I’ve always had a good memory. A great one, in fact.

I’ve always had a great memory, so I didn’t need to search through my last journal to remember the day that I first recognized that my testimony of the LDS Church was crumbling.

I was at work. Boxing up a tall stack of hardback books in the middle of March 2017. I looked up to see a coworker approaching me. We exchanged greetings and were doing the obligatory small talk thing when he got really quiet. He just stood there for a second, right in front of me not saying anything. He finally looked me in the eyes and said “You’re a Mormon. Tell me what you believe. Share your testimony with me.”

I broke eye contact and looked down at the dust covered cement floor. I looked right, at the sharpie line I had accidentally drawn on the now off-white table. I looked left, where a piece of tape was stuck to the clipboard I was using. I didn’t however, look him back in the eyes… and I refused to look up where I knew God was watching me.

I didn’t share my testimony that day. I wasn’t scared. I wasn’t ashamed. I wasn’t even at a loss of words. I knew WHAT to say. I knew what to say because I had been repeating it for years. To friends, to family, over the pulpit, to co-workers. Yes, I knew WHAT to say.

I didn’t say it. I didn’t say it because for the first time in my entire life I didn’t know that I believed it. I didn’t know if those words I had been reciting for years were really something I knew to be true.

I thought of all the young women my age, standing in front of the congregation with tear streaked faces, uttering between stifled sobs, “ I KNOW without a doubt that this church is true.”

I thought of all those young women and realized that I wasn’t one of them.

I wasn’t reverently stating my testimony in my cute pleated skirt. I was internally screaming for help. Begging for someone, anyone, to help me KNOW that this church was true.

It was scary. I felt lost. I cried A LOT. More than usual. My anxiety and depression was no longer centered around my breakup, but around the breaking up of what I thought was my solid foundation…. my knowledge and surety of the gospel of Jesus Christ.

A few weeks later I asked my best friend to come give me a Priesthood blessing. I didn’t disclose any of my doubts. I never did. To anyone. I kept things vague. “I’m stressed. I’m anxious. My heart hurts. I’m questioning things in life”… changing majors was a great cover up. I kept it all a secret and pretended to be Miss Molly Mormon seeking help about her education.

As my anxiety thickened and I started to lose my friends, things got worse. My doubts and fear turned to anger. Anger towards God for not giving me answers, and anger towards all of the valiant LDS members who weren’t doubting.

I would walk into church each week. I would see people with their notepads taking notes, adsorbing the talks, messages, and lessons. I would see people smiling, crying, and rejoicing in The Spirit. I would see my own blotchy face, tears of anger and doubt. Different from these people.

Mormon culture is different from Mormon doctrine. Nowhere are members of the LDS church doctrinely told they must be married by 18. Nowhere are young women told they are of lesser value for not serving a mission. Nowhere are we told that we can’t have questions… the gospel itself was established because a young boy had a question. Shouldn’t questions then be encouraged? Not according to culture.

Moving to Utah changed my ideas of Mormon culture. I had questions…doubts… but I was pressured to not ask them. “Read the scriptures. Pray more. You don’t need to be asking these questions.”

I was falling apart more and more everyday.

July 25th. One of my dearest friends expressed her recent decision to leave the church. Expressing her concerns and doubts. Her uncertainty.

August 9th. A second of my closest friends told me that same thing.

As I sat and listened, I was holding back tears… using everything in me to not break down. They jokingly asked “Am I ruining your testimony?”, probably very aware of my emotional distress.

I couldn’t bring myself to say “No, because it was ruined a long time ago.” I couldn’t bring myself to say “Help me. Talk to me. I’m dealing with the same thing.” Instead I sat in silence. Staring at my unfinished sandwich… pretending that my testimony was unshakable, unwilling to reveal that I was lost and confused…. terrified. I didn’t say “This is scary, and it sucks, but we’ll all figure it out one day, right?”. Instead I said nothing. Seemingly judgemental. Appearing as though I was criticizing. I’m so sorry. I wasn’t.

I know you’re reading this waiting for the happy ending.

There isn’t one… yet.

I’m in the thick of my faith crisis. I still wonder. I still doubt.

Guess what.

IT’S OKAY. It’s okay to have doubts.

We need to make room for people in the church. People like me.

I know I’m not the only one dealing with something like this.

There is room for people with crumbling testimonies. There is room for people with addictions. There is room for people with tattoos. There is room for coffee drinkers and tobacco users.

There is room. Stop acting like there isn’t. Move your 12 kids over an inch, and MAKE IT.

Many people are going to send me conference talks, scriptures, Pinterest quotes, and talk to their spouses about how “Oh Hailey Allen left the church.”

Don’t send me those things, and no I didn’t. I’m not a project. I’m a person, trying to figure out life like the rest of you. Don’t ask me if I’m doing “the little things” because I am, even though it’s none of your business.

Love me. Hug me when I cry. Answer questions when I ask them. Hold my hand when I cry in church because I’m stressed about my testimony. Tell me everything will be okay. DON’T lecture me and preach at me.

Listen to the doctrine. Not the culture. Ask questions. Study. Pray. Remember that Jesus Christ is the important part of this.

I know things will get better one day. I’ll figure it out…with the help of the big guy upstairs… who is probably just patiently shaking his head, waiting for me to get my crap together.

I’m not the prodigal son. ﻿

I’m a girl.