our classic love stories- Abraham and Sarah, Isaac and Rebekah, Jacob and Rachel, etc.- but I often wonder about the love “back stories” of many others.  It is my dream to produce a series of films titled “The Untold Love Stories of the Scriptures.”

Here are some of my ideas:

1. Adam and Eve.  Let’s start at the very beginning.  This film would really just be a variation on the story of the creation and the fall, but with an emphasis on the relationship between Adam and Eve.  They’re in the garden and everything is all good until Eve meets the serpent.  In most biblical depictions, Eve’s decision to partake of the fruit is rather immediate.  But in my story, she would emotionally and mentally labor for weeks (or whatever that translates to in Eden time) over the decision to stay with her dear, lovely, Adam, or to seek self-fulfillment by partaking of the fruit.  Her decision to partake of the fruit serve as the main plot-thickening agent.  The climax happens when she tells Adam what she has done, and the resolution comes when Adam decides that he loves her enough to also partake of the fruit and be cast out with the woman who was willing to be cast out even without him.

2. David and Bathsheba.  David is one of my very favorite characters of the Old Testament.  He was a spiritual giant who defeated a literal giant, and his exhibition of such great faith is what makes his demise (his affair with Bath-sheba and the killing of her husband, Uriah) particularly cutting.  But what if it wasn’t so simple?  I picture David and Bath-sheba s having been childhood sweethearts, promising to one another that they would be together forever.  As a matter of fact, when Samuel first sends for him, he isn’t with the sheep, but with Bathsheba, hanging out in a tree and flirting over fruit.  He promises that he will see her soon, but learns that that very evening she and her family were captured by the Philistines.  So his defeat of Goliath is really an act of love.  Israel defeats the Phillistines, but Bathsheba and her family are unable to be found…that is, until the night David sees her bathing from his roof.  He inquires after her and learns that her husband, Uriah, while being a faithful soldier, beats Bath-sheba and is a wine bibber.  David can’t handle the idea of his childhood love being hurt and sends for her to come visit him.  They go on a walk to the very fruit tree where he left her, and an affair ensues. Upon learning of her pregnancy and wanting to protect her honor, David sends Uriah home to be with his wife.  But Uriah has caught word of the affair and refuses to protect the king and his wife in their adultery.  He now hates David and wants to expose him, so he doesn’t go home.  David gets angry, but the decision to put Uriah at the front lines of battle is actually Bath-sheba’s.

3. Laman and the oldest daughter of Ishmael.  Poor Laman and Lemuel, they get such a bad reputation!  Can you imagine being one of their wives- a daughter of Ishmael?  One day your dad tells you that you are going off into the wilderness to follow some visionary guy because his apostate sons need wives.  Sounds like a pretty bad deal, if you ask me.  Unless there’s more to the story.  Let’s say that back in Jerusalem, before Lehi and his family left, Laman and the oldest daughter of Ishmael were actually in love.  The daughter becomes pregnant, and gives Laman the exciting news.  That very night, however, the people of Jerusalem show up at Lehi’s house and run them out of town.  Laman has to decide between staying with his love and possibly endangering her and their unborn child (since the angry mobs will continue to target him), or leave and probably never see them again.  He decides to leave, and swears in his wrath that he will never forgive his father or brother for the circumstances they created.  On one of his trips back to Jerusalem, he visits the daughter, and swears that if she will but wait, he will come for her.  He and his brothers come for her and her entire family just a few weeks before their baby girl becomes the first child to be born in the wilderness.

To Immodestly Dressed Girls: I’m Sorry I Called You Porn

During a routine meeting with his mission president, a young elder is surprised to be asked, “Elder, do you struggle with pornography?”

“Of course not, President!  How could I be?  I follow all the mission rules- I always stay with my companion, I work hard ad follow the schedule as best I can, and I only use the internet on P-day to email my family!”

The mission president leaned in, looked the missionary right in the eye, and said, “Elder, I’m talking about walking pornography.”


I heard this account, given as a true occurrence, several years ago in a Relief Society meeting.  I’ve heard the term “walking pornography” here and there, and did some quick internet investigation of the story to see if it had some attributable origin.  Perhaps it did happen, just like that, but it is likely just Mormon lore.

Mormon lore is a story that happened to somebody who knows somebody who you know, and they are repeated in order to encourage their hearers to follow certain gospel principles- some common examples are being miraculously physically protected by one’s temple garment, or receiving a check in the mail for the exact amount of money you paid in tithing the day before, in spite of being in financial crisis.

This particular account was shared to warn the sisters in room of the potential of being “walking pornography” in the eyes of men by dressing immodestly.

I have since retold the story, and have frequently shortened it’s message to, simply, “girls, let’s not be walking porn.”

I fell into the trap of equating dressing “immodestly” (which, by the way, what does that even mean?), with being pornographic.

To any of the women whom I may have had in mind, please, please, forgive me.

If pornography was just a stream of images of “scantily-clad” women, going about their days doing normal things like going to class, walking to the mailbox, and getting to know friends of friends, then I would be able to justify calling your average girl walking down the street in on a July afternoon “pornographic”.

But pornography is something different entirely.  Pornography is routinely violent and degrading towards women.  It is extreme and depicts the most deprave of situations.  It glorifies the exploitation of adolescent sexuality- and does so legally.

And, at it’s worst, it abuses little children to serve it’s purposes.  Sometimes, it rapes them.

A curve-revealing dress, a little jiggle of visible cleavage, or a thong peaking out the top of a yoga pant are not pornographic.  Immodest? Maybe, who’s to say? But these things are entirely not porn.  Porn is evil. A woman’s breasts, butt, legs and stomach are not.

You might be saying, “Even if women aren’t doing anything evil, their dress still encourages a pornography habit in men.”

Maybe it does contribute to it, but it is still not the same thing.

As stated above, porn often depicts things that are depraved, extreme, and even implausible- the real world and the porn world are two very different places.

Also, we absolutely must consider the intention behind a woman wearing clothes.  And, in some cases, we are great at considering intention.  For example, picture a young woman wearing a very short pair of shorts- they leave nothing about her form to the imagination.  On top, she has on a tank top that is cut low in both the back and the front.  Perhaps a sliver of midriff is showing.  What did I just describe?  Well, if she’s going out to dinner on Friday night, it’s a very immodest outfit.  But if she’s at the beach on Saturday afternoon…she’s actually wearing a very modest bathing suit, as far as bathing suits go.

My point is that, as long as a woman is not dressing to specifically arouse men, she is not pornography. Actually, remove that disclaimer.  Even if she IS trying to turn guys on, she still isn’t porn.  Please understand that they are not the same thing.

So, girls, I’m sorry I called you porn.  And I didn’t just do it once, I did it over, and over, and over again.

Please accept my apology.

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