Getting "UNdiscouraged": 6 things you can do when discouragement hits

Check out my Hi Five Live video this was based on HERE!!

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Discouragement comes to all of us.

I know I've had my share over the past year. 

Most of the discouragement has come from not-so-good things. 

Like getting a cracked tooth pulled and having my face swell up.

And then a week later getting bitten by a cat I was trying to save, getting an infection, and spending a few days in the hospital fighting it.

Some discouragement comes from good things too. In December I was called as an early morning seminary teacher. It was wonderful but challenging.

Then my mom got sick this spring and passed away this summer.

Oh yes, and we can't forget the Covid-19 world-wide pandemic and riots and the election year.

It's safe to say this has been a trying 11 months for me.

Discouragement has become an unwanted friend of mine.

But, I've learned a few things that have helped me when it comes, a few things that I've learned that help me become "undiscouraged." And, assuming you're human and you experience discouragement too, I thought I'd share.

#1 Take care of yourself

Often times when I'm discouraged it's because my bucket is dry--I am totally worn out. Sometimes it's due to my choices. I often put the needs of others first and forget my own. I will also eat things that aren't the best, stay up too late, or waste time during the day then berate myself for it. 

Other times I don't have a choice because circumstances demand my attention, energy, and efforts at a pace I can't keep up with.

Regardless of the why, when I neglect myself, discouragement easily follows.

Yet, it's hard to stop and give myself what I need.

This is why I love the story of Elijah in 1 Kings 19. It's where I get the "juniper" name in my blog from.

See, Elijah was a powerful prophet. He showed up on the scene, sealed the heavens, performed miracles, had the sealing power (the last one to hold the sealing keys before Jesus Christ came), and made royalty really mad. In fact, they wanted to kill him.

So he ran an entire day for his life. He wore himself out. That night he laid under a juniper tree and "requested for himself that he might die; and said, It is enough; now, O Lord, take away my life.

That's some deep, deep discouragement.

He falls asleep, presumably hoping to not wake up. An angel woke him up. He didn't lecture him, give him advice, power, or even a pep talk. He simply said, "Arise and eat."  Then he showed Elijah a cake that was baking on the fire. Read that again: THE ANGEL MADE ELIJAH A CAKE!!!  Cake is LITERALLY Heaven's answer to feeling bad.

Elijah ate the cake (like a good man) and drank some water, then went back to sleep. The angel came to him a second time and said, "Arise and eat; because the journey is too great for thee." 

Elijah had a long way to go and the angel knew (which means God knew) that what he needed to feel better and accomplish his tasks was to take care of himself. 

This is not a singular event. When Alma met Amulek, he tarried at his house and rested before going back out to preach. The Lord let Lehi and his family rest in Bountiful for years before they continued their journey. 

Taking care of ourselves is not only important and even necessary, but it is divinely suggested and condoned.

I find that when I'm feeling discouraged, I can often become undiscouraged by doing something that fills my bucket. It's usually something like taking a nap, resting better at night, eating healthier, getting outside, reading my scriptures, serving someone else, writing for fun, and yes, totally eating cake. Especially free cake. And especially angel cake. (Come on, I couldn't pass that up.)

#2  Release emotions

My mom had a few strokes and heart "episodes" in May, so when things took a turn for the worse in July, we knew we weren't going to have her much longer.

I flew down to California to be with her. She passed away five days later. Those five days were hard. Covid restrictions kept us from her until she moved into the ICU. Then, after an initial wave of small groups saying goodbye, we weren't allowed to be with her until they moved her downstairs to comfort/hospice care. And even then it was only one visitor at a time.

Mom rallied those first few days. I said a final heartwrenching goodbye, then she'd improve. Then she'd decline and I'd go and say goodbye again. After the third "final goodbye" the disappointment and grief had nearly consumed me.

I had kept everything in as I was one of the supports for my dad and my brothers. I wanted to be strong. So, I pushed it all down. Until my discouragement grew too large.

In this instant, cake wouldn't help. Heaven knew I'd been eating a steady diet of cookies for days.

What I needed was to release the emotions.

After a family meeting where my dad discussed the next steps, I ducked out of the house, got in my rental car, and drove to an empty parking lot. And I cried. I screamed. I hit the steering wheel. I let it all out for over an hour.

Then the tears dried up and I felt a sense of strength and peace return.

I went home to my dad. Not more than five minutes later we got the call that it was time again to say goodbye. I was able to be there in the background as my nieces and nephews said goodbye to their grandma. And because I'd released that emotion--not the sorrow or grief, but the weight and force of the emotion I'd kept inside--I was able to lovingly smile and support them in those very tender and hard moments.

Then, the next night, I said my final final goodbye. And she was gone, off to a family reunion of epic proportion.

Sometimes our emotions can build up and we become human pressure cookers and we need to release the pressure before we explode.

That might come in tears and screams, hitting inanimate objects, running hard, writing it out, or spilling your guts to a friend. Whatever works, do it. Because it does work, and you'll feel better.

 

#3 Remind yourself what you know

Discouragement is a suffocater. It takes hold of what we know, squeezes it, and pushes it aside to make room for all the things that make us sad, tired, and afraid.

