Dear Digital Diary

the thoughts and thinkings of a woman navigating her twenties

diary entries posted every monday. some extra words occassionally posted in between.

recent posts

additional reads

  • Smile and Wave

    Dear Digital Diary,

    I’d rather frown and flip them off.

    TW: sexual harassment

    Amid childhood crushes and the awkward, gangly stage of middle school, one of the required classes I took was shop class. This class, known as tech and engineering, was split between online programs like SketchUp and making wooden mechanisms and objects. I enjoyed the class, and I liked designing the houses of my wildest dreams, carving wooden mice and bears and sanding them until smooth. However, it was here that I first encountered what I later learned to be sexual harassment.

    I don’t quite remember the context. I believe I was on my laptop, sitting by myself at a table. In middle school, I was wildly unpopular, terribly shy, and nobody seemed to care about me at all. Naturally, I observed. I saw everything. Those who may remember me often forget how present I was.

    On this particular day, I noticed a commotion by the stoves they used to use when home ec was still taught. One of the popular girls was standing in the middle of a group of popular boys. She was wearing a lower-cut shirt that day, and the boys were standing around her, trying to throw metal washers into her cleavage so they’d fall down her shirt.

    I didn’t mean to stare. I was deeply uncomfortable. I didn’t yet know the term sexual harassment (thanks to my twelve-year-old self and Mormon upbringing), but I knew what they were doing was wrong. I stayed after class, and I told the teacher, who then told the principal. I felt like a tattle-tale. But something just wasn’t right.

    The thing about the public school system I attended is that they would take the minimum amount of action. They liked to sweep broken glass under the rug just to show that the floor looked clean. It’s an ongoing issue, even now.

    The principal recognized that what the boys had done was wrong. But apparently, she also thought that getting a group of middle school boys to apologize for something they thought was funny would prove effective. No suspension, no parent calls (to my knowledge), and no real consequences.

    I remember when the girl and the boys were called to the principal’s office. And I remember when they returned to class. The girl had laughed it off. The boys didn’t seem ashamed. And then the boys tried to figure out who had been the rat — that was their only act of guilt. They wouldn’t have cared who told if they didn’t subconsciously know it was wrong. Everybody thought it was this other boy who had a crush on her who had told the teacher. I let them run with that.

    But it was me.

    I thought I was sticking up for her. But she didn’t seem to care about what I’d seen. I thought that maybe it wasn’t a big deal. That perhaps I was overreacting, that this is just what popular kids did. That, in the end, it really was just a joke.

    Now I’m twenty-three, and sometimes I find myself at work around a particular regular customer who has singled me out from my co-workers. He has a daughter who’s my age. This man is older than my dad. And he likes to make subtle, flirtatious remarks. And I laugh it off.

    I’m at work, anyway. What more can I say?

    And it’s then that I understand.

    To the female body, a man who makes advances without consent is a threat. As a survival skill, a woman is nice. She laughs. She brushes it off. It’s not because it’s funny. It’s not because she’s flattered. She’s uncomfortable and doesn’t want to make a scene.

    Because he’d say there wasn’t any ill intent. That he was just kidding. That I can’t take a joke.

    But really, where is that line?

    The line between a joke and reality. Between discomfort and danger. Between harassment that’s “harmless” and harassment that isn’t.

    I think the line keeps moving. But the line is always followed closely by boys being boys.

    And women?

    We’re taught exactly how to react.

    Smile and wave.

    Smile and wave.

    Smile.

    And wave.

  • For My Next Trick, I’ll Disappear

    Dear Digital Diary,

    I often fantasize about falling off the face of the (digital) earth.

    Obviously, due to this post and a plethora of stories and posts on my instagram and my TikTok (if you can find it), I’m clearly not off of social media.

    But I’ve thought of it.

    And God, that thought feels orgasmic. 

    Sorry, too graphic?

