Let’s begin with my eager yet conflicted embrace of it all.
My initial attraction to the LDS Church was sudden, driven by curiosity, but it quickly morphed into a constant inner battle. This resistance stemmed from a deep-seated hatred, a sentiment that was passed down to me from my grandmother. Fueled by her disdain, I felt an incessant urge to challenge, disprove, and mock anything related to the church. My journey, instead of being one of open-hearted exploration, became an effort to avoid any semblance of belief or acceptance. As a nondenominational Christian living under my grandmother's roof, this tension became even more pronounced.
The friction between her beliefs and mine only intensified as I felt stifled by the oppressive weight of her judgments. She always chalked up my struggles and questioning as mere ingratitude, a sentiment she frequently voiced, stating dismissively, “The kids are ungrateful,” or “They’ve always been ungrateful.” Her words hung in the air, thick with blame, leaving little room for understanding or growth. This internal conflict, this inherited disdain, shaped my perception, creating an ongoing struggle between the pull of faith and the force of rebellion, both of which continued to battle within me.
I was born with a fire in my heart, a flame that, instead of warming or illuminating, often raged uncontrollably, burning the very things I was drawn to. That fire, rather than being a beacon, became a force of destruction, particularly toward those I saw as different… people who were more vibrant, more alive than I felt. It was as though their brightness was an affront to my own dimmed existence.
Out of sheer spite, in my third foster home, I witnessed a kind of light and joy in members of the LDS Church, a light that seemed foreign yet tantalizing. In that moment, I thought, "Perhaps it wouldn’t be so terrible to become part of that." After all, what harm could come from seeking something different, something that promised healing? So, I began meeting with the missionaries, month after month, convinced that if I poured myself into this new faith with all the fervor I could muster, it would somehow mend the fractured pieces of my dismantled spirit.
There was another motivation, however… one that ran deeper than mere curiosity or the desire for healing. I wanted to sever the tenuous thread that still connected me to my grandmother, a woman whose hatefulness had shaped much of my upbringing. Joining the church was, in many ways, an act of rebellion against her and the resentment I had inherited from her. I yearned for something radically different, something that would transform not only my life but my very identity.
I wanted to become a unique force, an embodiment of inspiration and renewal. The church, with its promises of belonging, purpose, and redemption, seemed like the path that would lead me to that transformation. I imagined myself rising above the pain of my past, above the ashes of the bridges I had burned, and becoming someone new, someone who radiated the light I had once envied in others.
And so, at 17… I joined.
I committed myself wholeheartedly for 10 years, believing that through my dedication and hard work, I would find the peace and purpose I so desperately craved.
Yet, beneath that desire for healing was a more profound longing… a desire to be seen, to be more than just the angry, hurt person I had been shaped into. I sought to become a beacon of hope, to turn my fire into something that would not destroy, but inspire. In joining the church, I wasn’t just seeking salvation; I was seeking transformation, a chance to finally be the person I had always dreamed of becoming.
All my life, I have carried an insatiable desire to be loved, a yearning so deep it seemed to shape my very existence. I felt an almost desperate need to tug at the heartstrings of others, my way of silently begging, pleading for their attention. My unspoken cries… “Stay,”... “Choose me,”... “See me”... became the rhythm of my soul, echoing in every relationship, every fleeting encounter.
I longed for someone to notice the light within me, a light I clung to even in my darkest moments.
Yet, time and again, I found myself drawn to those who either saw that light and were indifferent or, worse, couldn’t see it at all. It was as if I was invisible, offering my heart to people who wouldn’t care enough to catch it. This constant search for validation became a cycle… endless and exhausting, with each rejection deepening the ache inside me… I craved love, but more than that, I craved to be chosen, to be seen for who I truly was, beyond the masks I wore to survive. And in the cruelest irony, it was always those least capable of caring who I gave my heart to, hoping… hoping that perhaps this time, someone might stay.
This yearning for love… friendship… closeness… being picked like the prettiest flower, to be looked upon as a beaming being of inspiration and joy… this desperate need to be seen and chosen, ultimately led me to the Mormon Church.
In its teachings, I glimpsed the possibility of acceptance and belonging that had eluded me for so long. The church seemed to promise a place where I could be embraced as part of something larger, a family bound not by blood, but by faith. I believed that if I worked hard enough, if I dedicated myself to the principles and rituals, I could finally be seen… not just by people, but by God. The one and only God.