It also loves to feed lies. Maybe we aren't worthy of happiness or love. Things will never work out. I won't ever get head. If God loved me, He wouldn't let me hurt this way or allow this to happen to me. Life is fair for everyone else, but mt.

When discouragement comes, it will do us good to remind us what we know.

I love the example of this in the Book of Mormon. The prophet Nephi had seen and done amazing things, and yet, he experienced discouragement too. In fact, he recorded on such time in 2 Nephi chapter 4.

He laments: "Why should my heart weep and my soul linger in the valley of sorrow, and my flesh waste away, and my strength slacken because of my afflictions? And why should I yield to sin because of my flesh? Yea, why should I give way to temptations?  Why am I angry because of my enemy?"

That is some major discouragement there.

But I love what he does next. He doesn't allow himself to stay there. He doesn't feed those thoughts.  "Awake my soul!" he says. Basically, snap out of it!

Then he reminds himself of what he knows is true: Lord, I have trusted you, and I will forever. I know that you give to your children, and you will give good things to me.

When discouragement starts discoloring the good things in your life or feeding you lies, stop and remind yourself what you know. 

God is real. 

He loves you. 

He is with you. 

This will pass, and if it doesn't He will help you. 

The Atonement is real and can work in your life. 

Things WILL get better.

You will smile again.

#4 Keep discouragement with its owner

I have a friend with a bunch of kids. They throw the clean laundry in a pile and the kids pull out their own clothes. Often they will grab a brother's pair of pants or a sister's shorts because it either looks like theirs or happens to be next to what they are grabbing. What ends up happening then is clothes belonging to one person living in the dresser of another--where it doesn't belong.

Discouragement loves to spread its wings. When one thing discourages you, it's easy for it to spill into other areas--to go where it doesn't belong.

You get a demotion at work and come home to a house that's messy. The disappointment from your work now widens and you're disappointed in your home. Next it might be your family, your appearance, God, or yourself.

When you feel discouraged and you see it spreading across your life, take some time to pinpoint where the discouragement started. Then try to compartmentalize it there. Remind yourself that it's okay to be disappointed in one are and happy in others at the same time. :)

#5 Give it to the Lord so He can give you what you need

Sometimes feelings of disappointment can drive us away from God. That is the worst thing we can allow it to do.

The Lord loves. He wants to help us, and if we let Him, He will give us the individual care and assistance we need to deal with our disappointment.

When Jesus received the news of the death of His dear friend Lazarus, He traveled to his home and was met with one of Lazarus' sisters, Martha. (as found in John 11)

She ran to meet Him saying, "Lord, if thou hadst been here, my brother had not died."

Jesus responded with the assurance that her brother will rise again. Then He spent a few moments teaching Martha of eternal things.

Then the other sister, Mary, came to Jesus and greeted Him the same way: "Lord, if thou hadst been here, my brother had not died."

Except, the Savior didn't respond to Mary the same way. As Mary wept, Jesus wept with her.

To one sister He gave hope and learning, to other He gave love and empathy.

Both sisters were experiencing the same thing--the death of their brother. And yet, both had different needs. And the Savior gave each one what they needed. 

This is what God and Jesus do--they give us what They know we need. They know us intimately and want to give us hope and learning and love and empathy and companionship and strength and ALLLLL the things we need to deal with or overcome our discouragement. 

But, as the sister did, we need to bring our sorrow, worry, fears, and frustrations to Them.

So, when you're feeling discouragement in all its forms, give it to the Lord, and let Him give you what you need.

#6 Wait it out in faith

Sometimes we can do all of the above things and the discouragement is still there. Sometimes immediate relief simply isn't possible. 

So, what do we do then??

We wait in faith.

I love the movie "Cast Away" with Tom Hanks. Hank's character is on a Fed X plan that crashes on a deserted island in the ocean. He's alone for four years, with only a small photo of his fiance and one still-unopened package to deliver to give him hope. Finally, the wind brings him something he can use as a sail, and he's able to get his man-made boat over the currents surrounding the island and floats out to sea where he's picked up and rescued.

He returns home to find his fiance married to another man because she thought he had died. The world is different. He is different. 

As he tries to grapple with the adjustment and diminishing hope, a friend asks Hanks what he will do now.

This is his response: 

(on the island) "I had power over nothing* And that's when this feeling came over me like a warm blanket. I knew, somehow, that I had to stay alive. Somehow. I had to keep breathing. Even though there was no reason to hope. And all my logic said that I would never see this place again. So that's what I did. I stayed alive. I kept breathing. And one day my logic was proven all wrong because the tide came in, and gave me a sail. And now, here I am. I'm back. In Memphis, talking to you. I have ice in my glass... And I've lost her all over again. I'm so sad that I don't have Kelly. But I'm so grateful that she was with me on that island. And I know what I have to do now. I gotta keep breathing. Because tomorrow the sun will rise. Who knows what the tide could bring?”

Sometimes, when we have to wait for things to get better, to feel better, all we can do is keep breathing. And hold onto the hope that the tide will bring something in.

This, to me, is what Sariah, Lehi's wife, did in the Book of Mormon.

