Exponent II's Blog

Before I say anything else, this blog post is going up on President Nelson’s 101st birthday and I know from personal experience there are many, many women who love this man very much – not just from afar, but women in his family. Any man who lives to be 101 and has so many people who love him has accomplished something great. That said, I stand by everything I write below.

I’m doing research on Wendy Watson Nelson for an upcoming blog post, and came across an interview with Wendy by her friend Sheri Dew. In it, Wendy declares emphatically that President Russell Nelson respects and honors women SO MUCH. I was curious what she would say to back this claim up. 

To me, respecting and honoring women would mean including them in church leadership that is reserved only for men. 

Here’s a snippet of the interview (start at the 20 minute mark to hear this section):

Sheri Dew: “What do you see personally about his regard for women?”

Wendy: “Well this is a man, President Nelson. It is deep in his soul, in his cells. I’m sure if we cut him it would come out: I HONOR WOMANHOOD…”

From me (Abby): Okay, that’s nice. But what does honoring womanhood actually mean to Russell M. Nelson?

Wendy explains by saying, “I’ll just give you a personal example, and that is… this one little illustration in my own life which happens every single day. He will never go through a doorway first. If I’m with him, he’ll stand to the side. He always has me walk through the doorway first. If we’re in the kitchen, we walk down the hall to go to the office. We walk down the hall together, then he stands to the side for me to go in through the door first. 

That to me says it all: his honoring of woman.”

Last year at his 100th birthday party, President Oaks and President Eyring praised his respect for women in a similar fashion. 

Elder Oaks gushed, “…when people enter the room, he almost always stands for them. But he always stands if there are women in the room.” Elder Eyring added: “Always!”

These are the examples given (by the people closest to him) of how Russell M. Nelson honors women. 

Look! Elder Oaks is treating Elder Eyring like a lady. 

I want to be very clear: it is now 2025, not 1925. I genuinely don’t care if a very old man stands up when I walk in the room or not. I don’t care if he pauses to let me enter a room first. I don’t care if he holds the door for me, or tells me I’m sweet or pretty, or gives me a candy from his pocket. I don’t care about these things. They don’t make me feel respected by men!

Rather, I feel like men in power say and do these things in an attempt to placate me, then expect me to sit obediently at their feet like a child and follow their commandments without question. When this happens, I feel angry and invalidated – like they view me as a beloved pet. I want the type of respect that truly values my insights and experience in the world as a female, and the type of love and admiration that encourages them to follow and learn from me in return.

Respect for women is so much deeper (and harder) than simply standing up or walking through a doorway second. I’m exhausted as a woman waiting for top church leaders to learn this incredibly basic definition of what respect and human dignity actually means.

Patriarchy lies at the very foundation of the LDS Church. Men oversee every aspect of its structure—finances, policies, doctrine, and even the women’s organization, where females are ultimately managed by men. Women–and many men–pay a significant price in the patriarchal church system.

In practice, every woman’s decision can be overridden by a male leader. While some women may find comfort in patriarchal faith traditions, a new trend is emerging: young women are leaving the Church at higher rates than young men. That shift is telling.

Add polygamy into the equation, still authorized in LDS temples for posthumous marriages, and the reach of patriarchy becomes even more stark. In temple ceremonies today, men covenant to “preside” over their wives—a word that traces back to the 17th century French présider, meaning “to be set over others, to direct and control.” This is not symbolic language. It codifies male authority into LDS couples’ most sacred commitments.

Only six women are mentioned in the Book of Mormon, Sariah, Mary, Eve, Sarah, Isabel, a harlot, and Abish, a servant or slave. In the Bible, women are viewed as the property of men. A mere 1.2 percent of Biblical verses are spoken by women, and of them are nameless. 

Research consistently shows that patriarchal religions reinforce harmful patterns: women are valued more as wives than as individuals, victims of sexual abuse are often blamed, heterosexuality is treated as the only valid orientation, divorced women are devalued, and gender inequalities are institutionalized—leading to economic vulnerability and sexual exploitation.

UCLA religion professor Scott Bartchy , defines patriarchy  not only as men ruling over women, but as “the rule of a few men over everyone else, male and female.”

He adds, “Patriarchy subordinates not just women and children, but also most men, leaving only a small group with real power.”

The consequences are devastating. Dr. Susan Madsen’s research links LDS patriarchy to widespread accounts of domestic violence, with bishops too often “ignoring or minimizing” women’s reports of abuse. Dr. Madsen states, “Power disparity is at the root of violence. Research continues to show that when men have significantly more power than women–in homes, groups, communities, and societies–there tends to be more issues with abuse. At its foundation, power is about relationships.”

Gender based violence is endemic in all patriarchal cultures.

The Church’s own hotline has been repeatedly used—not to protect victims—but to shield the institution’s reputation.

Last year, a New Zealand journalist released a six-part investigative podcast exposing how the LDS Church built systems that protect its wealth and reputation while shielding sexual predators. The evidence is damning.

I have personally witnessed close friends endure deep psychological and physical suffering at the hands of bishops, husbands, and ward leaders. Many were silenced when they sought help and punished when they spoke out. These abuses are not isolated—they are endemic.

The lawsuits reflect this reality. This year 91 current and former California residents filed suit against the LDS Church for childhood sexual abuse, alleging decades of assaults by local leaders while the institution did nothing. Since 2002, two investigators have received over 4,000 reports from LDS abuse survivors or their families. They found more than 400 LDS leaders convicted of sex crimes or of failing to report them. For every person convicted, there are likely hundreds who have never faced justice.

The reality is that LDS policies favor a narrow demographic: heterosexual, married, temple-attending, Caucasian men. Until that changes, the Church cannot claim to be equitable, trustworthy, or just.

