I've learned two very important things that must be considered when addressing homosexuality from an LDS perspective: 1) We cannot fully comprehend the mind of our Heavenly Father, therefore we must exercise faith. 2) We are each incredibly precious and beloved of our Savior, Jesus Christ.

When my co-writer, Jason, and I did our first interviews after attending a USGA (Understanding Same-Gender Attraction) meeting, we were honestly at a loss of how to communicate some of the simple facts and stories we heard in an article for the BYU magazine, Insight. We were given accounts of blatant bullying, prejudice, and alienation-- all instances that occurred here at BYU. Though many do open their arms and their hearts to their brothers and sisters who struggle with same-gender attraction, many do not. Too many people at BYU, people who have taken a covenant to "stand as a witness of Christ at all times, and in all things, and in all places" have either decided to ignore the situation or let themselves be instruments of unkindness, intolerance, fear, and ignorance.

When we examine the life of Christ, we see that He loved and ministered to all men-- lepers, outcasts, sinners-- everyone. His love does not extend to most all but stop at those whose struggles were foreign to him. His heart, His love, His grace, His Atonement knows no boundaries. It is available in endless quantities to all. Sometimes we assume that we are disciples of Christ just because we go to Church, say our prayers, read our scriptures, do our callings, and pay our tithing. These are all things we must do to be true disciples of Christ, but I believe that we must dedicate the entirety of our hearts to walking His path, feeding his sheep, and ministering to His flock before we can feel satisfied in our work. We must love and serve, following Christ's example, but with the knowledge that judgement belongs to Him.

Heavenly Father's beautiful Plan of Salvation defines marriage to be between a man and a woman. Our prophets have that declared acting on homosexual feelings is sinful. Obediently holding to these teachings does not make one a bigot. Merriam Webster defines a bigot as "a person who strongly and unfairly dislikes other people, ideas, etc... a person who hates or refuses to accept members of a particular group (such as a racial or religious group.)" Neither the teachings nor the life of Christ resemble this in the slightest. Our Savior openly and adamantly preaches against engaging in this type of behavior and having these feelings towards others.

The majority of the members of USGA are faithful Church members who promote BYU's Honor Code and work to maintain the law of chastity. They believe that, even though they do not fully understand why they are attracted to people of the same sex, if they continue faithfully, Heavenly Father will bless them in following His plan for them. Some have said that they believe they were born this way to teach them humility and charity. Some have said that they believe that this attraction is apart of their eternal identity. Others interpret Christ's teachings on a more personal level and decide different courses of action for themselves. There are some who attend USGA who have fallen away from the Church, either temporarily or permanently, and who attempt to figure out their lives alone. Regardless of where these brothers and sisters are in their testimonies, each deserves love. Love uplifts, gives strength, bears testimony, ministers, and teaches. We are commanded to love all, whether or not we understand them.

It was a struggle finding the perfect balance for our article, but we were finally able to write a concise, pointed piece that we hope will stimulate a wider-reaching conversation on campus concerning this issue and help people understand the role they play in creating an environment where the spirit of love can flourish.

You can find a link to the online Insight article, "A Candid Conversation," here.  For more information regarding the LDS perspective on homosexuality, visit mormonsandgays.org.

The Gays of BYU: Part One

Mormons Building Bridges march in Pride Parade Salt Lake City 2013

I recently read a Princeton Review article that called BYU 6th least-friendly campus towards homosexuals in the nation. (Since the actual article is unavailable to people without an account with the Review, the list can also be found here.) The poll was taken from a nation-wide, anonymous survey. While this ranking may not be shocking to some, it was shocking to me. As a student of BYU, I have always been under the assumption that our school (like our religion) was built on pillars of love, forgiveness, and Christ-like charity that extends to all, regardless of beliefs. From all of the material I've read about the LDS Church's stance on homosexuality, I was also under the assumption that we believe there is no sin in the actual orientation (tendency, predisposition-- whatever you want to call it) itself. I felt like there was a marked difference between the people and the practice, and that anyone who abides by the Honor Code is a welcome and valid student at BYU. So why were we ranked as being so extremely unfriendly towards our fellow students who identify themselves as gay?