In the church, I saw the potential for healing, for redemption. The idea of unconditional love… love from a divine source that transcended human indifference… was intoxicating. I wanted to believe that this was where I could find the affirmation I had longed for, the sense of purpose I had been missing. And so, I dove in, seeking solace in scripture, in the structure, in the community. I became fervent in my devotion, hoping that my dedication would somehow fill the void that had been left by years of rejection and neglect.
Yet, even within this spiritual pursuit, the same patterns emerged. I found myself once again striving to be seen, to be valued, to have my light noticed. I sought approval from those around me, hoping that this time, I wouldn’t be invisible.
The church became another stage for my heart’s quiet plea… “Stay… Choose me… See me.”
In the end, my journey with the church wasn’t just about faith. It was about my deepest need: to be loved, to be chosen. And once again, I found myself standing in the same space, wondering if this, too, was a love that might never truly come.
At twelve and a half, I was arrested for the first time and taken to the Salt Lake Detention Center. This would be the beginning of a turbulent chapter in my life, one that took me through the revolving doors of detention centers, group homes, and foster care. Soon after my initial arrest, I found myself placed in a girls' group home for four months. However, the respite was short-lived; another arrest followed soon after, sending me back to the detention center for another week. This cycle of institutions and instability seemed never-ending. Once I completed my treatment, I was transferred back into foster care and placed with a woman named Nora. I stayed with her for seven months, followed by a brief period in a shelter before returning to Nora’s for another three months. My life became a relentless pattern of moving in and out of shelters, arrests, and detention center stays. There were two suicide attempts during this time, which led to a stay at the University Neuropsychiatric Institute (UNI), before yet another return to the group home.
Amidst the chaos of my teen years, an earlier struggle loomed large in my life: at the age of 10 or 11, I developed an eating disorder. I was a binge eater, consuming food compulsively in a desperate attempt to fill the emotional void that gnawed at me. The disorder became so severe that I was taken to see a doctor, but instead of receiving the support I needed, my meals at home continued to consist of fast food, pasta, and bread. My grandmother, who took me to the doctor, seemed outwardly concerned, but like everything else, her efforts were superficial.
The doctor warned that if I didn’t change my eating habits, my stomach could burst, and I would die. He advised my grandmother to monitor my food intake and provide healthier options, yet nothing changed. Like so much in my life, any effort to improve my well-being was fleeting, quickly reverting to old habits. My grandmother and father (who was too busy to care) were adept at appearing concerned when professionals were involved, but their care, more so my grabdmothers, was shallow, fleeting at best. They either didn’t know how to show they cared or simply didn’t care at all. Is how I feel.
By the time I was thirteen, my first foster mother added to my already fragile sense of self. She constantly body-shamed me, criticizing my clothes, my eating habits, and my overall appearance. Looking back now, I realize how damaging her words were. Shaming a child for their weight… especially at such a formative age… can be devastating. It’s the responsibility of a caregiver to provide balanced meals, promote healthy exercise, and, most importantly, offer emotional support. Yet, in my world, those responsibilities were ignored, replaced by judgment and oftentimes, heavy neglect.
In October of 2011, I moved in with my paternal grandmother. It was a fragile attempt at stability, but after only five months, she declared she could no longer handle me. My caseworker scrambled to find another placement, and I was excited when a highly recommended foster home was secured. But that excitement quickly soured, as I lasted just over a month there before having to move again. Later, I would learn troubling details about that home, adding another layer of trauma to an already challenging time.
My journey led me to a new foster family, one whose home was clean and orderly. I stayed with them for 15 months… The Millers, the longest stretch I had ever been in one place. It was during this time that I had moments of joy, despite the many challenges I faced. I participated in a Christmas musical and met another family that left a positive impression on me and to this day I call them my family… The Stokes.
My foster father, I’ll call him Mr. Miller, became one of the few best father/strong male figures I had ever known, and though our relationship wasn’t perfect, I still cherish those memories. I lost touch with them over the years, out of no choice of my own, and that loss saddens me deeply, but I hold on to the hope that we may reconnect someday.
During those 15 months, I was a troubled teen, angsty and rebellious. My struggles with a pornography addiction continued, though I never used their computer for it, relying instead on certain TV channels. I knew I needed help, but I resisted it at every turn. Mr. Miller, a devoted member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, tried to guide me. Despite my anger and frequent arguments, he made me an offer: if I could sit down with the missionaries and listen to their lessons, perhaps I’d find a way forward.