Importantly, patriarchy harms men as well. They are pressured to suppress emotions, take on crushing callings, and provide for families under impossible expectations. In patriarchal systems, both men and women suffer shame when they fail to meet unattainable standards of purity, performance, and perfection.

As a former bishop’s wife, I saw firsthand the toll it takes. Bishops, often working full-time jobs and raising families, are burdened with duties no person can reasonably bear. Their wives and children suffer as well, as they navigate life with an absentee father who is expected to choose obedience to the Church over his family. Our ward was large, with 850 members, my husband’s job was time-consuming, and the needs of the ward members were great. The combination was incredibly stressful for my husband and our family, whom the Church taught to sacrifice all for the kingdom of God. 

After my husband served as bishop, he was placed in high stake callings, which meant we didn’t see him in church on most Sundays because stake meetings conflicted with our ward schedule. His demanding church responsibilities kept him from his family even more, and he missed the opportunity to nurture his children and spend time with them that they needed and deserved.  

Because the church has an unpaid local clergy, many men are taken from their homes and expected to perform superhuman service with little training and even less support from the church. Perhaps paid, well-trained clergy should be considered. Although most bishops are kind and caring, some are abusive and need greater scrutiny, oversight, and training that the church currently provides.

A healthy church requires all its parts—head, hands, eyes, and feet, yet the LDS Church currently functions with a head but little else since so many subgroups are suppressed from functioning. Masculine traits like assertiveness and competitiveness dominate, while feminine traits like empathy, cooperation, and compassion are neglected. The result? Billions of LDS tithing dollars are invested while proportionally, a minute percentage of its income goes to humanitarian aid worldwide. 

True health, whether in a person or an institution, comes from integrating both masculine and feminine traits. Jesus himself embodied this balance. He celebrated the marginalized, lifted women, embraced the poor, and healed the broken. Any church claiming His name is duty-bound to follow His example.

The Church must confront these questions: If all are children of God, how can any subgroup be marginalized? Would a loving God design a system where some are silenced, suppressed, and sidelined while others wield unchecked power? Can a true church be built on practices that exploit the vulnerable while privileging the powerful? If Jesus loves everyone, would He knowingly marginalize and abuse some while empowering and protecting others?

The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints can do much more to follow the One whose name it bears.

The LDS Church has a choice: cling to a system of patriarchy that protects power and wealth at the expense of its people or transform into a community that reflects Christ’s love, goodness, and integrity. May it choose wisely.

What are your thoughts?

How are woman and men are negatively impacted in high-demand patriarchal religions?

If the LDS Church believes are all are children of God, how can this be demonstrated in its theology, policies, and practices?

Photo: Pexels, Lisa Summers

On a recent Sunday morning, a friend and I went for a walk. It’s a not-infrequent Sunday morning activity for us, although it’s been a while since we went out because our schedules have not been aligned. Before I left the church and she stopped attending, we would work around church time, but now we usually go during church, as her family is out of the house.

After this walk, which was typical in every way, I got a text from her. Someone had reported back from sacrament meeting: A woman who used to be in our ward saw us walking during church (she must have been running late?) and felt the need to include us in her testimony. Per my friend, this woman commended everyone who had gone to church that day for their valiance after seeing “two sisters in the ward” out walking. 

In her defense, when I resigned I asked the bishop to keep discussion to a minimum. It appears he has done an excellent job of it. Not in her defense, it is literally not her business who is in church or not except for her.

But this bugged me. I was struck by the public shaming aspect, the assumptions of lack of valiance or faith, the sense of superiority. When I was Mormon, it was comments like that, usually made off-handedly and without a thought as to how they would land with outsiders–because I was an outsider for years before leaving, even though I wore the clothes and said the words of an insider–that reminded me that I didn’t belong, that I was different, that this wasn’t a safe space for me. 

What’s more, it was so unnecessary. Can’t people simply be valiant? Must they be compared to someone else to feel good about being in church on Sunday morning? Surely the reason they were all there that morning was to connect with divinity, to learn or even just to fulfill a covenant, not to feel superior to the neighborhood apostate who walked away? They got their blessings for attending regardless of who wasn’t there. 

And what if I hadn’t left? What if I was really struggling with church–as I did for years, as I know many others do every week–and just needed a break that week? A mental health day. A walk in the forest with the sun on my face and a talk with a good friend. Is that so wrong? (Cue Sister Toth as a missionary almost 20 years ago: “Yes. Communing with God in nature doesn’t count.” I hope all the people to whom I taught that figured out the teaching was wrong long before I did. Commune with God wherever and however you feel God.) What if this public judgment was relayed to me when I was sensitive, struggling, wondering if I can be myself in church or if the ramifications would be too much? The message would be loud and clear: No. This isn’t a hospital for the sick. Show up with your best, every time. There are no other options.

In her excellent book “Caste,”* author Isabel Wilkerson compares society to a cast in a play, where people are assigned roles at birth–lead, supporting, backstage, usher. “As an actor, you are to move the way you are directed to move, speak the way your character is expected to speak. You are not yourself. You are not to be yourself. Stick to the script and to the part you are cast to play, and you will be rewarded. Veer from the script, and you will face the consequences. Veer from the script, and other cast members will step in to remind you where you went off-script. Do it often enough or at a critical moment and you may be fired, demoted, cast out, your character conveniently killed off in the plot” (p. 63).

In church, other members will make you face the consequences of veering off script. I have yet to experience a time when divinity forced such a consequence on me. Everyone’s time might be better spent focusing on their own lines, their own roles and their own relationships with divinity. Be yourself. If there is no place for your true self, better to know that now. And please, don’t be the member who shames, publicly or privately, those who fall short of what you think they should be doing. Church is supposed to be a hospital for the sick. Don’t stand at the door and turn the sick away.

*I highly recommend this book, which looks at the United States as a caste system like India’s, with black people at the bottom of the system. It is eye-opening, particularly as this time discontent and division in the country.