She left her extended family, the home she'd created, her friends, and followed her husband, a prophet, into the wilderness. After three weeks of traveling, they stopped to camp, and the Lord sent her sons back to Jerusalem on a dangerous mission.

When they hadn't returned, Sariah began to feel very discouraged. She feared her sons were dead, and (because discouragement doesn't like to be alone) she began to doubt.

Lehi did his best to console her. Sariah chose to wait in hope. And her sons did return!

And when they did, her discouragement was replaced with stronger faith and gratitude.

Still, it must have been hard for her to wait.

I know waiting in hope is hard for me.

It might be for you.

We want to feel better now, for things to get better and. Sometimes they can and do, and sometimes, we simply have to be patient and wait in hope until they do. Keep breathing in and out. Because we never know what the tide will bring in tomorrow.

So, those are six of the things I do to get undiscouraged.

What do you do the help you fight discouragement when it comes knocking at your door?

Faith Starts Today

This morning, I was contemplating the crazy and unsettling state of the world when this calendar notification appeared on my phone: “Faith, starts today.”

I have no idea how “faith” got scheduled into my calendar. But, there it was.

I live in Washington state. People in our state and my own county are sick. Our school district is closed. Seminary and Church meetings are canceled. Our temple is closed. People are rushing to stores. No one knows what to expect.

It’s hard not to get caught up in the craziness of it all.

But despite it all, “Faith starts today.” This is a mysterious and sweet reminder for me that faith is needed always. Today. Because I’ll be honest, things are getting kind of scary around here.

In the scriptures we read that “God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind” (2 Timothy 1:7). And the Lord Himself tells us numerous times to not fear but have faith (see John 6:20 and Doctrine and Covenants 68:6).

But this begs the question: If I am afraid, do I not have faith?

I mean, I’ve heard it said that faith and fear cannot exist at the same time. Yet, I know many faithful people who are nervous, even afraid of what’s happening in their lives. Are faith and fear mutually exclusive? Does this mean those who are afraid don’t have faith at all?

I don’t believe that it does.

Imagine for a moment a completely dark room. Now, imagine a flashlight is turned on in the middle of it, shining one solid beam of light towards the ceiling. Within the beam of light, there is no darkness. It is the one space where light and dark cannot exist at the same time. Light wins.

But what of the room itself? In the room, there is darkness and light, even if it is dim, from the flashlight beams. At the same time. Does this mean there is no light at all?

No. It doesn’t.

In the expanse of our minds and hearts lie imperfections, doubts, and yes, fear. We are children who lack eternal memory and are learning to be gods in a fallen world.

The Lord knew we would have some fear. This is why He so often comforts us. Because He knows that within perfect faith, fear cannot exist, but within our imperfect minds and hearts they can. He wants us to know that simply because we experience fear does not mean we don’t have faith.

Our task at hand—our command from the Lord—then is to replace our fears with faith, one by one.

But how?

First, we recognize the source of fear. President Gordon B. Hinkley counseled us to “recognize that fear comes not of God, but rather that this gnawing, destructive element comes from the adversary of truth and righteousness.”

Next, we choose where we look. Where we look determines how—and if—we live. The Book of Mormon prophet, Alma, taught his son to “look to God and live” (Alma 37:47). When we take focus away from God, we distance ourselves from Him. Fear is a faith and soul-killer. This is why President Hinckley said, “Fear is the antithesis of faith. It is corrosive in its effects, even deadly.” Satan wants us to look away from the light and cower in a dark corner of the room. He uses fear to control us, to keep our focus on him away from God. The Savior beckons us to “look unto me in every thought; doubt not, fear not” (Doctrine and Covenants 6:36). He wants us to live in the light faith offers.

Lastly, we walk in the faith we’ve chosen, and keep walking. What does this look like today? It is focusing on the covenants we’ve made, saying our personal and family prayers, feasting upon the scriptures through studying the Come, Follow Me curriculum, seeking Priesthood blessings, and more. It is choosing to walk around our fear and follow Him.

We need to stay strong and choose faith again and again, even when the fear creeps back in. In the book of Mark, we find something interesting that’s not recorded anywhere else. Jesus led His disciples into Jerusalem and, “as they followed, they were afraid” (Mark 10:32). This was after they sat with Him during the Sermon on the Mount, after the Mount of Transfiguration, and after only five verses after the Savior said, “with God all things are possible.”

The beam of faith in their lives was bright, but still, there was fear. And yet, they chose to follow Him, step after step. Their faith, not their fear, led their footsteps.

I was talking to someone about fear the other day. I said, “As long as I’m scared in motion, I’ll be okay.” I think a better way to put it is to be faithful in motion. Elder Neil A. Anderson said it this way: “When we choose to follow Christ in faith rather than choosing another path out of fear, we are blessed with a consequence that is consistent with our choice.”

Yes, we do live in perilous times, and we don’t know what lies ahead. We might be afraid, but we can still have faith. We have the power to recognize the source of fear. We have the power to look to the light. And we have the power, with God’s help, to grow our faith through our choices again and again.