And so, I did.
For weeks, I met with the missionaries, but my stubbornness knew no bounds. I argued with them, determined to prove that the church was fake, that it wasn’t what I needed. But they were just as persistent, refusing to give up on me, even when I felt ready to give up, myself. I began attending church services every Sunday, not necessarily out of faith, but for the small joys… candy, gifts, and a fleeting hope to make friends. It was difficult, though. Many people treated me like an outsider. I sensed their frustration and disinterest in their body language and voices. Despite my attempts to convince myself that they cared, I knew the truth. Only a few genuinely liked me, and I clung to those fragile connections as tightly as I could. Which ultimately led to the downfall of each relationship.
It wasn’t until I attended a church camp that something shifted inside me. There, in the midst of spiritual lessons and activities, I felt something stir… a glimmer of hope, a flicker of warmth that I hadn’t known in years. The constant anger and pain I carried seemed to soften. I reflected on how I found joy in my time with the missionaries, with my foster dad, and with the few genuine friends I had made. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, I felt a sense of peace, a fleeting glimpse of what it might mean to be truly loved and accepted.
That’s when I decided to be baptized and become a member of the church. It wasn’t just a step in faith… it was an act of hope, a belief that perhaps, finally, I could find the love and belonging I had been searching for all along.
I was 17 when I first felt a tug towards something greater than myself, a yearning for belonging, for faith, for answers that I couldn't yet articulate. At the time, I didn’t fully grasp what I was seeking, but I found myself walking into a church culture and church buildings, feeling a mix of hope and uncertainty. It was during these formative years that the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints became a cornerstone in my life despite the hurt I felt towards it. The people I encountered during this time, and the way they spoke of my potential, my spirit, and my resilience, still echo in my mind. Each of them played a role in shaping my identity, both within and outside the walls of the church.
Sue, an amazing woman, her memory of me is one that still brings a warm smile to my face. It was the fall of 2012, and I had auditioned for the Draper Arts Council's production of Amahl and the Night Visitors. I wasn’t a classically trained singer, but there I was, standing on that stage, singing “The Star-Spangled Banner” acapella, nerves buzzing but I was refusing to waver. The fact that I didn’t have family or friends cheering me on wasn’t new to me. Foster care had taught me early on how to stand alone. But it was Sue’s recognition of my spirit that made me feel seen… she believed in me. She cast me in that operetta, and I gave it my all. It was a time of growth, of learning to hold my own, even when life itself felt impermanent.
The church, during these early years, became a safe haven. I was drawn to the community, to the way people spoke of faith as a guiding light in the darkest of times. Tyler, a quiet yet energetic guy I befriended in a YSA ward my first one, once told me that I had a way of uplifting others, that my happiness and cheerfulness had the power to ease the weight of their burdens. At the time, I felt the same about the church… it gave me a place where I could be something more than just a girl from a temporary foster home (Cue Carrie Underwood’s song: Temporary Home). It felt like a place where my voice mattered.
Christopher, another guy I met within the church community, so kind, gentle and hid in a quiet world of energetic joy… his words still resonate deeply: “Though you've been through much trial and suffering, you've done your best to stay true to the covenants you've made with God, and He is proud of you for it.” His faith in me reflected the faith I was trying to cultivate in myself. Joining the church wasn’t just about finding God; it was about finding a version of me that could withstand the storm. But over time, things changed. My relationship with the church evolved as I evolved. My realization that nothing can prove or disprove to me Gods existence sprang up like a fountain of pain, confusion, doubt, fear, hope… The people around me had always seen strength in my ability to persevere, but what happens when you no longer feel that strength in the same way? Frances, a former friend of mine, kind, motivated, full of feminine power… she once said, “Despite hardships in life, you have stuck out through so much. You even have one of the strongest testimonies I know.” And for a long time, I believed that. But as I grew older, as life’s complexities deepened, I began questioning the very foundation on which that testimony was even built.
It wasn’t that I lost faith in God... It was that my relationship with the church felt like a constant push and pull. I loved the gospel, as my dear friend, Madelyn, once pointed out… but I wasn’t sure if I loved what the church had become to me. I left, not out of anger or rebellion, but out of a need to find my own path. I had been through so much by that point… loss, abandonment, confusion… and I needed to step away to rediscover who I was, independent of the expectations placed on me by others.