Photo by Audri Van Gores on Unsplash (This is what our forest looks like when it is not summer.)

Guest Post by mhermitmom

“Do you hate men?”

That’s the question that stopped me in my tracks a few weeks ago and I keep ruminating on it, so time to get it out of my head.

Since the 2020 lock downs, I have read a a bit about systemic racism, patriarchy, the school to prison pipeline, trauma, sexual assault, church history and so much more I wasn’t very aware of before in my white LDS bubble. Since then I have wondered why it always seems to come back to … well, white men, and women too, and the things they do that make things worse for everybody. The current political climate is certainly not helping with opposite sides at each other’s throats.

In my frustration, I expressed concerns about all of this to a male family member. He has been very patient with my ramblings. When he asked me this question, it wasn’t with a tone of accusation, more like concerned curiosity. The question left me speechless and if my face had been on a computer screen, you would have seen a spinning, buffering animation right across my nose.

The first thing that popped into my stunned psyche was, “Not all men.” I knew I couldn’t say that out loud. Post menopausal brain fog had me buffering again. “Do you really hate men?”

I love my husband. I love my brother. I love my father. I love my sons. None of them are perfect, but none of them have intentionally, seriously, hurt anyone to my knowledge. I think of men that I have admired and then done something stupid to prompt me to not admire them anymore. These are usually the men in the news, in political office, in some position of power, but no one I know personally.

There have been bullies in middle school, but there have also been male teachers who put a stop to it. There have been a couple of dates, during my college years, that left me skittish around young men for a while, but there were kinder, older, church leaders that helped me through that, or at least tried to. Of course, the Savior is a man as well and while I can’t really understand why evil is allowed to run amok in this life, that’s on us, and I hope Christ will make justice and mercy come together in the right way eventually.

I finally replied to the person who had dropped the bomb with something along the lines of … I hate that we have a world that has been set up to allow evil people advantages over the rest of us.

It is easy to use the word “hate.” I know some folks who refuse to use the word because the last thing God wants is for us to hate each other. I don’t like to self-censor but I do want to avoid thinking in terms of hate, because it is easy to fall into, and I personally feel hate is addictive.

If you know the Star Wars movies, (showing my geekiness here) you may remember this: “Fear is the path to the dark side. Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering.” – The Phantom Menace.

There is also “Jesus said unto him, Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind. This is the first and great commandment. And the second is like unto it, thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself.” Matthew 22:37-39

The thing I try to remind myself: yes, evil must be resisted, but I cannot allow myself to get sucked into the hate. Do I hate men? No. Hard as it is, I try not to hate at all.

mhermitmom is a Gen X, not 100% straight, LDS woman trying to navigate career changes and “failure to launch” offspring.

I’ve always been someone who remembers her dreams. In this dream, I don’t know who the woman was, only that we walked arm and arm, her frail body leaning against mine. Maybe she was my great-grandmother Mimi whom I didn’t know very well. Maybe she was my other great-grandma Dorothy. Maybe she was Carol Lynn Pearson who I had just seen hours prior to this dream. Whoever she was, I felt pure love and even adoration for her. We walked into a room and there was an audience of some sort. She wanted to give me a blessing.

I sat on a cushioned chair, reverent and hopeful. I remember only seeing women in that space. I felt safe. As she placed her hands on my head, Dallin H. Oaks, filled with self-importance, interrupted by entering this safe space. Immediately, the feeling of safety diminished. He assumed his role, a priesthood holder, and declared, “No, Mom, that is not the way!” His calling her “mom” stuck out to me in this dream. I felt possessive, thinking, “She doesn’t belong to him…”

I had a distinct feeling that this moment of blessing was for me. But interestingly, it also felt like it was just as important to her.

I called out to Oaks, “Just let her do this!”

His face oozed disapproval. I felt it down to my toes, and not in a good way. I was suddenly infantilized and felt that I was in trouble by my disobedience. But the reason for this whole situation had nothing to do with my disobedience to the traditional norms of blessings. I only wanted a connection with this Mother.

This woman–Mother– revered and loved, removed her hands from my head and folded her arms above me, but was still touching the top of my head. She hadn’t said anything yet, but I turned toward Oaks. I asked, “Can’t she just say a prayer over me?” believing this would be more acceptable to him.

He continued to push back and shake his head.

I wasn’t mad. I was deeply saddened that this connecting moment was ruined and interrupted by someone who put his supposed authority over this near-divine moment between two women seeking comfort from each other.

I almost had a mother’s blessing. It wasn’t interrupted because I woke up from this dream. It was callously stopped because a man decided it was inappropriate, threatening, or perhaps just disrupting the Church’s norm. And it also showed me that my need for approval has not been completely deconstructed yet. Why did I want his approval so badly? How could something so beautiful and earnest be so forbidden? It was a safe space until he showed up. Years of conditioning to believe that I need approval from a priesthood holder is hard-wired in me.

I woke up from this dream feeling that it is time to bless one another again as our early saint women did when the Church was first established without turning toward the male authorities for approval or acceptance.

This near-blessing was just a dream. Unfortunately, it is not so far off from the reality of many who yearn for mothers’ blessings. Spiritual gifts and practices did not originate from Mormonism. In the LDS church, leaders have formalized these rituals to the point that we don’t dare pivot to make them our own, or even dare to question the status quo (that is men with the priesthood are the only ones permitted to give blessings).

The approved practices for women in the church include caring for the physical and emotional needs of others, and that is no small feat. We show charity and love through ministering, providing meals, and extending messages of love and support. These are incredibly important connecting practices of care that promote healing. But newsflash: men are not limited and can also do everything stated above. Those approved practices are not especially for women! Maybe culturally they’re more expected of women, but men can do all the things women can do to minister to their loved ones. The fact that we are restricted and not able to surround our loved ones (or be surrounded) by women whom we want blessings from seems almost cruel. I wonder what Jesus Christ would think if he knew a mother was kept from holding her baby in a baby blessing or giving a blessing of healing to her child. There are also wonderful and good men who are not “priesthood holders” who want to participate in blessings. But hey, at least men have the opportunity to bless. Women are limited primarily based on their sex…at least, publicly.

