Member-only story
She Talked to Me, and She Doesn’t Talk to Anyone
At work yesterday, I saw an old friend. Her husband I had grown up together in this small town, as church friends. We raised our children together and until COVID-19 hit, saw each other almost weekly.
A lot has happened in the past year, but even before that, I was beginning to find myself in a different place, theologically, than others at church. I was showing up, performing, organizing, and helping out. I enjoyed being there and I love my people. As much as I felt grief and some loneliness around my ideological evolution, I wanted to be there. Decompressing afterward was hard, but still, I went.
Others noticed that things were shifting. I had stopped going to women’s meetings. I could not endure sitting there and listen to all the self-shaming and grief about their imperfections, how they needed to support their men better, be better moms, and save the world daily. I was raised on a diet of the “not-enough woman” and I had had enough.
In the years before I left, I talked openly about my childhood traumas, the required therapy, the need for space and time in nature. I spoke openly about the “realness” of my marriage, my failures and hopes going forward. I talked openly as I filed for divorce, while he and I still sat in the pew as a family. I was determined to do this right. And that meant respectfully…
