What finally broke that shelf wasn’t a desire to rebel or sin—it was pain, betrayal, and a sincere attempt to fix an eternal temple marriage after infidelity. I went looking for answers inside the system I trusted most. Instead, I found contradictions between prophets, historical problems I’d never been told about, and eventually the truth about things like the Book of Abraham. Once you see that Joseph Smith didn’t translate what he claimed to translate, the rest starts unraveling fast.
When that shelf cracked, it wasn’t freeing at first. It was devastating.
I had to come to terms with the fact that the worldview I’d organized my entire life around—my morality, my marriage expectations, my identity—was not what I’d been told it was. That kind of realization isn’t an intellectual disagreement. It’s an existential injury.
Like many people who leave high-demand religions, I found solace in hearing others tell stories that mirrored mine. Podcasts, YouTube channels, long conversations that helped me make sense of what I’d lived through. That process mattered. It still does.
But one of the hardest parts of leaving hasn’t been the church itself—it’s been navigating relationships with people who never left.
Especially family.
Many of my in-laws are still 100% believers. They post testimonies. They quote church leaders. They pray for us publicly and privately. They put our names on temple prayer rolls to help us “find our way back.”
That’s never going to happen.
And here’s where it gets complicated.
They’re allowed—socially and morally—to constantly promote their beliefs, express certainty, and frame people like me as lost or deceived. But if I speak up? If I share why I no longer believe, or even gently push back? Suddenly I’m the negative one. The angry one. The problem.
That imbalance is deeply invalidating.
For a long time, I struggled with whether staying quiet meant betraying myself—or whether speaking up meant damaging relationships I still care about. What I’ve learned is this:
I’m no longer responsible for correcting anyone’s beliefs.
I am responsible for protecting my integrity and my peace.
That realization changed everything.
Here are a few things I wish I’d understood earlier—offered to anyone else walking this path.
1. Testimony Isn’t an Argument—and It’s a Rigged Game
When someone says, “I know the church is true,” they’re not making a claim open to evidence. They’re signaling belonging. Responding with facts only makes you look aggressive and them look faithful.
You don’t need to play that game.
2. Boundaries Matter More Than Debates
Instead of arguing truth claims, I’ve learned to use clear, calm boundaries:
“I respect that your faith matters to you. I don’t share those beliefs anymore, and I’m not looking to debate them.”
“I know prayers come from a good place, but I’m happy with where I am and don’t see myself as someone who needs fixing.”
“I didn’t lose my way—I chose a different one.”
These statements don’t attack belief. They assert dignity.
3. Curating Exposure Is Not Cowardice
Muting family members on social media. Stepping back from conversations I know will spike anger. Choosing peace over constant engagement.
None of that means I’m weak.
Healing doesn’t require repeatedly reopening the wound.
4. Accept the Hard Truth
Some people will always need you to be “wrong” so they can feel “right.”
No amount of kindness, silence, or explanation will change that. And once I accepted it, I stopped exhausting myself trying.
5. Silence Isn’t Always Peace—but Neither Is Constant Resistance
There was a time when staying quiet felt like self-betrayal. Over time, I’ve learned that choosing where and how to speak matters more than saying everything I think.
I don’t need to prove the church wrong anymore.
I already know.
The real work now is integrating what I learned, trusting my own moral compass, and building a life that’s honest and grounded—without letting anger become my identity.
Leaving a high-demand religion doesn’t come with a manual. Some people heal by disengaging completely. Others, like me, need to process, integrate, and make meaning. Neither approach is wrong.
What is wrong is the idea that people who leave owe silence, shame, or invisibility to those who stay.
We don’t.
We deserve to live honestly, without being pathologized for it.
If you’re navigating this tension right now, know this:
You’re not broken.
You’re not angry because you left.
You’re angry because you woke up—and some people you love still talk about you as if you’re asleep.
That’s grief.
That’s loss.
And it deserves compassion—especially from yourself.