I have blessed one of my sick children in the dead of night when he was having a difficult time settling and going to sleep. I did it using the power of my love for him as his mother. It wasn’t ground breaking, showy, or particularly eloquent, but it was special and I will do it again if I feel prompted. Writing this confession down and publishing it has my heart thumping. I’d like to think that if Dallin H. Oaks read this or saw me doing this that I would feel indifferent and continue to practice the way that my heart is telling me to and not seek his (or anyone’s!) approval.

A few years ago my family made an unexpected move from the Western US to French Canada. We had never dreamed my spouse would get a permanent job Montreal, Quebec, but he did. The day we flew there from the Seattle airport was surreal. At the time, I thought this permanent move to a place I knew very little about felt like throwing my life into a black hole.

Since we needed to become permanent residents for my husband’s work situation, my kids, 5 and 8, would soon be required to attend school in French (the law for all children in QC who are PRs or citizens unless they have a Canadian parent who attended school in English). People in the university community where my husband worked advised it was better to have them attend school in French from the beginning. So my children started their journey learning French in special “welcome” classes alongside other immigrants. This and the move in general was a very challenging transition for them.

I, too, threw myself into learning the language. While Montreal is fairly bilingual, tasks like communicating with my kids’ schools required French. I got involved in classes and started making progress. The first time I understood someone speaking French on the phone was a major milestone. Surviving a couple months of volunteer work in French did as well. After eight years in Quebec, my kids are gradually surmounting the language barrier and the disadvantage of not being raised in the language they are studying in. We’ve managed to build a life here that we generally enjoy.

Despite my efforts, in recent years I’ve felt pretty cynical and self-deprecating about my French. I never expected to be an awkward immigrant mom whose language skills can be embarrassing to my kids, but here I am. I work full time in English, and my main hobby is reading and writing in English. I sometimes reluctantly rely on my kids to translate the dumbest things like the bread options at Subway. When I make French-speaking friends, they usually want to use English with me because their second language skills are strong and they want to practice. I still feel on the outside of French Canadian life, even though I like the culture and in many ways its warmth and spirit remind me of parts of the US (did you know some Quebeckers line dance and wear cowboy hats? Check out a favorite music video of mine that reflects their love of and sense of shared identity with the States. A ballad told from the perspective of a trucker describing what he sees in his rear view mirror as drives from Florida home to Quebec; the chorus refers to “America crying”).

I’ve felt bad that I can’t help my kids in French as much as their friends’ parents. That I haven’t been able to help them learn rich vocabulary or how to use more advanced grammar through the way I speak. And that even the most common sounds and words like “un” or “our” still trip me up sometimes. My last volunteer tutor, a kind older women from France, winced at me a few times in a way that made me feel like I’ll never measure up.

But the other day I realized my efforts have mattered more than I’ve given myself credit. When her grandparents visited, my daughter told them about how my willingness to learn French made an immense difference in her own learning experience. Because I could understand French in the early years, she was able to practice and play around with the language at home. My jumping in head first to learn to converse in French energized her to do the same. All those trips to the library and learning to read to my kids in French mattered. She says that if my husband and I hadn’t made the effort to learn and to put ourselves out there, she is confident she wouldn’t be having the same kind of fulfilling experience swimming in the French-speaking world that she is. She now often feels she belongs in this world just as much as she does in the English-speaking one.

I was really moved by this and its something she (now 16) had never said before.

Sometimes we are very hard on ourselves as parents and feel hopelessly inadequate or ashamed of what we can offer. But in reality so much of what we do helps our kids and does matter. 

This encouraging instance made me think about all my self-doubt about handling faith and spirituality in my home. I haven’t felt nearly as supported as I expected to be by the Church in trying to pass down faith and spirituality to my kids, or even in just helping them develop social and emotional well-being. I often feel very lonely in these tasks and as if I’ve been asked to do the heavy lifting on my own. I feel terribly, hopelessly inadequate and clueless about what I’m doing at times. I’m always improvising, trying out things on the fly hoping they will help us connect spiritually or that something we do as a family will speak to their personal question or their needs to find meaning, hope, and connection.

One time I pleaded with God for help: Let me hope that something I teach them will help them in their lives. Show me how to support them. A couple days later, I was walking in the woods on a beautiful summer day. I spotted a raccoon family, a mother and two fluffy babies. The mom was digging for grubs in the soil and eating them. The babies were hugging a tree one on top of the other. The babies climbed down and started doing exactly what their mother was doing. This is the only time I have seen raccoons in nature while I’ve lived in QC, even though I walk in the forest most days.

This isn’t the first time I’ve experienced a meaningful animal encounter. It seemed to me to reveal something I could hope for: As I model ways to spiritually sustain myself, in time, my children will follow. Maybe not in ways I clearly see or understand now, but I do think I can trust that some of the healthy spiritual approaches I role model will be passed down.

Many of the religious transitions we undergo as families remind me of a journey of unexpected immigration. While my family used to live mostly only in the English-speaking world, now we have to learn to function in a bilingual one as well as in an international neighborhood. Many Mormon families like mine once rubbed shoulders in mostly Mormon circles and saw the world through a distinctly Mormon lens, but now find we need to venture out beyond this. We realize that, for a variety of reasons, we need to become more inclusive, open, and expansive in our worldviews and how we live.