In the face of the unknown, I choose to believe that God is leading us through His prophet right now. I choose to believe that I can have peace in the chaos. I choose to focus on the light and will continue to do so until there’s no more room for darkness. I chose faith yesterday, and according to my calendar, my faith starts again today.

Mountains to Climb

Today was a rough day. Most of it was fine, even good. But, then, something happened. It was unexpected and it was hard. Really, really hard.

I've spent the afternoon making dinner, reading Come Follow Me with my family, and having family home evening. I was calm and could even smile, but there was a storm beneath the seemingly placid surface. Inside I was crying out. I was scared. I was tired. And my hope was waning.

Then, I watched this video as I prepared my seminary lesson tomorrow morning. It reached below the depth of my pain and lifted it up to a place I could reach it and hand it, or part of it at least, to God.

I will be okay. This is just a moment in time, and this particular part of the trial will pass.

And perhaps the situation might never completely resolve and perhaps this is simply my lot in life. Perhaps this trial will be one that will never leave.

But, I know that with His help, I can have the power to rise above this trial, to look down on it on my life and see it for what it is. I can walk a higher road and learn. I can be supported. I can trust Him.

I love this Elder Eyring. I love God's timing.

I'm not ready to say I love my trial yet, but I love that I know I can be okay now, even in the midst of it.


This can't be true for only me. I believe this is an eternal truth for all of us.

So, if you are having a rough day, if you feel you are climbing a mountain and you're tired and weak and slipping down a rocky slope, or if you feel like me--like a giant boulder has been thrown at your head--watch this video.

You can climb this mountain. God can help you make it through.

You can and will be okay.

Meet 1989 Michelle. 

This is my senior portrait. Back in the 80's, this is what we did. No leaning on brick walls or posing in the middle of a field. We went to a studio with a pull-down background and hot lights where we were posed by strangers while our mothers coached from behind.

Do you see the pain in her eyes?

It's not because she was holding the rental cap at a strange height ("That's too high," one argued. "That's too low," said another. It finally landed in a position that made it look like she should be serving that someone tea on it.) And it's not because of the orange-toned makeup job that made her look like a chipper Oompa Loompa, either. It definitely wasn't because of her hair.She'd had short hair the first three years of high school, so her chin-length mane of hair was my glory. 

The pain in this senior portrait came from somewhere else.

In fact, this isn't even her, or my, senior portrait. This is my the "proof" from which I would have chosen to order my official senior portraits from . . . if I would have graduated.

But I didn't graduate. And there is the source of her pain.

Actually, not graduating is a painful regret, but the pain started long before then.

I had a good life and was raised in a typical, loving home. My pain came from within. I believed lies the adversary told me, my peers told me, Hollywood told me, and I added to them my own.

I held onto these barbed lies firmly during my teenage years.

I was stupid.

I was ugly.

I was annoying.

I wasn't likable.

I wasn't lovable.

I wasn't important.

I was invisible.

I didn't matter.

These lies acted as rudders that steered my steps, the very steps that led me away from people and opportunities that could have blessed me, to a sad place inside myself.

No, it was not total misery. People I ask now tell me I was vivacious and outgoing, cute and funny, and well-liked. But the lenses through which I viewed myself and my life then, and perhaps the way I look back on it now, are tinted very darkly. Yes, I had joy and friends and fun. The pain wasn't apparent  or constant, but it was real and deep. 

I am sad for 1989 Michelle. I can see how she got in her own way. I can see how her fear of believing she could be something special only to be proven wrong kept hope at bay.

I wish I could go back and hug 1989 Michelle, and tell her she's okay. No, not just okay. That she is awesome. I wish I could tell her to not care what others think. I wish I could tell her to claim the power she had to decide her value, rather than giving it to other broken people who were just trying to figure themselves out. I wish I could tell her she was smart and college would be a wonderful and reachable goal. I wish I could tell her to trust God more, and to trust in herself more. I wish I could tell her to open her eyes and see the love that's around her.

1991 Michelle began to figure it out as she prepared for her mission.

1999 Michelle, married with two small kids, was strong on the path towards healing.

2009 Michelle, about to welcome a third child by adoption and just discovering a love of writing, was ever further along that path.

And now, 2019 Michelle has got a good grasp on things. I, now 48-years old, feel settled and happy in who I am. I am smart and kind and loving. I am confident and assured. I find joy in serving and don't seek approval for being. I like how I look and how I act. I love me, and because of that, I can love others more freely.

Life is difficult in other ways. I'm not perfect at all. But I have the ability now to recognize when I get in my own way and have the strength (thanks to God) to step aside.

I can't go back and take 1989 Michelle's pain away, but I can make sure I don't hold onto it. 

For her, I'll take all the good she didn't see in herself and see it in me and others now. 

For her, I'll find another girl, teen, or woman that can't seem to get out of her own way, and gently take her by the hand and help her step aside.

For her, I can love me now and her then.

For her, I can dismiss regret and thank her for being brave in the darkness.

For her, I can be happy.

The power of "could" (A.K.A Stop "shoulding" all over yourself.)

7th grade me, at the start of my educational decline.

Sometimes I feel really smart. Other times not so much.