    But think about it: you go on a trip. You don’t post about it. Nobody likes your picture of the latte and burrito that were somehow the best you’ve ever had. You met this guy, you kissed, but you don’t follow him on Instagram. He’s a nice memory now. You enjoyed yourself on the trip. But you’re not scrolling through photos later trying to find the most aesthetic ones. You save them to look at when you’re at work, because it was your paradise. You come back from the trip. 

    And nobody but your real life friends know you went. 

    Gorgeous thought, right?

    And what about that outfit you wore to the bar? The one you could’ve posted on TikTok, but didn’t. Now there’s nobody in the comments calling you overweight. No creepy users following you. No saves. You went out in the fit, and went back home. You shed that outfit, ditched the shower, and went straight to bed with a potential looming hangover. But nobody knows. 

    There was a time where people wrote postcards. A few words about their travels, their lover, their afflictions. Now it’s a Facebook status, a photo dump, and a hashtag that says #thriving. It’s so easy to consume other people’s lives.

    I think I’m beginning to forget I have my own. 

    I recently took a trip and I’ll likely post about it later, once the photos are developed from my camera. But I didn’t post about it in real time. I wanted to test how it felt to experience the present, instead of posting it like some kind of performance. And I’m not saying this is what everyone does, but sometimes I feel as though I do. Like I post to prove something. That I went somewhere. That I have friends. That I’m interesting.

    It’s some sort of addiction, to live vicariously through others and to be so open about everything, and it’s an addiction we all collectively seem to share. 

    I don’t use Snapchat anymore, and I think that was my first step in healing. Next is TikTok. Maybe Instagram will follow, if I’m brave enough.  

    I’ll always be a writer. I’ll probably always overshare. But there will be a time where my life won’t be shared like a picture book anymore. If you want to keep up with me, you may have to do a little reading.

  • Taking a Walk in Nike Air Forces (and Other Classic Shoes)

    Dear Digital Diary,

    if empathy had a storefront, I think it’d look like a second-hand shoe store.

    There’s an old phrase that says something along the lines of, “Well, if you took a walk in my shoes, you’d realize what my life is actually like.”

    Like I said — it’s something like that. It’s one of those sayings people throw around when things are going terribly wrong or when they’re trying to explain why they did what they did.

    So I’ve done what they said.

    I tied up the laces of their Nike Air Forces, slipped on the red bottom heels, and stamped across the yard in cowboy boots.

    I thought I’d find reasons to resent them. Instead, I found people trying to outrun themselves.

    The Cheater’s Nike Air Forces

    When someone cheats, 99% of the time, it isn’t about the victim.

    What I found in a cheater’s shoes was someone who became bored easily. And again, it wasn’t their partner who was the problem. Instead, the partner had needs, and the cheater simply couldn’t rise to meet them. The cheater felt horrible about themselves because they couldn’t meet those needs. To make themselves feel like the hero, they moved toward something they felt they could meet.

    Now that their ego is fixed, they believe they can finally show up for their partner.

    But the damage has already been done.

    And if the partner breaks it off? Well, that’s just an even bigger hit to their ego.

    The cheating was never really about the partner. It was about the parts of themselves they couldn’t face.

    The Blamer’s Cowboy Boots

    The cowboy boots were heavier.

    Every step felt louder, like admitting fault would echo farther than the truth ever could.

    If you took a walk in their shoes, you’d start to realize they have a hard time apologizing. In fact, you could rarely find a time in which they had.

    They’ve found that, in order to be heard, someone else must become the problem. It is easier to blame another person than to blame oneself. Again, it’s the ego talking. For some reason, it’s a larger hit to the ego to apologize than it is to create a bigger issue.

    The blame was never really about the other person. It was about protecting themselves from accountability.

    The Liar’s Red Bottom Heels

    The red bottoms looked beautiful from the outside.

    If you slipped them on, you’d notice they carried more lies than you expected. 