Also, that we need to do a better job than past generations at acknowledging and respecting our children’s agency and various personal needs, and that we need to put family relationships above religion or tradition. Such shifts may not be what we expected or originally wanted, and they require that we learn new spiritual vocabularies and skills. We may feel uprooted or inadequate as supporters for our kids as we face such transitions.

We face such challenges regardless of our exact path– whether it is participating in Church as a family to glean goodness and community even though our relationship with the Church has changed, transitioning out of the faith tradition, or choosing to root our families in a different community. The challenge we share is to learn to live in a space that is more open to the greater, diverse world of people, cultures, and forms of spirituality. We move from a spiritual perspective that is more insular, tribal, mythic, disinterested in diverse worldviews, and competitive, toward perspectives that are more complex, humble, cooperative, and appreciative of intellectual and spiritual diversity.

Such migrations can be painful, but also spiritually profound. We have the opportunity to cross into toward a higher level of spiritual consciousness, find greater inner peace, and to feel more compassion for other people and all life. There are incredible things we model to our children, including humility, curiosity, open-mindedness, cross-cultural community building, love, spiritual autonomy, and more.

We can trust that the efforts we make as we develop ourselves and grow all matter. In time, all of this can and will all benefit our kids. All of it can help them gain the skills and tools they need to flourish in the pluralistic world they live in. We can’t and won’t see all the benefits of our efforts now, yet we are probably benefitting them even right now more than we can recognize or give ourselves credit for, and we can hope that our children will uphold many of the values we seek to live by, whatever the outcome may be concerning religious affiliation.

It might just be that our children will turn out more spiritually multilingual and resilient than we have been. It’s not easy to be the adult generation that immigrates, who always speaks in a bit of an awkward accent and who sacrifices to pave the way to a better life. Perhaps we will never be quite as home in the “new country” as our children will be, but that’s a good thing if our greatest worries are about our kids!

I trust that we parents are going to look back on what we’ve accomplished with the same kind of perspective I have with my immigration– I didn’t feel like I knew what I was doing, and it often didn’t feel like I was doing it right, but I can see now that it mattered for my children. I supported them and modeled healthy approaches and good values during that difficult period of transition.

Guest Post by Kate Baxter

It’s a teaching hospital, so I wasn’t surprised when a newbie med student did in the initial intake and participated in the exam along with the seasoned urogynecologist. After all the tests, when the med student came back in, I knew what she was going to say before she said it. My primary care doc had prepped me. With a prolapsed colon and bladder, the solution was going to be surgery to shore up my vaginal walls and put things back in place.

She smiled as she sat down. “So the good news is that even though you have multi-organ prolapses, they won’t kill you. You can choose to do nothing.”

“I dunno,” I said. “I kinda think pooping and peeing and pain-free sex are rather important.”

She laughed. “Yeah. Exercise or PT won’t help your conditions. You’re looking at surgery—three procedures.”

“But one operation, right?”

“Yes. First we’ll do a complete hysterectomy. We’ll remove your fallopian tubes, ovaries, uterus, and cervix. Then we’ll—”

My brain short-circuited. I could see her lips moving, but time had stopped. “Wait. Why a full hysterectomy?”

She explained that my uterus and cervix were also horrifically prolapsed, and, with the nonchalance of youth and bedside manner of medical school, added, “Your ovaries are done now anyway. It makes sense to reduce your cancer risk. We’ll just yank those suckers out.” She lifted her hands, made fists, and twisted. “Pop! Easy-peasy.”

“Oh.” I nodded with a side-eye to my husband who was simultaneously in the room and on a business call. My brain searched for a reasonable question. “So what happens to the…space?”

“Oh. We create a cuff. Simple.”

I nodded again.

She began to explain the other procedures, but my brain was running rampant. Ovaries, too? No way.

And why am I freaking out about this? I haven’t had a use for any of these parts for decades.

The surgeon slipped back into the room to check on our progress. “We all set here?” she chirped.

I held up my hand. “I’m sorry. I just need a minute.” My eyes welled.

“It’s okay,” she said, patting my arm. “All feelings and reactions are welcome here. You’re not the first to cry in this room. Not even the first today.”

“A full hysterectomy?” I said.

“Yes. I’ll do it all vaginally. Much easier to heal.”

The med student handed me a tissue and reconsidered her approach. “You might have concerns, like wondering what kind of woman you—”

I cut her off. “I’m a woman. I know I’m a woman, regardless.” I took a deep breath. “Ovaries, too?”

“We can talk about preserving them if that’s important to you,” said the doctor. “You’re young. Well, young-ish. They might still be of some benefit.”

Postmenopausal. I’m full of spare and unnecessary parts, parts that are just going to break down further. Your original warranty has long expired, babe.

“Okay,” I said. “Let’s get the surgery scheduled.”

Driving home, I kept biting my lip so I wouldn’t cry. “I don’t know why I’m struggling with this,” I said to my husband.

“If you’d known it was a possibility, you’d have done the research and figured it out beforehand. It’s a curve ball, that’s all.” He shrugged and answered another business call.

Hysterectomy. The root is hysterical. That’s the reason, I thought. A woman’s issue.

Stop it, said my logical brain. You’re being silly.

Was I? I searched deeper, probing the pain point like a tongue on a sore tooth.

I’m weird like that.

My womb, gone. No uterus. In utero. Oh! I gasped as the puzzle pieces fell. That’s it. My children’s home. It’s where they started; it’s where they grew.

Demolished for good. Uninhabitable.

Barren, like the moon. Tears threatened again.

I’m certifiable, I said to myself. Cray-cray. I just need a Diet Coke.

But another voice was relentless. Your connection to your kids started well before their father’s. Your uterus is the thing that makes you different from men; bearing children is the thing that you could do that they cannot. And if gender is an eternal construct, then what does it mean to no longer have the physical parts of your womanhood?

I shook my head. Where did THAT voice come from? I’m a woman regardless of my physical bits or motherhood status. I’ve always believed that.

