Six months.
That's how long I've been silent. How long my website has sat untouched, my newsletter unpublished, my social media feeds frozen in time.
I didn't plan to disappear. I didn't want to leave you wondering. But I discovered a complication I didn’t see coming.
My book needs legal vetting.
When you're the great-great-grandniece of Joseph Smith writing about controversial historical revelations, evidence that challenges official church narratives, documents that suggest things happened differently than we've been taught, you can't just publish and hope for the best.
You need lawyers. Liability protections. People who specialize in the delicate balance between historical truth-telling and legal safety.
So I've been setting that up too. Learning about defamation law. Consulting with attorneys. Making sure that when this book enters the world, it's protected. That I'm protected.
It's been humbling. And exhausting.
And necessary.
And Editing the Size of My Memoir
I also discovered I needed to whittle my book down from 106,000 words to 90,000 at the request of a potential publisher.
When I started editing in June, I thought it would take a few weeks.
I was wrong.
Every word connected to another. Every story held someone's truth. Every scene I thought I could cut turned out to be weight-bearing, and I had to make sure the whole structure wouldn’t collapse.
Cutting 16,000 words felt like excavating my own heart. Again.
Which stories deserved to stay? Which moments of pain and healing needed to be shared, and which could I carry privately? How do you compress a lifetime of religious trauma, family fracture, and hard-won grace into something readable?
The work was intimate. Necessary. All-consuming.
What I've Learned in the Silence
These six months have taught me something about the creative process I didn't fully understand before.
Sometimes the work requires you to disappear into it completely.
Sometimes you have to choose between showing up consistently for your community and showing up fully for the work that matters most.
I chose the work.
I chose the manuscript. The editing. The legal protections. The slow, careful process of getting it right.
And I don't regret that choice.
But I've missed you.
I've missed this connection—the essays, the conversations, the shared experience of healing from religious trauma and rebuilding on the other side. I've been hoarding stories, insights, moments of breakthrough, and struggle that I wanted to share with you.
Now I can.
What's Coming
The manuscript is nearly ready. Tighter. Stronger. Protected.
And I'm coming back.
Expect regular content again—essays about the journey of leaving Mormon royalty and finding yourself, newsletter updates, YouTube videos for Heretic Survivor. All the stories I've been holding while I've been deep in the editing cave.
This book will be worth the wait. I promise you that.
And in the meantime, I'm here again. Present. Connected.
Thank you for staying. For waiting. For understanding that sometimes the most important work requires silence before it can become sound.
Let's continue this journey together. If you're still here, if you didn't unsubscribe or unfollow during my long absence, thank you. Sending you a hug! Your presence means more than you know.
With gratitude,
Lyn
P.S. Here's what I'm wondering: What have your seasons of silence taught you? Those times when you had to withdraw from the world to do deep work on yourself or your art? What did you learn in the absence that you couldn't have learned any other way?