    What surprised me was how often the lies seemed rooted in a fear of being perceived. They cared about what everybody thought to the point that they bent the truth into whatever version they believed the other person would respond positively to.

    The problem with caring so much about what other people think is that, once those lies are uncovered, a knot forms in the liar’s tongue. They may never again be seen in the light they spent so much energy trying to create.

    The lies were never really about the person being lied to. They were about the fear of being seen.

    The Angry Daughter’s Orange Converse

    The angry daughter’s orange converse are bright on the outside, but it lacks support on the inside.

    What begins as sadness turns to anger, because they see sadness as weakness. It’s a deep hurt that isn’t processed fully and becomes a stronger form. What could’ve been tears becomes bullet wounds. It’s not healthy. But it’s not about the other person.

    I should know. I have orange converse. I bought ’em new.

    See, it’s important to try and understand where someone came from without ending up where they did. 

    Sometimes, taking a walk in someone else’s shoes simply reminds you that their footsteps began long before they crossed your path. Understanding someone isn’t the same as excusing them, but sometimes the people who hurt us are carrying battles that have very little to do with someone other than themselves.

    It isn’t about you.

  • Songs You Should Know

    Dear Digital Diary,

    I’m addicted to music.

    I’ve been a self-proclaimed music snob since downloading Pandora on my iPhone 6 in eighth grade. When I was introduced to Spotify, it became even worse. While some call it a disease, I call it salubrity.

    I have about 160-something playlists. They have specific vibes, specific niches, specific playlist cover pictures. And here are some of my top songs from my most favorite playlists if you’re ever so terribly bored of the radio that you instead need inspiration from me. 

    New Music Friday Favs

    My recent likes and saves.

    “HIGHS AND LOWS” – Kanye West

    “is it cool? (ft SZA)” – Steve Lacy, SZA

    “Wink Wink” – Charli xcx

    Shaking A** in a Club

    Maine is lacking in the dance club department.

    “Outside” – Coi Leray, Eladio Carrion

    “Freek-A-Leek” – Petey Pablo

    “Hotel Room Service” – Pitbull

    Standing Outside in the Rain

    Sad songs sometimes.

    “Brutally” – Suki Waterhouse

    “Life” – Mac Miller

    “Destroy Myself Just For You” – Montell Fish

    If I Still Got High

    I would’ve loved these songs even more then.

    “CYANIDE” – Daniel Caesar

    “Far Away (ft. A$AP Rocky) – Yebba, A$AP Rocky

    “Hold you up (ft. Annahstasia & Steven Bamidele)” – KayCyy, Annahstasia, Steven Bamidele

    Hitting a PR at the Gym

    With the music of a frat guy.

    “Homecoming” – Lil Uzi Vert

    “No Pole” – Don Toliver

    “Ric Flair Drip (with Metro Boomin)” – Offset, Metro Boomin

    Old Dogs, New Tricks

    Old(er) music that feels like new music.

    “Ms. Jackson” – Outkast

    “Mary Jane’s Last Dance” – Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers

    “Lodi Dodi” – Snoop Dogg

  • Stay-at-Home Daughter

    Dear Digital Diary,

    we’re being priced out.

    Sometime last summer, over eggs and coffee at a breakfast diner, my now ex-boyfriend and I were talking about our parents and how their lives differed from ours now. We were talking about a string of things, from their siblings to our grandparents, to military brats and divorces. And eventually, between the second and third pour of coffee, we landed on his parent’s marriage in the early 90’s. And how, at 22, they bought a house.

    I think I choked on my coffee.

    At 23, now single, I find myself living with my parents after graduating with a degree. I can’t afford rent in the town I grew up in, even though I’ve been working consistently since graduation. Groceries are expensive, rent is expensive, and healthcare is nearly unnatainable unless you’re scheduled over forty hours, a rare commodity in an hourly job.

    But there were my ex-boyfriend’s parents, back in the 90’s, at my age, buying a house.