My fellow Insight Magazine writer, Jason, and I felt like this title must be false and undeserved and we were determined to discover the truth. As we interviewed openly gay students in USGA (Understanding Same Gender Attraction-- the unofficial BYU club for LGB students), we realized the story was much bigger than we had previously imagined. Since the article that will be published on Insight's website will likely only be able to cover a small portion of the story (and only from a particular angle), I want to share as much of the story and our journey to find the truth as I can on this blog. We know that the subject of homosexuality and the LDS religion is a sensitive one, and we are grateful for the respect shown by all who have participated in the making of this article so far and ask the same respect of any who choose to carry on the conversation and comment on the subsequent installments. We also want to state that our only aim is truth and understanding and that there is no political agenda in this article. Stay tuned for part one!

Miles to Go Before I Sleep

Tonight, my family made the four hour trek from Dallas back home to Oklahoma. We generally do our best to stay away from road trips (two parents, five kids, and a dog all squished into a suburban isn't always the most relaxing situation), but we made an exception to attend the annual Christmas party with the extended family down south. Everyone but myself and the driver had fallen asleep,  the backseat a tangled mess of heads on laps, legs in the air, with a snoozing dog inexplicably woven through. My face was pressed up against the cold, foggy glass, and I gazed out the window as the black silhouettes of trees against a sky of deepest blue, peppered with stars, fell into the distance behind us. The lines from one of Frost's poems ran through my head over and over, stuck like a broken record: The woods are lovely, dark and deep. But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep.

Though the Christmas party was the official excuse for our visit, the real reason was my great-grandmother (known affectionately to her family as "Nanny"). Her health had taken a sharp, downward spiral and, with more than a handful of scares under her belt, we felt she deserved the company of all of her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren this Christmas. We all went to drink her in, the "just in case" sitting silently on our tongues.

Nanny is a very tiny woman with thin lips, straight white hair with sharp, Dutch-boy bangs, and clear hazel eyes that glow from behind her glasses. She likes things "just so." After tipping my hat to the cousins, I clung to her side like ivy for the duration of the party. I held her heavy oxygen tank, awkwardly attempting to not step on her heels as she walked from the living room to the kitchen and back again. I explained the concept of a "white elephant" to her and tried to keep her from getting a bum deal from the crafty relatives.

She has never really been one for stories, but that night she told me about how, as a young mother in the fifties, she saw an African American woman walking home from the grocery store carrying big bags of food. Nanny pulled over and offered her a ride, but the woman shook her head and said that her parents taught her to never get in the car with a white person. Not to be deterred, Nanny offered to at least drive the woman's groceries back to her house and leave them on the porch for her so that she wouldn't have to carry them home. Every week after that, Nanny would drive the woman's groceries home for her.

I laughed maybe a little too hard at the comments she made about her two husbands ("Frank had hair covering his whole body, but Mack had hardly any at all. And that wasn't the only difference, if you know what I mean..." And then she graced us with a ladylike wink.)

As we said goodbye before my family squeezed ourselves back into the suburban, Nanny clutched my hand and said, "Think of me when you get married someday." She caught herself and quickly said, tightening her grip on my hand, "Or maybe I'll just stick around to see it myself. How about that?"

I've never really understood the poem, "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening" before. Now I think I do. As I looked out at the dark forest through the frosty window, I imagined my Nanny walking between the trees, unhindered by her oxygen tank or her walker. Maybe she was carrying someone else's groceries. I wondered to whom she had promises to keep. To past husbands? To dead mothers ("It's so nice you have a mom you can talk to. I was always able to talk to mine. I wish I could now.")? To me? Her image faded in the yellow light of an approaching town, street lamps, a boarded-up bar called The Watering Hole, gas stations, trees, forest, blackness...