Still, the memories of those who stood by me during my years in the church remain vivid. Marvin, once a close friend… he observed, “You feel deeply but dwell in shallowness to avoid letdowns.” His words struck me and still stay with me because they reflected a truth I hadn’t yet acknowledged.
My departure from the church 10 years later, wasn’t just about faith; it was about learning how to be honest with myself, how to confront the parts of me that felt lost and searching.
There were times when I looked back with regret, wondering if I had made the right choice. Marvin also said once that I “embrace righteousness as logical but dabble in self-destructive darkness to appease frustration.” It’s a delicate balance… trying to be righteous while also acknowledging the darkness that creeps in from time to time.
But I have come to realize that faith is not linear. My journey within the church and beyond it has been anything but straightforward. People like the very man, the missionary, who baptized me, Steven. He saw light in me, a willingness to stand up for the truth, even when it was hard. And in my departure, I’ve continued to seek that truth in my own way. It hasn’t always been easy, but it’s been necessary.
Now, as I reflect on the years that have passed since I first dived head first into the LDS church at 17, I see a woman who has weathered countless storms. I’ve had moments of doubt, of pain, of deep questioning. But I’ve also had moments of clarity, of strength, and of unwavering belief in something bigger than myself. The church was part of my life for a significant chapter, and so were the people who believed in me along the way. Their words still hold weight, reminding me of where I’ve been and where I’m going.
Despite the initial warmth and sense of belonging I experienced within the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, I ultimately left due to a profound disillusionment that grew over time. As I delved deeper into the teachings and community, I began to confront the stark contrast between the church's ideals and the reality I observed. The more I engaged, the more I felt the weight of expectations and judgment. The kindness I once felt began to feel conditional, reliant on my conformity to a prescribed way of life that didn’t resonate with my complex identity.
The rigid doctrines and the pressure to fit into a mold left little room for the messy, beautiful reality of human experience. My struggles with mental health, my history of trauma, and the shadows of my past felt incompatible with the church’s emphasis on perfection and worthiness. I craved authenticity, a space where my pain and imperfections could coexist with the light I sought, yet found myself often silenced or dismissed.
Moreover, the culture within the church sometimes felt exclusionary. While I had hoped to find a community that embraced my differences, I frequently encountered an atmosphere that marginalized those who didn’t fit the conventional narrative. It became increasingly clear that my journey toward healing could not flourish within an environment that demanded uniformity.
Leaving was not a decision I made lightly. It was a necessary step toward reclaiming my autonomy, allowing me to embrace a spirituality that honored my complexities rather than stifled them. In stepping away, I sought to forge my own path, one that would permit me the freedom to heal, grow, and ultimately love myself without conditions.
Talk With Dad:
In October 2020, I found myself in a vulnerable exchange with my father, reflecting on the intricacies of mental health and the shadows of past trauma that lingered over our family. This conversation was a moment of raw honesty, a deep dive into the legacy of pain that had shaped our lives, and it poignantly underscored the challenges I faced both in my journey toward healing and in my relationship with the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
I initiated the dialogue by expressing my reluctance to discuss my mental health with my grandmother. “If I were to try and talk to Grandma about this, we both know for a fact that she wouldn’t take it well,” I said, the weight of past experiences flooding my memory. I recounted a painful encounter when I had revealed my PTSD diagnosis to her. Her reaction had been one of anger, her words sharp and dismissive, echoing the stigma surrounding mental health in our family. “I remember telling her once that I have PTSD, and she got angry and went on and on about how only soldiers get PTSD. And how I’m a lying ungrateful bitch.”
My father’s response was empathetic, acknowledging the struggle we all faced with my grandmother’s rigid beliefs. “Right, all of us had a hard time with Grandma, that ‘I am always right, never wrong’ attitude.” This shared understanding of our familial dynamics allowed us to unpack the generational trauma that had seeped into our lives. I pointed out, “Plus Grandma was abused; I’m sure her mom got abused… it’s just a long line of abuse on both sides of our family… it’s just better to talk about it rather than hold it in like Grandma does.”
As we delved deeper into our family history, my father shared his experiences, revealing the roots of his struggles. “Grandpa Clair was physically abused. I was abused some but not as much as Grandpa. Most of the problems that I went through were when Grandpa was drinking and going to bars and clubs.” His vulnerability was both heartbreaking and enlightening, offering a glimpse into the cycle of pain that had perpetuated through generations.