But would I believe that if I’d never had a uterus or ovaries?

Wait. Do I really believe the most important part of me is my ability to bear children?

The feminist inside was appalled.

When I tried to talk to my husband about it, he just hugged me and said I was thinking too much. Things will be fine. So much better after the surgery. His vasectomy happened two decades ago without much drama, but also with the purchase of a shiny new convertible.

Maybe it’s the difference between things no longer erupting fruitfully and things permanently yanked. Or maybe I just needed a new car to feel better about this.

Instead I called the kids, ages 27 and 24.

My right-brained son said, “Emotions about body integrity are a very normal. Don’t beat yourself up for wanting to stay together.”

My left-brained daughter said, “Oh, Mom! Of all the twenty-four years of memories I have with you, none involve your uterus.”

I paused. “But I do. I have memories about you that involve my uterus.”

To her credit, she stopped trying to jolly me out of my funk and just sat with me a bit.

We raised good humans.

After a month of research, I came to the conclusions that were obvious to the med student and surgeon. Logically, it all made sense. But as I write this, I acknowledge that hearts and brains and ovaries aren’t always in sync.

In another month or so—surgery schedules for non-life-threatening situations are very far out during the time of year when deductibles are met—this will all be moot. I’ll be figuring how I feel in my new configuration and wondering if these changes come with superpowers or new cars—and still thinking too much.

Kate Baxter is finally getting her energy back eight months after surgery. No superpowers have manifested except Hulk-like rage. But that’s another blog post. Catch up with her at https://katebaxterauthor.com/.

I almost died last year. 

I realize that might be jarring to read right out of the gate, but we might as well start there. 

Last year, I went to the doctor for a routine eye appointment and one thing led to another and I was eventually diagnosed with a brain tumor. Within a week of my diagnosis, I underwent brain surgery to remove the tumor. That initial surgery led to multiple life-threatening complications, which resulted in 4 total surgeries and 5 hospitalizations. And now I’m living and going about my everyday, forever changed by those near-death moments.

But today, I want to write about one of the most significant changes I’ve experienced since almost dying in case you, reader, haven’t had the chance to almost die yet.

The thing with almost dying is that you don’t necessarily know you’re there in the moment. I knew I was sick. I knew my body wasn’t working and I was slipping into unconsciousness or bleeding out, or my head might split open from the pain, but there was usually a sense of “I’m sure this is ok. I’ll be ok.” 

It wasn’t until after those moments, once I was stable enough to process what I’d experienced, that I understood how close I was to losing my life, and that’s a strange thing to realize in such a tangible way. To see the lab numbers on a screen showing how close you were to not making it or to hear about the doctors who let your mom say a final goodbye, not sure if you’d be waking up, it all feels a bit like something out of a movie, something that doesn’t actually happen to people. But it did happen to me.

So with my near-death moments as the backdrop, let’s talk about time.

Time is one of life’s true constants, yet somehow it feels finicky and unreliable. We all come into this world using the same measures for time- minutes, hours, days, years, yet sometimes minutes feel like hours and years feel like days. People write songs or poems about lost time, borrowed time, stolen time. Religion teaches us about endless time, eternal bliss as a prize for good behavior. 

At any given moment, most humans are looking for ways to have more time. We pour energy and effort and resources into miracle cures and death-defying medical research. I’m living proof of what this research can offer, the extra time that it can give. 

Even though I have experienced time just like many of the humans around me, sometimes begging for it to slow down and other times wishing it could speed up or skip a few beats, ever since I almost died, time has felt different. 

Because time only feels like a scarce resource when you’re worried about losing it, and I’m not scared of losing it anymore, at least when it comes to my life. 

I guess it’s a fairly common thing after a near-death experience to lose your fear of death. Others in the near-death community talk about it and I’ve read articles that seem to agree. There’s debate on whether it’s a trauma response or a healthy mindset shift, but I’m going with the healthy option because I have enough trauma to deal with already. 

While I’m sure it’s not the same for everyone, there seems to be something about having the real, actual encounter with death that creates a prolonged sense of letting go. We have come to realize on some level that losing time, or earthly time ending, is not as bad as we thought it might be. Though I would not recommend the suffering right before it. 0/10

Along with realizing that time ending is not the scary thing I always thought it might be, I feel a sense of letting go in the perceived control over my time. We don’t actually get to control how much time we have, but our brains like to keep us in the belief that we do. There’s probably a good amount of evolutionary benefit to this. We need to feel like a fight for time is necessary so we prolong it for our species. Our brains tell us that if we eat healthy, follow the doctor’s orders, get our yearly checkups, we’ll buy ourselves more time. And sometimes that’s true, so we do it. But other times, it’s not true and we lose time anyway. 

So how has this “letting go” impacted me since my near-death moments? It has given me the chance to live in my time, to go with the flow of time instead of assuming time will always be available to me or that I have any control over it. 

A few weeks ago, I was sitting across from a client who was having a hard time processing a difficult memory. She paused, her eyes welling with tears, then apologized for her emotions and the silence. I said a phrase that I would usually say to clients in a moment like this. “It’s Ok. You’re doing great. Take your time.” and in the silence that followed as she continued to process, I felt that phrase go through my mind over and over again, almost like I had never heard it before.

“Take your time.” In a very literal way, this was my client’s time. For the next 24 minutes of her session, it was her time to use, her time to take. She could process exactly as slowly or quickly as she needed and she’d still get the same 55 minutes that she was paying me for. “Take your time.” While I believe I meant it to be comforting, was also, in that moment, a real desire I had for her. Take your time, dear one, take the time that is yours to heal. 

Since that day, that phrase has continued to pop into my mind like a poem. I find myself deconstructing every word. Take. Your. Time. The way we use it means to slow down or be intentional, but it’s spoken as a command, a gentle request for ownership, a reminder that your time will always be yours and only yours to take. You were born with time. We were all born with time. It’s on us to take it, to live in it, and to flow with it. 