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

The Personal Story of One Girl's Addiction to Pornography

I have a dear friend who has struggled with a pornography addiction for seven years and who bravely agreed to let me interview her as a way to reach out and help others (both women and men) who may be struggling with a pornography addiction, as well as give insight to those who may know someone who has an addiction. She is an active member of the church and a student at Brigham Young University. This interview is for an article that will be published next year in a much-edited form, but I wanted her sincere, unabridged voice to be heard the way that I heard it. Speaking with her has touched me and has changed my perspective on sin and the Atonement, as well as having changed my life. 

(Her name has been omitted to keep her identity anonymous. "A" merely stands for "Answer.")

M: How did this all start? When did you realize that you had an addiction?

A: The first encounter I had was the summer after seventh grade. It was just on YouTube. It wasn’t super explicit or anything, but it was the first time that curiosity was aroused. Like addictions always do, it just kind of escalated. I guess I admitted I had a problem to myself in 9^th grade. The first person I told was my older brother at the end of 9^th grade. It wasn’t until a few months later that I told my mom and she encouraged me to see my bishop. I saw my bishop when I was sixteen. Then I worked with him, and then we got a new bishop, and I kept working with new bishops and leaders and told more and more people. Then, when I was 18 I went to college. When I got here, that’s when I found out about the addiction recovery group and started going to those meetings.

M: What was your family’s response?

A: They were incredible. My brother was the first person I told. He just sat me down and put his arm around me and kept telling me that it was okay. He told me anything he knew that he thought would help me. He told me he wouldn’t tell anyone until I was ready. When I told my mom, I remember, it was after a young women’s activity. I was really active in young women’s. Everyone got along with me, everyone was my friend and it came really naturally to me. But I always felt really guilty, like a fat liar all the time. Leaders would always tell me how great I was. But I was like, “You don’t even know who I really am.” Everything they said was invalid because of a secret I kept. 

I got home from mutual one night. I was sitting in the kitchen, and my mom was just cleaning dishes.  I just said, “Mom, there’s something I need to tell you.” And after I told her, she just said, “That makes so much sense.” It was because I had this aversion to being touched. She always asked me if someone had been molesting me, but I said no. She said, “That makes so much sense that you would feel so… you don’t want to be violated, you don’t like being touched.” She sat me down on the couch and straight-out asked me questions, because our computer is in the family room. She said, “Aren’t you afraid that people will come in?” And I said, “Yeah, but I did it anyway.” After that, she put locks on the computer. She started checking up on me.  But she always asked me, “Do you think this will help you?” She never acted like disgusted or shocked or anything. I didn’t understand that other people’s reactions would be different. I think my mom kind of understands because she was a convert to the church as a teenager, so she’s more realistic when it comes to things in the world. 

While I was in the middle of telling her about my shame, my young women’s leader called me right at that moment. She just called to tell me how awesome she thought I was. She said she knew I wasn’t perfect, but she just really loved me and thought I was amazing. When I hung up the phone, my mom was like, “That was God speaking to you and telling you what He sees in you.” She never negated any other good thing I was doing, even though that was my natural instinct—to feel that any good thing I could do was counteracted by the bad things I did. She encouraged me to see my bishop even though I didn’t want to at all.  You technically don’t have to see your bishop, but I would definitely recommend it. She never pushed me, though. 

I decided to see my bishop. It was hard because he had been my bishop since I was eight. He was there when I got baptized. It was really hard, but it was good. He said it was a really common problem in the church, even for women. That was the first time it occurred to me that it wasn’t normal for a woman to have this problem. He said, “even women”. He kind of said it in a way that seemed like it was a man’s problem but women can sometimes have it, too. Then I realized I had never had a young women’s lesson on it. There was a lesson on media, talking about how you shouldn’t watch bad media. I remember feeling really guilty. But I remember mostly feeling really guilty because they didn’t even mention it. I felt like, “Oh, my gosh, they don’t even feel like they need to mention it.” I guess it’s just not a thing on most women’s radars… except for me. My bishop gave me an assignment of a few scriptures to read. I read all of them, and I came back and I remember he was so shocked at the work I had put into it. He said, “I’ve never seen someone work so hard.” And I said, “I really, really, really want to be over this.” 