I couldn’t help but reflect on how this cycle had influenced my own choices and coping mechanisms. “I’m glad you never had a drinking problem. Is it because you didn’t want to be like Grandpa in that way?” My question was loaded with the weight of our shared history, seeking to understand the choices that had defined our family.
His answer, filled with pride, struck a chord in me: “I’m glad you don’t have a drinking problem or drug problem. I am proud of you for making better choices. You would make a better parent than me. I really mean that.” The sincerity in his words brought tears to my eyes, highlighting a profound desire for generational change… a hope that the trauma we had endured would not define the future.
As we discussed the ideal of a “normal” family, I felt a bittersweet ache for what could have been. “It would have been better to have a normal two-parent family where both parents are on the same page,” he said, reflecting on the fragmented family dynamics that shaped our lives. “It goes to show God’s design is perfect. I guess if I could change my life, it would be to find a person who loves God, loves family, and has good moral values.”
This desire for a stable family environment resonated deeply with my experiences within the church. Initially, my involvement with the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints offered a sense of belonging and community. I hoped to find the love and support that had eluded me in my early years. Yet, as I immersed myself in the church, I began to grapple with the rigid expectations and sometimes conditional love that characterized its culture.
My father's words echoed in my mind: the ideal of a loving family, grounded in faith and mutual respect, contrasted sharply with my lived reality within the church. The very beliefs that drew me to the community began to feel constricting, leaving little room for the complexity of my identity and the nuances of my mental health struggles. I realized that, much like my grandmother, I had inherited a set of beliefs that often invalidated my experiences, leaving me feeling isolated and misunderstood.
Ultimately, this conversation with my father illuminated the intricate dance between healing and the generational trauma that both binds and fractures families. It became clear that my journey with the church was interwoven with the desire to break free from a legacy of pain and to seek a space where authenticity could thrive. As I sought healing, I realized that I needed to step away from an environment that demanded conformity and embraced the messiness of life. In doing so, I reclaimed my autonomy and began forging a path toward a more compassionate and understanding spirituality—one that honored my complexities and allowed me to heal without the constraints of expectation… Breaking the chains of generational trauma is a courageous act of self-liberation that allows us to reclaim our identities and reshape our futures. It requires acknowledging the weight of the past while embracing the possibility of change. Each of us has the power to choose healing over hurt, understanding over resentment, and love over fear. The journey may be fraught with challenges, yet it is never too late to start anew. The act of letting go becomes a gift we give ourselves, enabling us to step into the fullness of life with open hearts and open minds. I often find myself hoping that my grandmother will one day realize that she, too, can break free from the chains of her own making. It is my desire that she learns to open her heart to vulnerability, to admit her pain, and to seek genuine relationships with those she loves. In doing so, she could foster healing not only within herself but also within our family. The prospect of her embracing this truth fills me with both sadness and hope, as I fear that without this realization, her departure from this world will leave a vast chasm of grief and longing for what could have been. By choosing to let go of past grievances, we create space for connection and understanding, forging a legacy of love and resilience that can bridge the divides of the past. Something I wish upon not only myself and my grandmother, but for all who share blood with me, or any other tie that connects us on this cosmic blue marble we find ourselves twirling upon.
In the end, my journey with the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints felt like a complex story interwoven with strands of hope, longing, and unavoidable disillusionment. It was a saga marked by the contrasts between the fervent desire to belong and the crippling sense of alienation that ultimately emerged. Each moment spent within those hallowed walls became a bittersweet dance of light and shadow. The initial embrace of community, the warmth of shared beliefs, and the promise of belonging wrapped themselves around my heart like a comforting quilt, only for me to discover, over time, that the very fabric was frayed with conditions, expectations, and a veneer of acceptance that quickly began to unravel.
As I navigated through this complex emotional landscape, I grappled with the weight of my history—one peppered with trauma, heartache, and an insatiable thirst for love. What was once a sanctuary, the church transformed into a mirror reflecting my deepest insecurities. Each sermon, every interaction with fellow members, echoed the unspoken judgments that seemed to hang thick in the air, suffocating the very essence of who I was. The teachings that had ignited a spark of hope now felt like a suffocating blanket, stifling my individuality under the weight of conformity. The notion that worthiness hinged upon perfectionism carved deep wounds in my already fragile self-esteem, a relentless reminder of the messy imperfections I carried within.
