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.