    I sat there thinking to myself that there must be something that I’m missing. Maybe I don’t save my money like I should, or maybe I should work more hours or a different job entirely. I tried working two jobs and even then, it didn’t cut it.

    The reality, though, is that it’s out of my control.

    Inflation isn’t a new concept, and it’s normal that things become pricier as the worth of a dollar changes. But the problem is that things are more expensive but the wages haven’t increased at that same speed.

    In 2000, my parents rented an apartment in Portland, Maine. They split the rent, each paying around $400 for a total of $800 per month. That same apartment is now rented out for over two grand.

    Even my dental hygensist was telling me that her first apartment (also in Portland), in 2001, was $600, or $300 per person.

    And while some understand that Gen Z as a whole is being priced out of becoming an integrated part of society, there are others that fight the obvious. Here are some of the things I’ve been told:

    “Kids these days don’t work.”

    First of all, we do, believe me. Second of all, nowhere is hiring full time on a salary. Hourly is cheaper for the company, and jobs are that much more competitive due to AI.

    “You just need to work more than one job.”

    I tried that! And guess what: I’m still poor. But people also shouldn’t kill themselves over a job just to afford rent and nothing else. Comfortability is a “luxury”, but it shouldn’t be.

    “You need to stop looking at luxury apartments.”

    Sometimes I hop between Zillow, Apartments.com, and Facebook marketplace. The other day I saw a 600sqft “cozy” studio apartment for $2300/month. It didn’t have laundry, it didn’t have off street parking, and it was about sixteen minutes out from downtown Portland. The apartments aren’t luxurious apartments. They’re just shitty walls with a money-hungry landlord.

    “Just get a roommate.”

    I don’t think these people understand how math works. If a one bedroom is $1000/month, a three bedroom is likely $3000/month. Either way, it’s still a grand.

    I understand that I am more fortunate than most. My parents are allowing me to continue living in their home because they understand that while I am hustling, it’s nearly impossible to make rent. While living here, I can save.

    But this shouldn’t be the reality.

  • The Shape of Immortality

    Dear Digital Diary,

    I’ve recently been thinking about death.

    While I think about death, I am not thinking of my own. I’m thinking about consciousness. About what happens after. About all the questions that don’t seem to have answers.

    Sometimes I look at my hands and wonder what other people see when they look at theirs. Do they see the same colors I do?

    Thinking about death inevitably becomes thinking about life. About how quickly time passes. Or whether time matters at all. Maybe being alive has less to do with time than it does with being present.

    I had a coworker pass a little over a week ago. I didn’t know her well, and I only worked a solid four hours with her, but she was always sweet to me. There was a day when I asked about her schedule and she said, “Well you know, I’m retired now. So if it’s a nice day, I will call out and go to the beach.”

    To my knowledge, she wasn’t very sick, or sick enough to cause her death. But yesterday, they held her services, and then life goes on. Life is finite but death seems infinite. I hope she can go to the beach wherever she may be, now that she is truly retired from the scheduling of an earthside life. 

    During this time, I was also impressed to look up the name of my old art teacher. In fifth grade, she taught me about the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. I learned that they were created by a couple of young artists, and that you’re never too young for a grand idea. I created a character in her class, to which I drew for several years on birthday cards, corners of papers, and I even started a comic account (nutballcomics on instagram if anyone feels the urge to do a deep dive). While nothing came of it in the way that TMNT blew up, it was fun and it lasted. 

    I saw her again in January, after thirteen years. She had gotten cancer in 2016. She looked different. I likely did too, but I could see the sickness in her. The recognition, though, was still there. I got to tell her that I went to art school, that I got to draw in Florence. She held my hand then and said, “That is so great.”

    She passed on April 1, 2026, only three months after I’d seen her last. I’m glad I got to tell her how much her influence and teachings meant to me.