We could spend a lot of our time fighting to keep it, fearing the loss of it. It’s pretty natural to find ourselves there. We find ways to cope, often using religion as a way to bypass or soothe our fears. And then we encounter the loss of a loved one or someone else’s time-ending journey and it’s terrifying to imagine living more time without them. Of course it is.

But what would happen if we could let go and take the time that is ours? Harness it and embrace it and nourish it. Stop fighting against it (I’m looking at you “anti-aging”) and let go. Flow with it, fully accepting that time ending will happen to us all and we might not even notice when it does. 

What if instead of living like we are dying (which sounds great in a song but never felt practical or sustainable to me), we live like we have time to take? Like we have time that is just ours to use. Just mine. Just yours.

I was given a chance at more time through the hands of competent doctors, researchers, medical advancements, and medications and I’ll do my best to keep it going as long as I can, living my life as a show of gratitude to all those who came before me to give me this time.

But then someday, you and I will finish our time and let it go. And it’ll be more peaceful and more OK than we ever thought possible.

Would you rather meet a bear or a man in the woods?  

Maybe for the modern Mormon cisgender heterosexual woman, we could rephrase: would you rather marry a member or a nonmember?  

The conceit of the first question is that everyone fears bears, because they are powerful predators, but many women would rather meet a bear in the woods than a man, because the man has the greater potential to inflict long lasting harm and pain. Comparatively, a bear is a fairly straightforward threat that, managed well, might not even be a threat.   

My ancestor Annie Clark Tanner writes in her autobiography that the young ladies of her time used to say “I’d rather have his little finger than the whole of a man outside the Church” (23). A polygamous marriage in the faith was preferable to a marriage outside the faith by virtue of marrying a nonmember man. She also attributes some of Brigham Young’s Reformation practices to the fact that Mormon women were marrying outside the faith. She writes, “President Young and the authorities undoubtedly saw that greater vigilance on their part was necessary if the ideal “to be a peculiar people” was retained” (25)1. 

Outsiders, nonmembers, anathema. I was taught that to lose a woman in the church was to lose a generation. If the mother did not participate, the children surely wouldn’t. So to keep a woman in the church, or perhaps more to the point, her children, marriage to a man in the church must be the standard.  

Annie chose to enter a polygamous marriage as a second wife, after seeing her mother and father manage (or not manage) their own roles as patriarch and second wife. But even in Annie’s time, women were apparently choosing not to enter into member marriages, enough that something had to be done. Apparently, even then, there were some who saw the state of a polygamous or Mormon marriage and noped their way right out the door.  

As someone who dated both outside and inside the church in her time, the question resonates with me. The nonmember or the member, if you met them in the woods? 

My thoughts, shaped by being white, cisgender, heterosexual, middle class, from the United States, won’t be the same as yours. How do you interpret member and nonmember? How do you grapple with this question?  

In my experience, the nonmember man might turn out to be terrible, it’s true. It’s a gamble, in the way that cis/het men are all a gamble; some people turn out to be truly terrible regardless of any initial promising starts.  

But I know the man of the church is going to patriarchy. It might be subtle. It might be explicit. But patriarchy always will. That’s not a gamble at all.  

We’re taught priesthood office is the value of a man. A priesthood holder, provider and protector all in one, is all a girl needs. Better the pinky of a priesthood holding man than anything else, the girls of my generation might say.  

But there’s solid odds on the nonmember being the man who sees me as a whole person, an equitable person, a person less fully defined by gender and sexuality. I’m far less certain to find these qualities when dealing with a man in the church.  

When I was a student at BYU-Idaho, I struggled with that sense that dating was “looking for a wife.” I never felt that title fit me, or at least was the whole of me, but my wife and mother capacity was still somehow the sum total of my value in that dating market. When I managed to graduate at the ripe old age of 22 without being married, I simultaneously felt over the hill and secretly relieved. I didn’t want to be a wife. But also, I was supposed to be a wife to a nice Mormon man.   

Young men are taught to put women on a pedestal, to provide for and protect. They are taught to value women as wives and mothers, but not so much as people.  

I will never forget one youth speaker, a real good kid in the ward, who once confidently spoke in sacrament meeting about his priesthood duties and how they were important and defining to him. And then he tried to speak to the young women of the church and his eyes widened. He stumbled, searching desperately in his mind, before triumphantly pronouncing “girls are queens!” This young man had so many words to describe himself and only one somewhat complimentary and yet rather vague word to describe what girls are or his relationship to them. Better the pinky of whatever that is?   

Too often in our church, we expect that men only want to be around women to get in their pants. Too often, we expect that men are only capable of seeing women as sexual objects or background characters in the more important stories of their men.  

I’ve been married sixteen years to an adult convert who grew up without a religious affiliation. Part of his appeal and attraction to me over the twenty-five plus years we’ve known each other is his ability to see women as whole human beings and act accordingly. I do think having grown up outside of the church had something good to do with that.  

But since I’ve been married a whole sixteen years, I’m fully removed from the dating scene of today, which I’m told is akin to a dumpster fire next to a chemical spill with the Hindenburg looming overhead. 

In that case, I defer to the experts of the current times. Man or bear? Or member or nonmember?

Photo by Federico Di Dio photography on Unsplash

Raised in a devout LDS home, my six siblings and I kept the Sabbath day holy by watching short films produced by the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. 

Many scenes and messages from those peculiarly Mormon short films, like Johnny Lingo and Pioneers in Peticoats, seeped into my brain and still influence my ideas about how to behave in this patriarchal world, but one particular line from Johnny Lingo clangs around in my mind to this day: “Mahana, you ugly.”