I didn’t graduate from high school. I skipped classes, got bad grades, and hid behind humor. I got my GED two years later. I’ve gone to bits of college here and there but no degree. I’ve had jobs here and there throughout the years but no career.

For a long time I felt unsmart--stupid.

Writing has made me feel smart, made me realize I actually have something in my brain.

Most times I am okay, really. I understand that formal education doesn't translate directly to intelligence. I've met plenty of college graduations that can't think for themselves.

But, still, there are times when I feel dumb. And I HATE FEELING DUMB.

Case in point, a while ago I went on a job interview. I was nailing it. Eye contact, solid answers, confident smile. I had it in the bag.

Then, right in the middle and out of the blue, the interviewer says the worst possible thing could say, "We are going to have a math test."

Huh? First of all, what's this we? Is he going to take it with me? And second of all, a math test? Who gives a math test in an interview?

That guy does.

I felt sick. I never made it past Algebra 1 in school. Math is my kryptonite, right next to liquid eyeliner and cleaning the bathroom.

He smiles and says, “If you receive an invoice for $3248.56, which includes a tax of 0.917%, how much would the total of just the bill be?"

People. I froze.

I didn’t know how to do it. 

Not only was it a dumb question, but I felt like a dumb person. 

Time slowed down.

I stared at the calculator in my hand, then to him, then back down to my calculator. 

My mind was blank. Nothing. 

I punched some random numbers hoping the answer would magically appear, but nothing came.

I felt embarrassed, ashamed. Humiliated.

Stupid.

That wasn’t his intent. Numbers are a big part of the job.

Still.

I wanted to cry right there.

I really wanted to slide out of my chair and sneak out the door. Though, he may have noticed a skirt-clad woman doing the army crawl across the floor.

The was another gentleman on the interview panel. I glanced up at him, hoping he couldn't see me dying inside. 

My nearly tearing up eyes rested on the calculator in my hand one last time as I prepared myself for what I'd have to say next.

I looked up at the interviewer, breathed in courage, swallowed a huge slice of humble pie, and with a wide said, “I’m sorry. I can’t recall the specific formula. But that’s okay, because this is the perfect time for me to show you how honest I am when there is something I need help with, and what a fast learner I am as well.”

He laughed and offered to write the problem out for me. Once the equation was in front of me, the old brain kicked in and I knew how to solve it.

Now, I could stop here and talk about how we can take difficult moments and make something good out of them. Or I could talk about how our "control room"--that place we go in the time between what happens to us and how we respond, that I shared in my second book.

But I'm not. Not yet.

I wasn't thinking about any of that stuff. In fact, I cried the entire way home.

I’m 46. And I felt like a 15-year-old in high school again. Embarrassed. Stupid. Small.

And it stung.

The next day I received an email from the guy. He invited back for a second interview. His manager wanted to meet me.

Really?

I was stunned. I thought my embarrassingly obvious ineptitude had sealed my fate.

But it didn't.

I never found out why they wanted me back because I never went to the second interview. I took another job offer instead which, luckily, had me teaching special needs children--something I love doing that, luckily, doesn't require algebraic skills.

That moment in the interview, for me, was a seminal moment in my life. It was a moment I faced deep shame and regret and didn't give it power over me.

I took the power away from shame and regret.

I took the power and changed it into something good.

Even if I'd never been called back for another interview, I feel like I succeeded.

I still harbor some negative feelings about my educational past. I know I made mistakes. I wish I would have made better choices. But I cannot let regret keep me from progress.  You know the saying, "life is full of should-of-dones", right?

Well, I think I am tired of shoulding all over myself.

I loved that moment in the interview--the moment courage stepped past fear and doubt. The moment I could be confident when all the "evidence" proved otherwise. The moment I took control of who I was and want to be.

Yes, I should have taken school seriously. I should have had more confidence in myself. I should have gone to college after high school. I should have gotten my degeree.

Should.

Should.

Should.

See, shoulding on myself is easy.

But, I don't want to do that anymore. I need to stop shoulding all over myself. It stinks.

In that moment in the interview, I had to walk past should and grab hold of could.

I want to keep doing that.

I could go back to school now and get a degree. I could study worldly topics at home. Or I could simply realize I am really smart, even if I don't.

Could.

Could.

Could.

I like could. It's a nice word, filled with possibilities.

Could.

No regret or shame.

Could.

It's hope and choices and potential.

I could do so many wonderful things if I leave my should where it belongs: in the outhouse with the rest of the crap.

And I think I will.

When You Don't Love Your Child

I’m going to tell you something I’ve only told a few people in my life: I struggled to love my child.

You might judge me for this, and I’m okay with that. I used to be afraid of what other people might think—other mothers—if those words ever left my lips. Would they think I was a bad mother? A bad person? A monster, even?

Because mothers love. That’s what we do.

Well, that’s what I tried to do.

But I couldn’t.

So I kept this sorrow, this shame, hidden for years. Until today.

First you need to know there is a happy ending. Love is there now. It’s real and it’s growing. But it didn’t start that way.

Here’s my story.