I thought that would be it. I just kind of assumed it would go away. But it didn’t. It was really frustrating to me that I had repented so many times, since I was thirteen and I realized what I was doing was wrong, I would pray and repent and read my scriptures—I read my scriptures every single day to try to compensate, because I read that if you read your scriptures you’ll be able to overcome temptation, so I read the whole Book of Mormon when I was thirteen. I read it every single day for six months, and I was convinced that if I would do that I would be able to get over it. But I didn’t. And I felt betrayed that it didn’t work. Satan made me feel like I wouldn’t ever get over it, and that it wasn’t going to work because it wasn’t working right now. But I definitely think that, because said my prayers all the time, read my scriptures, wrote in my journal everyday—I did everything I could do to make up for what I was doing. I definitely think that it helped me. It helped me gain a testimony, like doing those things always will. It also helped prevent me from doing other, worse things I could have done, which I’m grateful for. Even though I have this addiction, I still have a testimony of the Church. If I hadn’t kept being obedient in the other areas, my addiction could have taken me off the deep end.

M: So you went above and beyond what is expected of young women as a way to try to compensate. Would you want to tell the other people who may be struggling with this that their addiction does not negate the good things that they’re doing?

A: For sure. That’s still something I’m working on every single day, something I have to tell myself over and over again. Some days there’s just a really strong... like Satan has a really good strategy. “You’ve already messed up today, so why read your scriptures? What do you think—that you’re going to be a good person because you read your scriptures?” I am a firm believer that there’s not some chalk board in heaven where they’re saying, “Good thing, bad thing, good thing…” It’s a way of life. Failure in one area of your life isn’t going to take away from all the good things that you’re doing.

M: I know we read and hear a lot about how a man’s addiction to pornography affects the women in his life and the way he sees them—because you are a woman, how do you think that affects you?

A: It’s definitely been hard. A lot of times in General Conference they’ll say this is a problem for men and women, but somehow our culture doesn’t catch up to that idea. It’s talked about all the time in priesthood. Even culturally, not in the church, there’s this idea that women are not as much sexually driven, and that it’s women’s job to fight men off. You try to make sure that you’re not a temptation for men. 

M: I was recently watching a TED talk about the difference between guilt and shame—guilt is “I did a bad thing”, shame is “I am a bad person", and I think in a religion that emphasizes good works it can be hard to differentiate between the two, which sometimes makes it hard for us to truly accept the Atonement. It’s difficult for us to realize that God’s love never wavers and our divine nature never changes.

A: The difference between guilt and shame, I think, is a huge thing. I remember one experience I had. It was my sophomore year in college. I remember I messed up again for the millionth time, and I was so frustrated with myself. I was praying, but I was yelling at anything that would listen, “Heavenly Father, how can you forgive me? I keep doing it, then I keep apologizing, but I keep doing it and then apologizing. Why do you keep buying it? I’m not even buying it anymore!” 

But then I got this overwhelming impression saying, “Stop pretending you understand how much I love you or how I can forgive you, because you never will be able to. Just trust that I can. That’s all you need to know.” 

It just hit me that we try to project our own understanding on God. We think that because we keep messing up He should stop trusting us, but that’s not how God sees it. He sees our potential and our desires. He sees everything about us, things we don’t even know about ourselves yet. So obviously, he has a different perspective on our mistakes than we do, because He’s God. We need to stop projecting our human, our tiny, tiny perspectives on Him. I feel like when we look around at the world for understanding, it often doesn’t come. That’s been really hard for me since coming to school. I go to one addiction recovery meeting a week because there’s only one I’m allowed to go to. It’s a men and women, general addiction, drugs and alcohol, eating disorders, everything like that. And it’s awesome! I love it! But it gets hard being with the people there who have normal meetings specifically for their addiction. 