It was in these moments of introspection that I realized my quest for belonging extended beyond mere acceptance in a community; it was about reconciling the disparate parts of my identity… merging the fierce longing for connection with the intricate layers of my existence that could not be simplified or reduced to doctrinal dictates. I became acutely aware of how structures designed to provide support could, in fact, reinforce isolation. As I stood in the pews, surrounded by familiar faces yet feeling a profound sense of solitude, I questioned whether the love I sought was ever truly attainable within such a rigid framework.
The dissonance grew louder, a cacophony of conflicting emotions that echoed through my spirit, urging me to seek a deeper understanding of my place in the world. I began to explore the vastness of faith outside the confines of the church, searching for spaces that welcomed my complexities rather than demanded their eradication. It became a pilgrimage of sorts… my Pilgrims Progress… one that took me into the realms of spirituality, healing, and ultimately, self-acceptance. In the pursuit of a more profound connection with the divine, God, Holy one, the universe… I encountered myriad beliefs and practices that celebrated the beautifully chaotic nature of existence. I sought solace in the gentle embrace of nature and nurtured relationships that flourished in authenticity rather than expectation.
Yet, as I walked this new path, echoes of my past whispered warnings of the loneliness that often accompanied the pursuit of independence. The journey toward self-discovery is fraught with moments of vulnerability and heartache, a landscape dotted with the remnants of those who felt as I did… unseen, unchosen, unworthy of love. In the shadows of those memories, I found solace in the understanding that healing is not linear; it ebbs and flows, often taking us back to the places we thought we had left behind.
With each step away from the rigid structures of my past, I learned to embrace the complexities of my identity… an amalgamation of experiences that included the teachings I once held dear, the pain that shaped my existence, and the fierce resilience that burned within me. My journey was no longer defined solely by the pursuit of external acceptance but by an intrinsic understanding that my worthiness transcends the judgments of others. I began to weave my narrative, embracing the vibrant story of my life, allowing each moment of love, loss, joy, and sorrow to contribute to the masterpiece that is uniquely mine.
Now, as I stand at the precipice of this new chapter, I hold within me the lessons learned from both the church and the tumultuous road I traveled to reach this point. I carry the fire in my heart, no longer a destructive force but a guiding light, illuminating the path toward self-acceptance and the profound understanding that I am deserving of love… not just from others, but from myself. This realization is a testament to my journey, a reminder that even in the face of disillusionment and heartache, the spirit of hope endures, ready to embrace the beauty of a life that is authentically lived, fully embraced, and unapologetically true.
Each step forward is an affirmation of my existence, a celebration of the myriad threads that weave together the rich fabric of my being, intricately and beautifully human.
Faith, Hope, Knowledge, and Belief
Faith is the unseen thread that draws us near,
A quiet trust that flourishes in fear.
In shadowed hours when clarity takes flight,
Faith is the lantern, softly casting light.
It asks no proof, nor seeks the mind’s embrace,
But fills the heart with warmth, a sacred space.
Though tempests roar and darkness clouds the sky,
Faith murmurs, “Press on, though you know not why.”
Hope is the anchor cast into the deep,
A dream that stirs within us, even in sleep.
It lifts our gaze beyond the storm’s cruel face,
To azure skies unbroken by disgrace.
Hope is the breath that fills the soul with song,
When all the world insists that we are wrong.
It sows the seeds in barren fields of grey,
With faith that blooms anew another day.
Knowledge is the root, a steadfast stone,
The fruit of every seed of thought that’s grown.
It charts the stars, defines the earth’s own ground,
In every mystery, a truth is found.
Yet knowledge humbly bows to what it sees,
For what it knows is but dust in the breeze.
It shapes the mind, yet leaves the soul unchained,
The more it's gained, the more remains unexplained.
Belief is the bridge that unites heart and mind,
A fragile thing, both resolute and blind.
It beckons forth the spirit to align,
With truths unseen that stretch beyond all time.
Belief may waver, crumble, or arise,
It bends, yet holds its shape beneath the skies.
In joining, I found solace, yet felt the cost;.
In leaving, I uncovered what was lost.
Through faith, I sought a haven, strong and pure,
But in the silence, doubts began to stir.
With hope, I dreamed of love and grace divine,
Yet found my heart in shadows, lost in time.
Knowledge led me down a winding way,
But wisdom whispers softly, “There’s another way.”
Now belief is a canvas, painted wide,
Where every stroke reflects the heart inside.
-aubs
More details in my youtube video - https://youtu.be/n5FuEBZY11U?si=fJix2SRoCWgpc1fg
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