I was 37. Married. Mormon. Numb.

I was 37. Married. Stay-at-home mom to four kids. But mostly, I was Mormon.

The Mormon church saved me when I was 16. Or so I believed. They showed me the exact to-do list that qualified me as worthy of God’s love. They said as long as I checked off the worthiness list, God had to love me forever. Those were the rules, and having full control over whether I was loved or not sounded real good to me. So I told them,

“Dunk me.”

Baptized at 16. Married in the Temple at age 20. Four kids by age 31. Honey, I was so good at keeping those rules. I mean, if God’s love was guaranteed, wouldn’t you? And if you were told that your body was full of sin potential and likely to be the reason for you to break those rules and lose God’s love, wouldn’t you ignore everything your body tried to tell you?

The Touch That Shattered the Silence

I don’t know if I grew deaf to the nudges from my intuition or if my gut stopped talking. The lack of feeling…almost anything, I guess, made it easy to be obedient. By the time I sat in that high school auditorium next to her at age 37, my body hadn’t said anything in a long time.

And then she put her hand on my leg. And my body spoke.

We were there to watch a few of my nieces and nephews perform in the spring musical. The crowd was filling in, and I was fully oblivious of the intense anxiety my body experienced in crowds. I hadn’t even noticed my leg nervously bouncing. But she did.

She put her hand on my leg. And my body spoke, no, screamed. It felt electric. And it changed everything.

What Came Next

Fell in love.

Lost my mind.

Tried to pray it away.

Signed up for conversion therapy.

Thought about ending it.

Got divorced.

Left the church.

Became a single mom.

Started over.

What the Hell Just Happened?

Now I’m 40 and working with my first non-Mormon therapist. She’s… wait for it… a lesbian. Like, her whole life. She’s married.

It’s like being in the room with an exotic animal.

I ask her, “Why didn’t I know this about myself? I need to figure out my life, like right now, and it feels so scary. What if I get another 20 years down the road, and something else about who I am comes along and blows up my life? Again.

How could I have been so disconnected from myself?

And what if it happens again?”

I Had Everything. But I Didn’t Have Me.

I could read you my Mormon resume to prove how faithful I had been, but unless you wore a CTR ring as a kid, it wouldn’t mean anything to you. It’s clearer just to say I spent decades working my ass off to be the world’s most amazing Mormon mom. Four kids, a devout husband, a house in THAT neighborhood. Minivan. I owned a successful photography studio, I served in my church, and I prayed like my life depended on it. Because it felt like it did, every.single.day.

We lived in a neighborhood that was 40% Mormon. Mormon congregations are organized geographically, so the closest 150 families or so make up your “ward”. This meant I didn’t see my “ward family” just on Sundays. Everywhere I went, I heard it, “Hey Sister Thurston!”

I thought it was normal to have migraines due to clenching my jaw, all day and all night. I thought all moms lost their minds over spilled milk. I thought my ability to abide by all the rules was due to my righteousness, not fear.

I thought my body stayed silent because that was faith. I could only trust emotions when they came from God.

The Funeral of Who I Was

We had to sell the “forever home” in the divorce. I tried to leave the ghost of my former self in the kitchen with the tile I had picked out. But she followed me to the rental, just 10 minutes down the road.

When people ask me, “When did you come out?” I have to ask whether they’re referring to the Mormon Church or my sexuality, because the “coming out” verbiage is used for both. And fascinatingly, their response is often the same regardless.

“Good for you for being authentic.” “Look at you, so brave.” “You did the right thing; you should be proud of that.” All kind words, all nice people. But none of them had to sit in the aftermath, holding my ghost’s hand at her funeral.

I spent a lot of time grieving, attending the funerals of who I had been, funerals of relationships and future plans. To grieve, one must be alive. And I had that. The grief became the gateway; it taught me the language of my soul.

Coming out didn’t feel like a choice, so I didn’t feel brave. But I did feel alive. I had no idea who I was, but I could feel. Finally.

From 4 Crayons to 164

Hands down, the hardest part of living your truth is actually f