I’ve called the administrative offices for addiction recovery and asked, “Are there any meetings for women?” And they say, “Yes, we have meetings for women—women who are affected by their husbands’ addictions.” But I say, “No… do you have any for women who have addictions?” And they say, “Yes, but they’re in Springville or Draper, not here at BYU. Sorry!” 

I went ahead and went to a women’s meeting, but it was all about helping women whose husbands keep messing up all the time, that they should be patient with them, don’t take it personally.  It helped a little, because I thought, “I should be patient with myself.” It didn’t help very much, though, because it was this attitude of “boys will be boys.” There’s just this idea that a woman having this problem would be appalling. Every time I go to a meeting, it’s the same: “I have an eating disorder.” Or maybe it’s self-harm, because that’s what college girls struggle with. College boys struggle with pornography addictions. They have a men’s pornography addiction meeting literally every day of the week, two, three, four times a day. And I can’t go because it says, “Men only.” It’s just so frustrating to me because I feel like for guys it’s like, “It happens a lot. Just repent.” But I know that there are girls out there who struggle with this addiction! 

You wouldn’t guess by looking at me that I have an addiction. I was on the seminary council, I went to church and mutual and the temple every week. I read my scriptures and say my prayers every day. You look at me and you think, “She has it all together.” Every time I tell people, they’re completely shocked. I know that there are other people like me that exist. I know that they’re there. It just makes me sad that they can’t come forward. I had to claw my way out to find help, I had to force people to help me. I have the kind of personality where I can do that, but some people can’t. Some people don’t have parents or a support group like I do, who will help them to not have that shame. So they’ll stay in that little shell. I went through personal counseling with a sex addiction counselor. I went online and I found an online women’s support group. For people who don’t have help like that, I honestly don’t know how they deal with the shame. Things my counselor has told me are, “Don’t be ashamed, because shame is not productive. Shame only makes addictions worse because it leads to despair, not hope.”

But about what you said before, I remember my sophomore year I had a breakdown. I was curled up in the fetal position on my couch, just crippled by my shame and despair. Not only had I been struggling with this since I was thirteen. I’d been repenting since it started. I had been seeing bishops since I was thirteen. I felt like I had been exercising faith throughout the whole thing. But my roommates came in and I didn’t want to tell them what I was going through because they weren’t the type of people who would understand. One of the girls was just so good at life and it’s so hard for her to understand weakness. She has a very “just do it” personality. The other one was kind of judgmental, someone who would look at another girl and say, “Her skirt is so short.” I didn’t feel like I could tell them, but I had an impression that I should probably tell them what was going on. After telling them, I said, “I know I’m disgusting. I know you may not want to be around me anymore.” 

My judgmental roommate said, “No, I don’t feel any differently about you.” I retorted, “I’ve heard you say that you think porn addicts are disgusting, and that you don’t want to be around them. Now you’re telling me you don’t feel any differently about me—you’re lying.” She said, “It’s different when you know them.” I said, “It shouldn’t be, because that’s who I am.” 

It’s hard because people say things like, “Porn addicts are so gross, they’re so disgusting. If I’m around them, they’re probably looking at me all weird.” They don’t understand that they are talking about people. That those people exist. That they have other things about them. I mean, yeah… I do think about sex a lot. I try not to. It’s really hard. That’s a big reason why I do have a testimony of modesty. I know how hard it is. I don’t think it’s our responsibility to dress modestly just so others won’t have bad thoughts, but, you know, whatever we can do to help each other out—that’s good. I like it when people do the same for me.

Different people’s addictions stem from different things, there’s different things about it. It’s been a long journey for me to remember that people, if they knew, they wouldn’t say things like that. It’s so hard. Satan tells you, “If people say that they love you, they’re lying to you. You’ve heard your friends say that they would never marry a porn addict. You’ve heard guys say that they want a girl who is virtuous, whose price is above rubies. And you’re not.” But that’s not how God sees it.