In 2001 I had a hysterectomy due to severe endometriosis and adenomyosis. I had given birth to two children, but after years of treatments my body simply could not give me what I wanted. Not only was I barren, but the pain caused from my mutinous uterus sentenced me to the couch for hours each day. I was burdened by guilt and grief. I could not make children, and I could not take care of the children I had.

The night before the procedure I requested a blessing from my Bishop. It was an opportunity to him to put his hands on my head and be the mouthpiece for God. I was standing on the precipice of permanent infertility, and I wanted to hear it would be okay. I needed to hear it.

I was told everything would be okay, that I would recover, and all would be well.  But then, I was told two something very unexpected. I was told I was not finished adding to my family.

I’ll admit, I opened my eyes and looked up as I secretly reminded God that a hysterectomy was the removal of the “oven.” Of course I knew He knew that. But then . . . why would He say what He did?

I tucked the promise deep in my heart and went about recovering from the surgery. After a few hiccups (which is a post for another day) I regained my health and life back. I was off the couch and active with my children. I began jogging and even trained for a 5k.

Life seemed to go one, as it always does.  Then in 2008—seven years after my surgery—a thought that had entered my mind in the past finally made it into my heart: adoption.

I talked my husband about it, and we both felt good. So we started the process of fostering and adopting through the state of Washington.

It was an arduous process. The classes, the statistics, the videos about childhood neglect and pain. I drove home many night with tears in my eyes. I wanted to adopt every child and give them all the love they never had and all they love they deserved!

After we became licensed we met many foster children looking for a forever home. Little did I know this would be even more difficult than the training. Our social worker would introduce us and we’d spend and afternoon or two, or they’d spend time in our home, in order to see if they were a good fit for our family.

The social workers thought we were looking at logistics: age, issues, and the like. What they didn’t know is that God was very active in our search for a child, and I every time I met a child and prayed, I received the same answer, “They are not yours.”

This made no sense to me. Why not? Why can’t I keep them, help them, love them? Why would You prompt me to go down this path when You keep telling me no?

This was especially difficult when we had two young foster boys stay with us for six weeks. Oh, how we wanted them. Then, one night as I was bathing the youngest, the answer came again, “They are not yours.”

It broke my heart.

I see now the wisdom in His words. I was instrumental in gaining them placement in a home who, just two months before, had received inspiration to build on their house and bring two more boys into their family. God knew that. I didn’t. And God knew that they needed to come to my house as an intersection, so they could make it to the forever family He intended for them.

But I didn’t know it then. I simply knew God didn’t see me fit to love any of the children that had crossed my path. And it was too much to bear.

So, after much struggle, my husband and I decided not to adopt. I figured I would be blessed for being willing, and God would somehow fulfill His words in some other way.

I stopped calling our social worker. I stopped looking at websites and children’s profiles. I tucked away the thought of more children and replaced it with other things. I was free from the emotional turmoil, and was content. . .  for the most part. There was a sliver of shame, of grief, and of sorrow that I could not shake. So I shoved it inside, took a deep breath, and kept going.

Then, one day—July 6^th 2010 to be exact—I received a phone call. It was a social worker I’d never met from an agency I’d never heard of. She had an emergency placement for a little six-year-old girl. Somehow our family bio was on the top of a pile of papers on her desk. Strange, she said, since she nor anyone else in the office had seen it before. But there it was, and would we take this little girl that night. 

I asked for an hour and called my husband, son, and daughter. We prayed individually, and when we all felt good about it, I called her back. Yes, we will take her. But just for a few days until they can find a permanent home for her. We were not planning to adopt any more.

She came that night at 6:30pm, with fast food in one hand, a juice mustache, a glint of fear in her eyes, and a smile almost wide enough to hide it. She was darling, and I felt a pull at my heart strings.

Still, I couldn’t do commit. I couldn’t even ask God. I couldn’t have Him tell me again I wasn’t up to the task. (My interpretation. Not His.)

She stayed for a few days, and those days turned into weeks. The social workers told us we could adopt her if we wanted, but I was still not able to commit. I was afraid.

Then, one night as I tucked her into bed, I pushed the hair from her eyes and a voice whispered, “She is yours.”

My husband was cautious but excited, as were my two older children. We were really going to add another child to our family, forever.

I spoke to the social worker who put things in motion. I trusted God’s answer and was excited to give her all the love I had.

The initial few months was good, with expected bumps in the road. The more comfortable she became with us the more her negative behaviors surfaced. The more comfortable I became with her the more I “mommed” her. She tested us, she tried us, she wanted us, she didn’t want us.

It was work, parenting a child with a trauma childhood. It was hard, loving a child who didn’t know how to love you. But I had faith in my ability to love. That was why God brought her to me, was to love her, I thought. Because remember, that’s what moms do. They love.

But I struggled.

The love for her didn’t come naturally as the social workers said it would. I didn’t feel that instant connection with her. Oh, I tried. I prayed. I cried. I went to the temple. We went to counseling together. I read her books and tucked her in bed.

But it was hard.

The behaviors and issues she had brought with her made it extremely difficult to like her at times. She came lying and manipulating. It wasn’t a matter of right and wrong. Not for a trauma child. It was the way she survived. You get what you want how and whenever you can, before someone takes it from you or hurts you. She had a shell around her formed from lies and screams and smiles that was nearly impenetrable. It wasn’t her I saw. It was her behaviors. And it’s hard to like someone who doesn’t seem real. It’s even harder to love someone who doesn’t love you back.

