In December of 2017, I was studying at Goddard College and in the early stages of working on what would become my first book. That semester, the focus of my study was researching the teachings of Evangelical Christianity and the mechanics of trauma, as I was intending to tie them together for my thesis. My goal was to make a case for how the fundamentalist doctrines of my former religion are inherently traumatizing on the brain and body, specifically during childhood.
I’d had a hunch for a few years that some of the more difficult and confusing parts of my embodied experience could be traced back to “religious trauma”. Which is a term you’re probably at least somewhat familiar with by now. Back then, there was very little awareness of it, much less cultural conversation happening about it. Luckily, Goddard’s undergraduate program encourages a PHD level of curiosity and I was eventually able to write the book I’d so desperately needed to read.
But as with all creative acts, before it could become the book that it wanted to be, I had to write a few versions that I thought it should be. One of those versions was an extremely boring and unnecessarily detailed academic text with no real narrative and definitely no trace of me. None of my own story. My advisor that semester was a stoic French Canadian with a background in Spiritualism and Jungian psychology named Francis. He could be an intimidating figure, but I picked him precisely because I knew he was perfect for the job.
Francis and I had met together a handful of times during my residency to discuss the project, and I spent a lot of that time telling my story. Since my own background and lived experience was my motivation for this self-created field of study, it felt important to me that he understood it thoroughly. We continued our correspondence throughout the semester as I sent him my mountains of data and soulless text. And I was shocked when, near the end of semester, he emailed to tell me he’d found the result lacking.
Francis told me he wouldn’t pass me unless my body of work included a personal narrative. His reasoning for this was that if everything I’d written about so far was true, a likely consequence of my surviving it was that my voice had been stolen from me. And I needed to, deserved to, reclaim it back through writing my own story. And not even just for the sake of the thing I was writing; mostly so that I could begin to heal. And through that healing, become the person capable of bringing forth the work that could be of highest service.
Which is, of course, the entire creative act.
And I have to tell you that when I realized it was finally time to publicly write about (my experience of) the Joshua Tree Photo debacle that strangely swept the online ex-evangelical community in November 2021, Francis’ words returned to me immediately. Not because I believe anyone “stole” anything from me — in fact, one of the things that the controversy invited me to do was come to terms how I had surrendered my own voice and sovereignty for years.
But because I believe writing about this presents the same invitation to do what I did exactly six years ago: write my way into understanding my own experience so that I can heal from and release it by creating something that inspires others do the same.
For two years, I’ve made no public statements about the photo, the accusations, or the complex controversy that unfolded. I’ve never shared my honest opinion or my side of the story. In a sense, I’m pretty proud of that. It’s proof that I’ve learned how to quiet down and keep some things close.
But as this year comes to an end and I stand on the precipice of my next phase of the archetypal journey, I’ve been reflecting on who I was as a younger woman. All of those previous versions that got me here. To this moment. I’ve been communing with them a lot lately, one by one, and can’t help but feel gratitude towards every single one.
And the version of me who lived through this? I’m really fucking proud of her. That woman saved my life. So she deserves this, too.
I want to be clear about two things before we begin:
1. This is not the whole story. Mostly because I couldn’t possibly tell “the whole story”. Nobody can.
Online outrage spectacles have become so common and our attention so limited that they’re often discussed through oversimplified black and white lenses. But speaking as someone who has been in the eye of the tornado more than once… they’re neither simple nor tidy. They’re messy to try and truly understand because they involve so many people with so many different stories. I only lived one, so that’s the story I get to tell.
I also can’t tell the whole story because I’m very much still in process, figuring out how to write about all of this. And will be for a little while. But this is my field, my playground where I get to practice my literary cartwheels. And I realized a few months ago that I can’t get to the next book I need to write without going through this essay. So this letter is my first attempt to shape written language around what happened and I’ll have to keep it (somewhat) brief.
But I hope you’ll come with me as I continue to figure out the most true way to say everything.
2. This is not a story about The Thing that happened. It’s a story about The Person (me!) The Thing happened to. Those two types of stories are super different.
If you want to read about The Thing that happened, here’s a post my friend Alice wrote at the time. Alice is one of the other women in the picture with me, and she’s an exceptional writer with a wonderful mind. Her take on the incident aged beautifully and is well worth the read. I want to tell you the story of The Person (me!) and what happened to her before, during, and because of The Thing that happened. How permanently it shifted her values and the way she embodies them.
Because I happen to think that’s the way more interesting (and important) story.
Ultimately, this is a story of transformation. Of what’s possible when we slow down, listen to our bodies, and allow them to remind us of our humanity. Like they are constantly trying to do.
It’s a story of how good and necessary it actually is when what we have built to protect ourselves crumbles, leaving us with no other option but to come into integrity. If we can withstand it.
This is the story of how I learned how to.
Which then began an unprecedented softening in me. Right on time, too. Because as I move into this next season of my life, I have to admit that if not for every single moment of this experience, I couldn’t have started down the path of change that has allowed me to open up and love in the ways that are necessary for partnership and parenting.
And I am so inexpressibly grateful. For everything.
I am also a little nervous. This was one of the most challenging things I’ve ever written so I got pretty intimately acquainted with it. It’s really special to me and it feels tender to share with you. But now that it’s here, I know that it’s time. And I know that I’m ready.