This phrase wields a disturbing amount of power within me that I am just now trying to dismantle. I’m realizing how these movies instilled in me ideas about feminine beauty and obedience that are still impacting the way I live my life. Particularly, the message that beauty is powerful and only good if women are obedient and submissive to men. 

Many memories from my life prove to me how deeply I have believed this idea. One of the most tame experiences I remember happened after I turned eighteen and asked my bishop if I could teach in Primary. He called me to teach in the CTR 4 class, and I absolutely loved it. 

One Sunday, after preparing my lesson and hand sewing little cloth bags for each child in my class to fill with shells I’d brought back from California, I sat on a mini chair with littles gathered around my knees. While these darling kids excitedly told me about their week, the Bishop called my name from the back of the room.

After sorting the kids into chairs, I went out into the hall, where the bishop told me he was shocked and disappointed in me. 

Holding back tears, I asked him why. He told me that the shirt I was wearing was inappropriate and that he had trusted me to take care of these young children and be a good example. “You have disappointed me and these kids,” he said. 

The shirt he referred to was one of the first shirts I’d ever bought myself, a white cap-sleeve shirt with an orange ribbon on one side that tied the sleeve up onto my shoulder. 

I quickly untied my sleeve, pulling it back over my shoulder, apologizing and ashamed, before returning to my class.

Looking back at this small moment that I’ve remembered for decades, I’m faced with my long-held belief that beauty is power as long as I am obedient. As long as my beauty is controlled and enjoyed by everyone around me, it is okay. 

Short LDS films are not the only sources from which I learned this message of obedience and beauty, but Johnny Lingo illustrates so clearly why beauty and obedience are foundational to me as a Mormon woman.

For those who need a refresher: Johnny Lingo takes place on a fictional island where daughters are exchanged for cows. Johnny Lingo, a wealthy man, buys a young woman, Mahana, for eight cows, the highest price ever paid for a bride. This shocks the village not only because of the high bride price, but also because Mahana, the daughter of a one-cow wife, is the village pariah, hiding from the scorn of her father and neighbors in the shadows of huts and trees. Johnny Lingo’s payment transforms Mahana, and her father yells at Johnny, “You cheat me! She’s worth ten cows!”

Much has been written about this “eight cow wife” film, and while I loved it as a child, one aspect of this film continues to feed on my adult dysfunction like a parasite: the disturbing focus on Mahana’s appearance to punish or reward her for her obedience to men.

In the film, Mahana is introduced through the stories men tell about her: she has a “face like a stone” and she is as “foolish as she is ugly.” Her father calls to her, “Mahana, you ugly.” But as a young girl, I knew Mahana wasn’t actually ugly. She is distorted by shadows, but I knew (after watching the movie a hundred times) that these men were lying, punishing Mahana with cruelty and exclusion. 

As a child, I wondered, “Why would they call her ugly when she clearly isn’t?”

But I think I always knew. It was because Mahana disobeyed the men in her life. “Be a good girl and come down,” her father’s friend says. But she won’t. She hides from the laughter of her village and disobeys her father.

Mahana’s disobedience makes her lose not only the one power a woman has—her beauty —but also her community. I knew if she’d just obey, if she’d just show the village how beautiful she was and stop being so difficult, everything would be okay. Everyone would be happy.

My young brain learned this message loud and clear: it isn’t enough to just be pretty; I needed to obey men. I needed to make men comfortable and happy.

As a little girl, I drank these lessons in each Sunday: Be a good girl. Don’t cause problems. Protect your one power. Be beautiful and easy. Let men look at you and control you. Because if you don’t, your community will punish you. 

I cannot seem to extricate this message from my body, my smile, my soft voice, my need to look put together all the time. 

In the end, Mahana transforms into an obedient woman, and all is well. Her voice changes from a childish pleading to a soft, feminine voice. She no longer hides; she has a flower in her hair, and the men adore her.

“Your gift to me can be seen by all who look at you,” her husband says. Mahana is no longer exiled to the woods, defined by the cruel and ignorant stories of others; she is walking freely and confidently around the island. Mahana becomes a good and beautiful girl and receives all the rewards.

I’ve seen this play out in my life over and over again. Experiences like the one when I wore an “inappropriate” shirt to teach Primary have paved my life with obedience and supplication to men. When I validate the men in my ward, I get the leadership callings, a platform to speak and serve. Everyone is happy when I obey.

But once I stray from the pre-approved rules and language of patriarchy, I get called into the bishop’s office or out in the hall. I get gossiped about, and once, after sharing my heart while teaching a Relief Society institute class, I was released from that calling immediately, ostracized and silenced into the shadows, just like Mahana.

In the final scene of Johnny Lingo, Mr. Harris, an American immigrant who earlier joined in mocking Mahana, stares in awe at her beauty and obedience. When Johnny asks her to fetch water, she instantly obeys. Johnny pulls her close possessively before she sashays away, both men proudly watching, her crimson dress fading toward the lake, where the other women gather. She’s no longer exiled. And her reward is the ogling eyes of men. 

I understand why my young Mormon girl self wanted to be the version of Mahana in the red dress with a soft voice and all of the men’s attention and adoration. She was the one accepted in her village. She was the one who appeared to have all the power and joy and love. All she had to do was fetch some water. 

That’s why I untied my sleeve instead of defending my clothing choice that day. That’s why I laugh at jokes during ward councils that aren’t funny. That’s why I smile and wear the clothing others want me to, and why I say yes when I should say no, and why I sit quietly in a pew when I want to sing and dance and scream. Because I don’t want to lose my community or the small amount of power offered me.

But I’m realizing that this message is a lie. Obedience to men is not what makes me free; it’s not what gives me the community I want. Kindness, equality, and education do that.

Photo by Ashley Kruse on Unsplash

Photo by Justin Aikin on Unsplash

Photo by Jessica Elias Angoman on Unsplash