The Savior talked about loving your enemy. He said, “But I say unto you Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you” (Matthew 5:44)

She cursed me, said she hated me, despitefully used me, and even persecuted me. And He wanted me to love her still. I wanted to love her still.

But I didn’t. Not that way I thought I should.

I found myself feeling unqualified to be her mom. There were times I didn’t want to be her mom. I felt deep shame for these feelings. Why would God give her to me when there were so many other kinder, more loving mothers? Why her? Why me? He asked me to do this one thing, to love her, and I was failing her. I was failing Him.

I was a failure.

And who paid the price? My daughter.

I shared these feelings with my husband one day, who said all the right things to me.

But still I ached.

God was asking too much of me. I wanted so badly to feel the boundless outpouring of love for her I had expected to, I had wanted to. And yet. At times, the well was dry.

For a long time I kept this shame inside. I joked and ate through the pain, gaining thirty pounds since she’d walked through my door. I couldn’t talk to anyone about it, because I was sure I was the only mother horrible enough to struggle with loving her child. Because mothers love. That’s just what they do.

Except me. The mother who was the greatest failure of all.

I told myself if I couldn’t love her the way I thought I should, then she would never know it. No matter how challenged I was, how much I struggled because I was weak and a failure, she would never go a day without feeling I care, without feeling I loved her.

And she never did.

This was one of the reasons I never spoke about it. How would she feel if she knew I was struggling to love her? She had already had so much devastation and pain in her life. I would not be the cause of more.

So I kept quiet, except to God and to my husband a two or three choice friends.

Their words were all kind and good, but did not have the power to take away my shame and failure. What mother doesn’t love their child? What kind of monster was I?

This was a burden I carried secretly for a long time. I felt alone. So alone.

I wish I could tell you it hit me in a moment, that I can remember the exact time and place I was when things started to change, when my perspective started to shift, when the answers started to come. I can’t. But I can tell you it was after many hours of prayer, fasting, talking, and temple visits.  And, I can tell you three things I learned that have changed (almost) everything for me.

1)    My expectations shaded my reality. I realized, and if you look back at how this was written, that most of my struggle came from the way I felt not matching the way I thought I should feel. I fully expected that love would flow as fast and rich as it did when I held my bio children for the first time. Anything less than that wasn’t love in my eyes. When that love didn’t come, I felt I had failed. And with that failure came sorrow, fear, grief, and failure.  When I released myself—my love—from this expectation which was based on unfair comparison, I was able to see that I did indeed love her. It looked different, and felt different, much like the love I have for my husband is different. That love is a choice, it is worked at and nurtured. But it is still love. And so it is with my adopted daughter. It is a choice, and I am nurturing it.

When I release my feelings for her from the idea of what love should be, or the comparison to other hues of love, I can finally see it for what it is: love.  Though it may not have been as strong as I’d liked, it is still love nonetheless. This love for her led me to realize this next truth.

2)    A mother’s love isn’t one color, or one strength. I felt a great joy and relief when I allowed myself to see that my love wasn’t different for just my youngest, but for each of my children. I love each of my children differently. I love my son differently than my oldest daughter. I love my oldest daughter differently than my youngest daughter. My love for each of my children touches different parts of my heart. Sometimes it brings me joy, and other times it causes me pain. My love for them is different, and that’s okay.

3)    Perfect love can be given through me. This one was, perhaps, the biggest epiphany for me, and the one I’m going to talk about the most.

Moroni speaks at length about charity, which is the pure love of Christ. I always got hung up on the verse he penned (or chiseled) in Moroni 7:46 in the Book of Mormon, which reads: “Wherefore, My beloved brethren, if ye have not charity, ye are nothing.”

It’s easy to see, if I stop there, which I did many times, why I felt so awful about struggling to love my daughter. Without love, I was nothing.

Moroni continues: “Wherefore, cleave unto charity, which is the greatest of all, for all things must fail.”  This didn’t make me feel any better. I was supposed to develop this perfect love for her when sometimes I couldn’t even love myself because of my failure. I was screwed.

But, here is where things turned for me.

I began to understand what charity was.

Charity isn’t love I develop. It is Christ’s love which is given to me as a gift. I do not have build the capacity to love like Jesus does—perfectly. I simply need to qualify myself for the gift of His love for myself and others. As I strive to be worthy and seek after it, He will bless me with His charity.

It’s not about me. It’s about Him.

This was huge for me.

As I began to understand that it’s not about my capacity to love, but my capacity to qualify for and accept His love, the words of Moroni became clear.

“But charity is the pure love of Christ, and it endureth forever; and whoso is found possessed of it at the last day, it shall be well with him” (Moroni 7:47).

Those three words, “possessed of it,” changed my world.

As I try to love, I can ask God to bless me with His love for her and the love I feel is multiplied.