 M: I think this will be a good thing for people to realize, that the people they’re talking about—if they knew those people they wouldn’t feel that way. I think one thing people may not be able to understand about people who are addicted to pornography is why. For men, they like looking at naked women because it’s sexually stimulating. But for women—what is the why behind that?

A: Honestly, I don’t know. I ask myself why every single day. After a certain point, it’s not that you enjoy it—it’s that you’re crippled without it. At first, I was curious because I didn’t really know anything about sex. It was new. One thing leads to another. There are so many different things to explore. I’m just a curious person by nature. I like knowing things. I wanted to know what this was. They’ve done studies that show that pornography stimulates the same receptors in your brain that crack does. It stimulates the pleasure center in your brain. There are so many different kinds of pornography. Women are frequently addicted to romance novels because that caters to the more emotional side of things. There’s a spectrum of things that appeal to different wants and needs. It goes deeper and deeper down. I've viewed things that appealed to the side of me that likes hot guys. I've also viewed things that dealt with the desire for an emotional connection. But, at a certain point, it’s just addiction. You need something to stimulate that part of you, so you’ll just go to the next step, which makes you need it even more. Honestly, half the time, when I’m done… I’m disgusted. I can see why people would be disgusted, because it is disgusting. But you’re brain gets on that track of, “This is the only thing that will make me happy.” With drug addicts, too, after you’re done you feel horrible, you don’t even feel good. It’s just what your brain tells you you need. A lot of it isn’t even about what you’re seeing, it’s just what it evokes in your brain. Pornography has so many facets. It can get anyone on anything. There are so many ways to get you.

M: If you could give one last message for anyone who might be struggling with this or need a different perspective on this, what would that message be?

A: I have two messages—one for people who are struggling with it and one for people who want to know how to treat people who are struggling with it. 

 To people with addictions, I would say to remember that your addiction doesn’t define you. We know that God has a plan for our lives. I know that God plans for our mistakes. He knows you so well and He knows what will make you the person you need to become. Your mistakes are part of that plan. Christ can take those mistakes and make them into something positive. He doesn’t just erase them—He takes them and uses them to make you into a stronger person. I wouldn’t trade my addiction for anything. Because of it, I know without a doubt in my mind that Christ lives and that He atoned for my sins and that repentance is real. Because of this, I know Christ. When I’m down on my knees, in the pit of despair, He’s the one that comes to me. Because of this, I’ve developed compassion. Because I’m still not over it, there’s still more things that it can teach me. I don’t know what they are, but I know that I’m a much stronger person than I ever would have been without it. Allow Christ to be there for you. Don’t confuse your mistakes with who you are.

To people who want to understand more about people with addictions: They all say, “Hate the sin, not the sinner.” The Atonement covers all sins. Instead of focusing on sin, we need to focus on how great the Atonement is. Focusing on how bad sin is isn’t going to help anyone—it leads to despair, hopelessness, and isolation. The most important thing is to remember that the Atonement covers all sins. Luckily for us, we don’t have to deal with the darkness of sin if we choose to focus on the light of the Atonement. 

Portrait of a Night-Cleaner

It is currently 3:29 in the morning and I am sitting here eating my favorite treat of Greek yogurt and berries as a way of rewarding myself for a kitchen well-cleaned. It was the kind of deep, cranny-cleaning that required country music and a little dancing. In my head, I played this game where I pretended that it was actually 5 years from now and I was living in a small, yellow house out in the country, my husband and children long since gone to bed, and I was up late finishing the chores.

It was absolutely perfect.

I certainly did not used to feel this way but, for some reason, that is the most beautiful scene I can picture, the greatest thing I could aspire to at this time in my life. I hope it's because I'm older and wiser and mature enough to realize that family life/motherhood/homemaking is the greatest joy I can have on Earth, the best gift I have to offer. I hope it's because I've stopped trying to avoid all semblance of my dear, dear mother, and am instead trying to learn from her incredible example.

