Of Songs and Sourdough

My therapist offered me a metaphor recently that her mentor gave her that I keep turning over in my mind.

"Once you hang your art on a wall," she said, "you've released ownership of it. The viewer's response says more about them than it does about you."

We were talking about my writing. About how I share vulnerable, messy, in-process thoughts with the world and then have to reckon with how people respond. About whether I write for an audience or for myself, and whether those two things can coexist.

I write to process. That's the core of it. Writing is how I untangle the knots in my thinking, how I figure out what I actually believe. It's always been this way—even when I was a believer, my journal was where I wrestled with questions I often didn't ask out loud.

But now I write publicly. And that changes things. Or does it?

The Viewer and the Art

When someone reads something I've written about my religious deconstruction and reacts negatively, what does that tell us?

My first instinct is to wonder what I did wrong. Was I unfair? Did I overstate my case? Did I miss something important that would change my perspective?

But my therapist's metaphor suggests another possibility: their reaction might not be about me at all. It might be about what my words stirred up in them. Their own doubts. Their own unexamined assumptions. Their own fear of what it would mean if I were right. Their own expereinces within and outside of the church.

The art is on the wall. The viewer brings their own history, their own needs, their own defenses to the encounter.

This doesn't mean I'm beyond criticism. It doesn't mean every negative response to my writing is projection. But it does mean I don't have to carry the full weight of every reaction. Some of that weight belongs to the person reacting.

A Wedge Disguised as Repair

Someone read something I wrote about Mormonism and responded with what can only be described as hostility.

I won't get into the specifics of what they said. The words themselves matter less than the pattern they represent.

They claimed, as they has before, that they don't want division. That they value our relationship. That religion shouldn't come between us.

And then they said things that were designed to wound-intentionally or not.

I've been learning about attachment theory in therapy—specifically about how secure attachment isn't built on perfection but on repair. We're all going to hurt each other. That's inevitable when imperfect people try to have relationships. What matters is what happens afterward. Do we acknowledge the harm? Do we take responsibility? Do we work to restore connection?

What he offered wasn't repair. It was a wedge disguised as an olive branch. "I don't want division," followed by divisive words. "Our relationship matters," followed by an attack on my character. "Let's not let this come between us," delivered in a tone that drives us further apart.

I've seen this pattern before. I recognize it now. The words say one thing while the actions say another. And when I respond to what the actions communicate rather than what the words claim, I become the problem. I'm the one who "can't let it go" or "makes everything about religion."

But I didn't create this dynamic. I just named it.

I should be honest, though: I'm not blameless in my relationships. After decades of people-pleasing—of contorting myself to fit expectations, of swallowing my real thoughts to keep the peace—I'm learning to be myself without apology. And that learning process isn't graceful. I might overcorrect. I might say things more bluntly than necessary. I mistake "authentic" for "unfiltered" when they're not the same thing.

I'm learning to do repair too. To recognize when I've caused harm, even when my intentions were good. To apologize without defending. To own my part without abandoning my right to have boundaries.

The difference I keep coming back to is willingness. I'm willing to examine my role, to adjust, to grow. What I'm grieving is relationships where that willingness only runs one direction or at least appears to.

I'm also learning that I'm not burning bridges with the glee of an arsonist. I'm finding out where the structural integrity of what connected me to some people is not such that it can bear the weight of my authenticity.

The Pursuer and the Withdrawer

In therapy, we've been exploring another pattern: the pursuer-withdrawer dance.

In relationships—romantic, familial, or otherwise—there's often someone who pursues connection and someone who withdraws from it. The pursuer reaches out, seeks closeness, tries to repair. The withdrawer pulls back, creates distance, protects themselves.

Neither role is inherently healthy or unhealthy. What matters is whether the dance becomes rigid and stuck.

I've learned that I am more avoidant than anxious. I pull back. I create distance. I protect myself by hiding behind not needing people too much.

But my therapist pointed out something that's been sitting with me: my seeking out safe connections—even connections that are unconventional—might be my inner pursuer trying to reach my avoidant conscious self.

Part of me desperately wants connection. Wants to be known and accepted and loved for who I actually am, not who I'm supposed to be. And that part keeps looking for places where it's safe to exist.

Another part of me has learned that connection often comes with conditions. That love and can be withdrawn when you step out of line. That belonging requires conformity.

So I withdraw. I protect the pursuer by keeping them away from people who might hurt them, including myself.

But the pursuer is often still there. Still reaching. Still hoping.

New Soul, Strange World

Yael Naim's "New Soul" came across my Spotify as I was contemplating the things named above, and I haven't been able to shake it.

I'm a new soul, I came to this strange world
Hoping I could learn a bit about how to give and take
But since I came here, felt the joy and the fear
Finding myself making every possible mistake

That's it. That's the whole experience of post-Mormon life distilled into a few lines.