    I think what I’ve really been thinking about is the impact every soul has the potential to make on another. Whether it’s small — a reminder that doing the things you love matters more than whatever society happens to value — or something much larger, like helping someone tap into their soul, there is always an impact in simply being.

    How grateful I am to be.

  • The Great Migration

    Dear Digital Diary,

    while I think some people are meant to stay rooted, others are meant to migrate.

    At my job, I’ve found myself around people who are over seventy with several lives already lived. When it’s senior day, some say they wish they were still as young as me; they tell me that I should enjoy my life, and that I’ve got so many years ahead.

    In some ways, I find that amount of time daunting. I’ve always been someone who’s so deeply nostalgic that I don’t notice the present slipping away as I think about everything I’ve experienced.

    Looking toward the future used to feel like planning for failure. It meant accepting that certain things wouldn’t happen the way I’d imagined, and facing the anxiety that comes with the unknown.

    Recently, whether it’s post-grad life or the endings of things I didn’t think would end, the future has become less scary. In fact, I look forward to it, so much so that I often feel as though I’m jumping the gun a bit, living from one sunny beach day to a concert I’ve been waiting for to the next trip.

    But that’s because it no longer feels daunting. It’s exciting.

    Maybe that’s why I’ve become so drawn to travel. The future no longer feels like something to fear, but instead like somewhere to go.

    I’ve wanted to travel since I was younger. I grew up going to Long Island and Delaware to visit family in the summertime. I took a few trips during my childhood to Utah, Washington, D.C., and Florida. I loved the rush that traveling gave me.

    I ended up going to school in Savannah, Georgia, and while I was there, I made my rounds through Orlando, Kiawah, Charleston, Hilton Head, Atlanta, New York City, Philadelphia, Provo, and eventually across the Atlantic to Florence, Rome, and Siena.

    After returning to Maine, I’ve spent the past year (when I’m not working or writing) traveling from my hometown to Acadia and Bar Harbor, down to Boston via train, and across the country to Las Vegas, Venice Beach, and Sedona.

    While I’m always exhausted afterward, I look back on those trips with fondness. Because in all of these places, I haven’t just experienced and enjoyed: I’ve also learned.

    The South was a cultural shock to me — a girl who grew up in a New England town of mostly Democrats and L.L.Bean clothes. I learned about fake niceness versus real niceness, the history of Savannah and the Deep South. I learned about the newer locals and the old locals, those with old money and how they gained it through the use of others’ labor.

    In Europe, I learned that most places refuse to serve coffee after noon. That dinner is served around seven, and that meals are not rushed like they are in the United States. People linger around the table, enjoying each other’s company rather than eating because it’s a necessity. I also became more aware of how Americans are perceived abroad.

    In bigger cities, I learned that I need nature to wind down and feel like myself. 

    As a young girl, it was my dream to live in a skyscraper in New York City. But now I find cities with tall buildings claustrophobic. Where I thrived in the laid-back pace of Italy, I drowned in American cities. I had to walk fast, talk fast, think fast. But there was also this energy that dreams could be as big as the skyscrapers. I enjoyed that aspect.

    In my future, I see myself migrating often.

    Like the geese in Maine who land in the marshes at the start of spring and fly south for the winter, I’ll migrate somewhere else once I feel it’s becoming too chilly for me to stay.

    Next winter, I’d like to fly to Greece. Back to Italy, perhaps. I’ll make it to California someday. I’ve been thinking about North Carolina and the Outer Banks. Hawaii. Turkey. Luxembourg. Australia.

    And on and on and on.

    And while I’m there, I’ll learn.

    Someday, once I’ve put down roots and have long gray hair braided down my back, and I’m at the age where I tell young people that they’ve got so much life ahead, I’ll sit on my porch with a cup of coffee and think about all the lives I’ve lived.

    All the people I’ve met. The cultures I’ve learned about. The languages I’ve spoken. The art I’ve made.

    And I’ll smile.

  • Where Does It Go?