My beautiful mother in high school (on the right)

My mother is a night-cleaner. Of course sleep is usually the preferred activity, but there is something so serene about feeling like the only soul still awake in the world, polishing and perfecting the little corner you possess. It seems to be such a small thing compared to the women who hold powerful corporate decisions involving huge sums of money, such a small thing to cut out coupons that save you a couple of dollars on jars of peanut butter, such a small thing to fold tiny pairs of socks, such a small thing to give baths and read bedtime stories, such a small thing to stay awake until the early hours to clean a kitchen.

The two of us having a girls'-night-out

Growing up, I always had an uncanny knack for knowing when my mother was awake. I would wake up at two, three, four in the morning and go sit by her while she would finish cleaning the dishes from the nightly dinner circus. Sometimes (should have been all the time, but that's a kid for you...) I would actually help. But mainly, I just wanted to whisper back and forth to her and feel that calm, sweet, motherly love she would exude. I loved that feeling, those whispered conversations so much I would stay up until the sun rose just to be with her. Was it such a small thing? Not at all. Not to me.

Perfection

Because I Don't Believe in "Beauty"

On Instagram, there's a button you can push called "Explore", and when you hit this magical button, dozens of pictures appear, pictures from all different kinds of people all over the world. Sometimes I like to hit this button just to remind myself that life exists outside my sphere, to remember just how small I am. One day I pushed this button over and over and there were so many pictures-- Norway, China, Italy, Russia-- snapshots of life, slivers of earth, tiny telescopes offering glimpses of people and places I have never seen before and will never see again. But as I pushed this button (over and over and over again), I read the comments at the bottom of the pictures. Sometimes they were actually in English.   In every picture that contained a busty brunette, a tall, lithe blonde, a skinny, puckering wafer of a toned, tan twenty-something, there would (unfailingly) be the trailing comments of her preteen fan club.

"You are so beautiful! I wish I could be as pretty as you!"

"It's not fair how beautiful you are!"

And most damaged of all:

"I would die to be as pretty as you!"

Die. Die? DIE. No matter how you say it, dead is dead is dead. That a thirteen year-old, still a child-- glasses, braces, and boy bands-- should be willing to sacrifice the gift of her very life to be tall, skinny, blue-eyed, and blonde. To have the conventional brand of "Beauty".

I was disgusted. I was shocked. But more than that, I empathized so very, very deeply with these girls whose parents had put extensive safety measures on their daughter's Instagram account to prevent creepy old men from looking at their pictures, yet who couldn't prevent the violent mind-rape and soul-twisting of their little girl by a cannibalistic, sex-obsessed media.

I'm sad because I know and I remember the ugliness of her jealousy and despair. I never vocalized it like her, but I felt like a different species, subhuman, when I stood next to someone who looked like how a person was supposed to look. "Beautiful."

So I changed myself. I changed my size and my colors and my texture and my type. I changed my conversation and my clothes. It was such a slow, subtle transformation that I barely noticed. But I didn't even really look like myself anymore. I was still there, small and quiet, on the inside. But the "better", "prettier" me was on the outside. I could fake it and it worked. I attracted the kind of people who valued "Beauty", the right kind of shallow, flat people who cared more about their body than about their heart.

That kind of violence, however, can have debilitating consequences-- physical and emotional. After months of hurting I needed to heal. I knew that I needed to find a fact, a hope, an idea, a truth that I could hold to that would keep me grounded, keep me sane, keep me happy and hopeful and grateful.

I was on the top of a mountain in the English Lake District when I found my idea, my truth to keep me safe.

Picture height-- Scafell Pike, the tallest mountain in England. Picture the depth of the drop, the worn, ancient grayness of boulders chipped and stones heaped, the whiteness and coldness of air molecules decelerating their incessant dance of bounce-and-swap-and-flee in the high altitude, but most of all the deep view, the vast view, the gargantuan and archaic and god-like view of cloud-shadowed, stone mountains and cavernous, gouged valleys and sky-filled lakes and the endless horizon that extended from the boots I had torn my muscles and rattled my bones to plant upon the peak. If a picture is worth a thousand words, even millions of words could not accurately reconstruct my attempts at mountain goat leaping between the giant, lichen-stripped boulders that balanced so delicately and disorderly upon each other up the side of the mountain, the desolate, dust-filled air and moon-like landscape of the paths between the peaks, the suddennness of unbroken, crystal swaths of snow, the surprise of Indonesia-green cliffs and waterfalls, and the fear of shattered ankles and vanishing into the forever downwardness as I found myself careening down the side of the mountain, alone as far as the eye could see, just to catch the last coach to Keswick.