I spent thirty-plus years operating with a detailed map of reality. I knew what was true and what was false, what was good and what was evil, who I was and what I was supposed to become. The map told me where to go, what to avoid, how to interpret everything I encountered.

Then the map turned out to be leading me to a place I no longer wanted go. It pointed to things that no longer make sense-to hills and valleys and mountain peaks that don't match the terrain I'm looking at.

Now I'm a new soul in a strange world. Relearning everything. What's actually true? Who am I when I'm not trying to be who I was supposed to be? What do I value when the values I inherited aren't working anymore?

Hoping I could learn a bit about how to give and take.

The conflicts in my life aren't just drama. It's part of this larger learning. How do I navigate relationships when I can no longer rely on the old scripts? How do I tell the difference between someone who's genuinely trying to connect and someone who's performing connection while actually demanding compliance?

Will they understand that I still love them even if we disagree?

Finding myself making every possible mistake.

I'm new at this. Thirty years of maps, and now I'm learning to navigate by the actual terrain. Getting it wrong. Trying again. Feeling both the joy and the fear.

It's disorienting. And lonely sometimes. And occasionally exhilarating when I discover something true for myself rather than accepting it on authority.

The Song at the Exact Right Moment

I don't believe the universe speaks. Not literally. I don't believe there's a conscious force arranging my Spotify shuffle to deliver Yael Naim at the exact moment I need to hear her.

But I believe in synchronicity as experienced reality. Whether or not there's cosmic intention behind it, the experience of meaning-making is real. When something arrives at the moment you need it, your brain lights up with recognition. This means something.

The church taught me that those moments were the Holy Ghost confirming or revealing something. Now I understand them differently: as my pattern-seeking brain finding significance in the noise. As the human capacity for awe and wonder meeting a seemingly random event and weaving story around it.

But understanding the mechanism doesn't drain the magic. If anything, it deepens it.

Because the awe is real. The wonder is real. The feeling of being met by something larger than my individual concerns—that's real, even if "larger" is just the vast complexity of existence rather than a divine person with a plan for my life.

I can find sacred without the Sacred. Enchantment without theology. Wonder without a God who orchestrated it.

What I'm Learning

Writing publicly is vulnerable. I hang art on walls and people respond to it, queitly or out loud, and their responses reveal things—about them, about me, about the stories we're each carrying.

Familiar relationships after deconstruction are complicated. People who claim to want unity sometimes act in ways that create division. Repair requires willingness on both sides, but I can't force someone else to be willing. I can do my best to leave the door open.

I contain multitudes. An avoidant part that protects by withdrawing. A pursuer part that keeps seeking safe connection. Both trying to help in their own ways. Both sometimes getting in each other's way. Both have their own fears and motivations.

I'm a young soul learning to navigate without maps. Relearning what's true. Testing observations against reality rather than against inherited frameworks. Getting things wrong sometimes. Growing.

And awe is still available to me. Wonder hasn't gone anywhere. The capacity for finding meaning and transcendence wasn't owned by the church or only to be found in the gospel—it was always mine. I'm just learning to access it through my own paths now rather than prescribed ones.

The Sourdough Metaphor

In thinking about titles for this piece, I kept coming back to an image: my new sourdough starter.

You can't make sourdough immediately. You need starter—living culture that's often something someone shares with you. It's passed down, kept alive, fed and tended over time.

But here's the thing: if the starter someone gave you goes bad, you can grow your own. It takes longer. It requires patience. You have to cultivate the wild yeasts that exist all around you, invisible until you create the conditions for them to thrive.

I made a starter a couple years ago. For a while, it made decent bread. Then I got lost in a host of things that caused me to stop tending it. I stopped feeding it. It grew mold. It died.

Now I'm starting again. Cultivating wild yeasts. Learning what conditions help them thrive. Making bread that tastes different than what I grew up with, but that nourishes me in ways the old bread never did.

It's slow work. It requires patience with myself. It takes time. And sometimes I still miss the convenience of just having starter that's already active, already proven.

But there's something deeply satisfying about making something new. About discovering that the ingredients for meaning and connection and wonder were always around me, waiting for me to notice them.

Hanging Art, Tending Starter

My therapist was right. Once you hang art on a wall, you release ownership of it. Viewers will see what they see, react how they react.

But you keep making art anyway. Not because you're guaranteed an appreciative audience, but because making art is how you process being alive.

And you keep tending your starter. Feeding it. Watching what helps it grow. Trusting that even when the process is slow and uncertain, something is rising.

That's where I am right now. Hanging art. Tending starter. Learning to sway with trees and find awe without angels and navigate family without the old scripts.

Young soul in an old-ish body, making bread with something I've cultivated on my own.

It's strange and hard and occasionally wonderful.

And it's mine.