    Dear Digital Diary,

    I never took physics, but I probably should’ve.

    I have found, in the past two months, that the worst part of my breakup has been wondering what to do with the love I had for him. During our year together, I spent more than half of it being deeply in love with him. I thought about him in quiet moments. I hoped that if I held his face in my hands, it’d be mine forever. I was in love with him when he was kind to me, and somehow I loved him when he told me I didn’t have to stay, and I walked out of the front door one last time. 

    But when I walked out the door, that love didn’t disappear. Instead, I found it strangling me for those first few weeks, with no place to go. I thought that maybe shards of it would be swallowed by my sadness and eventually run out when I didn’t have any more tears to cry, but it didn’t. 

    I was ten when I first learned about energy. My teacher was out on maternity leave, and the substitute showed us a crappy animated 90’s video about how energy is neither created nor destroyed. It’s a never-ending cycle that hops from one thing to the next. 

    Since then and now, I’ve learned that being in love is different from loving. The in love part can end. It can fade, die, or come in waves, like the tide. But loving someone — that’s energy. 

    And I loved him very much. So much that I abandoned myself. 

    When you draw an Ace of Cups in tarot, that usually represents yourself, and your cup. Your cup is your energy source. Your happiness. Your love. The things that fill you up so you can flourish. 

    For a while, I would pour out of my cup, and he’d pour into mine, balancing the scales. But when that stopped, and it was just me trying to keep the relationship alive, I was quickly draining my cup until I had nothing left; nothing left for him, but also nothing left for me. 

    When it was over, and the love I had for him started to strangle me, I realized I could take it from around my neck and crochet with it. Stay with me now. The love I had for him was trying desperately to be of good use. So I used it on things that I loved: I made art. I started painting something new. I wrote and edited my novel a bit more. I went to the beach in the morning. I went out with new friends of friends. I bought concert tickets for late summer. And I noticed that when I began doing the things that I loved, my cup began to fill. 

    Love doesn’t disappear when the person you gave it to is gone. It changes form. And it returned back to me.

    My new rule is to love someone from the overflow.

    I’ll fill my own cup first, and if there’s love left to spare, I’ll share it.

  • My Body is Not a Labubu

    Dear Digital Diary,

    you’ll never guess what’s trending for Summer 2026!

    TW: eating disorders, body image

    Remember how trendy cow print was in 2019/2020? And how quickly that turned into cheetah print. Now it’s camo. Sardines were once disgusting, and now they’re printed on every graphic tee, tote bag, and towel. Film photography. Matte lipstick. The color sage. Fidget spinners. Labubus. These things rise to the top and then disappear just as fast.

    Usually trends are stitched into accessories, clothes, gadgets, and collectibles. But sometimes, they’re projected onto the human body.1

    In the 90’s, they called it ‘heroin chic’. Low waisted pants, whale tails, thin eyebrows, straightened hair, belly button piercings on a flat stomach, and smaller breasts were trendy until the 2010’s. When the Kardashians rose to fame, that trend morphed into a more seductive hourglass figure, with larger breasts, lip filler, arched eyebrows, and BBLs. But just as quickly as it evolved, the body trend transformed again, mirroring the past. This time it’s not heroin chic, but a different injectable: GLP-1.

    If you don’t know what GLP-1 is, then you may not have HBO. I kid you not, I cannot get through an episode of Girls without seeing a “I lost 25 pounds with Ro” commercial, and seeing famous athletes promote this new-and-improved weight loss drug. It seems to be everywhere.

    At first it was described by celebrities as “clean eating and a really great workout plan with a trainer that kicks [their] ass.” As it turns out, clean eating, a great workout plan, and a personal trainer are also called names like Ozempic, Ro, and Wegovy. Not only were they lying, but were standing in front of a crowd with half of their body weight gone, collarbones jutting out of their XS dresses, and claiming it was a vegan diet and that they’re healthy.

    The most damaging part is that young people look up to them.