I saw myself so clearly then. I was a broken pilgrim who had come to the mountain to worship... something. Something bigger and better and infinitely more real than glossy magazine ads and perfect hair and skinny, skinny bodies. I felt myself leaking out of my body, the earth rushing in through the cracks. The prison of my skin dissipated, or maybe it unraveled and blew away in the wind. All I knew is that the facade was gone. I saw the real, real, real, real, REAL beauty all around me. It was wild and raw and natural and everything it was created to be. If some person had come and replaced the jagged, organic, unrestrained beauty of this place with perfect, ordered lines, smooth artificial turf, had trimmed and tucked and taken away-- the thought of it made me crazy. No one could possibly top the real, wild beauty of an untouched mountain. I thought of myself. Why couldn't that be me? If the mountain was perfect just the way it was, pure, existing exactly the way God intended it to-- then why not me?

I felt as though I had finally woken up, that I had finally come home to a place I belonged to but had long since forgotten. Here, in a space crammed tight with air molecules peeling off trees, with leaves and blades and stalks rich with chlorophyll and carotenoids, with jagged igneous rock, I was earth-- timeless, faceless-- I was everything. I was simply the raw, untouched, wild Morgan I was meant to be.

I stopped starving myself and ate wonderful healthy foods instead. I stopped coloring my hair and trying to look and act a certain way. I read more poetry. I love the earth and my family more. My friends are adventurous and original and wild. I have never felt cooler in my life.

My advice to the young who are dying to be "Beautiful"-- stop.

Stop believing in and reaching for a standard that will leave you feeling ugly and sad and empty. Embrace your texture and your color and your type. Love the things in your heart and say the words in your brain. Be with the people that fill you with joy. Eat the natural foods of the earth. Be kind and serve others. Be grateful for the goodness in your life.

Love yourself.

Love others.

Live responsibly and frugally and do good deeds.

Choose to be happy.

Favorite Things Friday

On Fridays, I like to think about "a few of my favorite things." Last Friday I posted about one of my favorite things, I talked about a song my step-dad would sing to me that I still love to this day. Today, I'm thinking about one of my favorite books.

If you are looking for a super engaging, different, and interesting book, I would recommend my favorite biography, Ada Blackjack. 

I know that many people tend to get turned off of nonfiction, especially biographies, but this book is so, so great. Trust me. After I checked it out of the library, it literally did not leave my clutches until I had come to the last page. This story is absolutely spell-binding, riveting, gripping... you know, all that good stuff. 

This book is the totally true story of a 23 year-old Inuit woman from Nome, Alaska joining an otherwise all-male expedition to the uncharted Arctic in the 1920's to earn money to provide for her young son. What happens after they arrive on the desolate Wrangel Island is something out of a nightmare-- loss of communication with the outside world, harsh environmental conditions, polar bears, starvation, abuse, sickness, death... 

When a rescue ship finally brought Ada home years after she was originally supposed to return with the rest of her company, she was the lone survivor of a totally harrowing experience she refused to talk about. Controversy and murder accusations swirled around the timid, broken young woman who had returned to find her son years older in her absence. I don't think we'll ever know the truth of what happened on Wrangel Island, but that mystery is part of what makes the book such a fascinating read. If you love bizarre, disconcerting, true survivor stories, you'll love this book. Jennifer Niven, the author, is a wonderful writer and the book reads just as fluidly as any novel. I highly, HIGHLY recommend this book. Pick it up and give it a read!

Happy reading!