Elder Chi Hong Wong said, “We begin to develop the gift of charity through our sincere efforts to emulate the Savior. However, the full measure of this gift is bestowed upon us by God as we earnestly seek it in prayer.” (Wong, Ensign, 2016)

What great relief and peace this brought to me! I knew how to pray, so that’s what I did. I asked for charity, to feel His love for her.

And then I did.

And it was beautiful.

My God is her God, and He loves her dearly.

I felt it. I knew it.

And here’s the amazing thing. You see, when we seek for and allow the love of God to pass through us, I believe some of it is left behind. That, I think, is how we grow in charity. And every time I pray for it, and feel His love for her pass through me to her, I am left loving her more.

It’s a beautiful cycle. Try to love. Ask for His love. Feel His love. Love more.

These thing all together—adjusting my expectations of love, recognizing that love can look different, and perfect love can be given through me—breathed life into my beat-down soul. 

I was not a failure. I was not a horrible mother. My child really was loved by me, and by God.

The trifecta of realizations left me feeling hopeful and well, loving.

Then one more answer came quietly one day, as I was pondering love:  It isn’t my love that will save her. It is His.

In the quiet moments where doubt and fear still try to creep in, I remind myself that even if my worst fears had been true, even if I hadn’t been able to love my daughter, God did. And Jesus Christ did. Through the power of the Atonement, the Lord’s love is what will save her.

Mine will help ground her, soften her, encourage her, heal her, but it won’t save her.

That took another layer of pressure of myself.  I don’t have to save her. I simply have to keep doing what I’m doing: teaching her the gospel, studying about parenting trauma kids and using what I’ve learned, trying to see beyond the layers of issues and behaviors to the real her, and loving her in my way the best I can.

I realized my daughter was brought to me, in large part, because I have the gospel of Jesus Christ in my life. This means I can point her in the direction of perfect love. I can help her develop a relationship with Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. There she can find the healing balm of grace and mercy. There she can find perfect love. There she can receive all God has planned for her: joy, family, fulfillment, and yes, more love.

I have stopped trying to be the perfect mom giving the perfect love, and have simply allowed myself to love her in my way and help her feel God’s love.

An interesting thing has come from all of this discovery and growth: I have felt more love from my Father in Heaven and my Savior. I recognize Their awareness of me. They know my weaknesses and shortcomings. They see my faults and sins. They understand the desires of my heart, both good and bad. And they love me.

As I’ve pleaded to feel their love for my daughter, I have felt their love for me in so many ways. Their perfect love has mended my once-broken heart and buoyed my tired and aching soul. Their love has calmed my fears and extricated the shame from the deepest parts of my heart. It has given me confidence in myself and my abilities, and hope for the future—hers and mine.

Their love has freed not only her, but me. It has helped me to see what I can do with their help.

It’s also helped me to see that I really do love her.

And I always have.

Today I shared a small portion of these feelings with a group of women in church. I wasn’t expecting to. I really didn’t want to. It was scary, to stand in front of a room full of mothers and say the words, “I struggled to love my child.” But I did it.

I did it because, though I risk judgement by some who simply won’t understand (and that’s okay), I am not alone. It doesn’t happen this way with every adoptive mom, but it does for many. It even happens with some moms towards their biological children.

Sometimes it seems really hard to love your child. It’s a horrifying and shaming feeling.

And this is why I want to share this now. Because I want moms to know it’s okay to struggle. I want them to know that God’s love is big enough for both of you. I want moms to know that, most likely, you do love your child, it just looks different than you expected it to.

To those moms I want to say: You’re not a monster.  You’re not a failure. You’re not alone. You have the capacity to love. You are who your child needs. You’re not failing God. You are a good person, a loving person. There is no shame in the struggle to love. Struggle shows you have desire, and that’s what God wants: a willing heart.

Take your burdens to the Lord so He can ease them. Ask for His love for your child to flow through you, and He’ll leave some behind.

Be kind to yourself. You are doing better than you realize. You really are.

And know that God loves you. His love is bigger than your pain, and stronger than your fear and shame. It is true: charity never faileth. 

With His help, we can be everything each of our children need. Everything. Even when we aren’t enough. With God and Jesus Christ, our children will have more than enough.

So, rest your weary heads and hearts and see with Their eyes.

You just might see you really do love your children.

And that you always have.

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A mother's note:

One of reasons I've never shared this before is because I am fiercely protective of my daughter. I do not want anyone to judge her harshly, or see her in a negative light. A traumatic childhood can create issues for nearly any person. This post is about me and my struggles- not a letter of dissatisfaction or complaint about her. This was about my struggle, not hers, or any deficiencies she might have (we all have them, right?). Her behaviors are what I struggled with, and when I began to realize my false expectations and further truths about love, and also that I wasn't required to love her behaviors, but to love her, I found peace and truth.

She has her struggles, but we all do. My daughter is awesome. She is confident, quick to help and eager to forgive. She loves to make people happy. Her laugh is infectious. She loves God. She is strong and growing and blossoming into a beautiful young woman. She is making choices that bring her joy.

My daughter is valiant, special, and divine. In fact, all my kids are. So please, if you still feel like judging, throw it my way. But, out of respect, please don't think or speak ill of my child. She's amazing. She is a gift from God to me, and I love her. I truly do.


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