    I say that as a victim. When I was younger, I’d look up to the prettiest, thinnest celebrities and wish and hope and pray that I’d look like them. When I began to grow into my adult body, I starved myself and chased the body trends worn by those on Pinterest, on TikTok, in movies, and on the red carpets.

    While doing so, I lost half of my hair. I lost my period. I was thinner on the scale but puffier in the face. I wasn’t scary thin so it wasn’t apparent, but my undereyes were dark and I was so tired all the time. 

    It took me three years to accept that I just wasn’t built to be 5’9 and model-skinny. I’m 5’6 and naturally stockier. I can build muscle quickly. I’m curvier, and my bone structure doesn’t change even if I tried. I learned that if I chase anything other than how I’m naturally supposed to be, I will become sick.

    Thankfully, I have gotten to a point where I eat to fuel my body and balance my hormones. I work out because I like it, and to become stronger, not smaller. I buy clothes that fit me now, not that I’ll fit into later. And I flip off anyone promoting weight loss drugs because my body is not a Labubu.

    1. *This is written from my perspective, which means I am writing from the perspective of a female body and female anatomy. While this post references the female body, it does not directly correlate with any particular gender. Weight, body trends, eating disorders, etc. can affect anyone of any sex or gender. If you or someone you know is affected by an eating disorder, visit https://www.nationaleatingdisorders.org/get-help/ for more info. ↩︎

  • The Father, The Sun, & The Holy Spirit

    Dear Digital Diary,

    this is a remix.

    I was, for better or worse, one of those kids who grew up going to church. I attended every Sunday up until I was sixteen, right about when COVID hit, and my relationship with God became complicated.

    I was raised Mormon. Now you might know the media’s version of “Mormon” — the multiple wives, the “soaking,” the Secret Lives of Mormon Wives reality show — but the fundamentals boil down to Christianity. There’s the Father, then there’s his son Jesus Christ, and when you’re baptized at eight years old, you receive the gift of the Holy Ghost, who is said to lead and guide you. In this church, I was taught to love my neighbors, read the Book of Mormon, pray often, and create an eternal family (amongst a laundry list of other teachings).

    In retrospect, those values are fine. It wasn’t that I didn’t believe in them. But I grew up in an environment that was strictly right versus wrong. If you don’t like someone, you aren’t Christlike. If you don’t read the Book of Mormon, you can’t receive blessings. If you don’t pray, you lose contact with God, and if you don’t create an eternal family who is sealed in the temple, then you will be alone after death. Because of this mindset, there was serious judgement placed upon those who weren’t “perfect” Mormons.

    To put it simply, I left because I wasn’t perfect, and I no longer wanted to live my life striving for something so unattainable. Perhaps one day I’ll go into exactly why I’m no longer a Latter-day Saint, but for now I’ll say that it’s because I’d rather chase happiness than perfection.

    And also, I realized God wasn’t the only avenue to peace.

    It took me four years of college, a drug-induced psychosis, and a confusingly Catholic ex-boyfriend to come to terms with the fact that, even given my past and my thoughts about the Mormon church, I still believed in a higher power.

    But with this higher power, there was also nature.

    And with God and nature, there was also the universe.

    The Father, the Sun, and the Holy Spirit.

    God. Nature. Whatever unseen force connects everything together.

    There’s something I pray to, something I find peace in, and something I find clarity in. And with those three things, I tapped back into my spirituality.

    It wasn’t about religion for me. For some people it is, and that’s okay. It’s okay to be an atheist and believe in the stars, or to read the Bible every morning and frown upon tarot. I won’t preach what is right and wrong because it’s never about that, and who am I to force something to swallow my regurgitated beliefs.

    Life isn’t black and white. How you feel about God or tarot or holistic medicine isn’t right or wrong. You have a brain. You have morals. You have strings of experiences that make up the web of your thought processes and beliefs.

    I left the church. But I didn’t leave spirituality.