I spent years hoping my mother would say it.
"I'm sorry I chose the church over you. I'm sorry I made your worth conditional on obedience. I'm sorry I let spiritual certainty matter more than your wellbeing."
She never said it. She couldn't say it—not because she was a bad person, but because she remained inside the system. She believed the Church's narrative about my apostasy. She needed me to be wrong so her choices could be right.
For years, I suffered over that. Not just the inevitable pain of "my mother can't give me what I need," but the extra suffering I added: "She should apologize. She owes me this. It's not fair."
Then I accepted it.
Not with bitterness. Not with resignation. With clarity.
She was exactly who she was. She did the best she could with the framework she had. Her limitations weren't punishment. It wasn’t personal. Just reality.
And from that acceptance, I could stop waiting. Stop performing. Stop abandoning myself trying to earn something she didn't have to give. When she passed, I was at peace with her. Serenity found through acceptance. Power instead of victimhood.
That's what nineteen years in high-control religion couldn't teach me: The only real freedom is accepting what already is.
The Dangerous Lie About Control (And Why You Believed It)
The Mormon Church sold me a beautiful lie: Your worthiness determines your outcomes.
Pay your tithing and God will bless you financially. Keep the Word of Wisdom and your body won't betray you. Raise your children in righteousness and they'll stay faithful. Marry in the temple and your marriage will be eternal.
It's a cruel version of spiritual cause-and-effect. Do everything right and reality will reward you. Suffer and it's evidence you haven't perfected the formula yet.
I'd been taught that acceptance was weakness. That righteous people fought. Changed things. Refused to surrender.
I didn't understand the paradox yet.
The paradox that Carl Rogers, the father of humanistic psychology, understood perfectly: "Until I accept myself exactly as I am, I cannot change."
Until I accept what is, I cannot change what is.
Radical Acceptance Isn't Weakness—Here's What It Actually Is
Radical acceptance isn't saying abuse is fine. It's not pretending injustice is God's plan. It's not spiritual bypassing or toxic positivity.
That's what leaders say when they want you compliant.
Radical acceptance is harder: It's the refusal to lie about what's happening. It's dropping the internal fistfight with reality long enough to see clearly what actually is, so whatever action you take next isn't poisoned by denial.
When I discovered the private family documents confirming that Joseph Smith—founder of the Mormon Church and my great-great-great uncle—was a fraud, radical acceptance meant facing the fact that my ancestor built a religious empire based on lies, deception, and manipulation.
The discovery shattered my world. Everything I thought was sacred turned to ashes.
Acceptance meant I had to stop wishing the history was different. Stop bargaining with what the evidence showed. Stop wasting energy protesting that it wasn't right or fair.
The pain of that revelation was inevitable.
The suffering I added, the months of "but what if I'm wrong" and "but these are good, faithful people" and "but speaking this truth will destroy relationships,"that was optional.
And I chose it. For months. Until I didn't.
The Life-Changing Difference Between Pain and Suffering
Pain is what happens when reality doesn't match our hopes. When prophets turn out to be con men. When families choose institutional loyalty over connection. When bodies betray us despite perfect obedience.
Pain is inevitable. It's part of being human.
Suffering is what we add on top. The resistance. The internal argument. The demand that reality be different than it is.
I spent months arguing with the fact that I'd been lied to. That my entire framework for reality was fiction. That the adults I trusted had either been deceived or were complicit.
None of that argument changed the facts.
It just kept me stuck. Stuck in "they should have known better" and "it shouldn't have been a lie" and "why didn't anyone protect me?"
All that energy. All that suffering.
And none of it changed what was.
What Acceptance Looks Like in Real Life (My Publisher Story)
Last spring, I spent six months trying to publish my memoir through with the Big Five publishers. They passed. Then a smaller publisher agreed to buy it, until they halted the purchase over liability concerns about my allegations against the Church.
I could have spent years resisting that reality. Rewriting to soften the allegations. Making the book safer, smaller, less true.
Instead, I accepted what is: Traditional publishing may not want to touch accusations against a $398 billion organization with deep legal pockets and a propensity to sue.
That hurt. I grieved it. The pain was real.
But I didn't add the suffering of "but it's not fair" or "but I worked so hard."
I accepted the reality. And from that acceptance, I could act.
I formed my LLC for personal protection. Had my memoir legally vetted by a media law firm. I'll publish it myself if a smaller press doesn’t accept it.
That's freedom.
Not controlling the outcome I wanted. Accepting the outcome I got—and choosing my next move from clarity instead of delusion.
Why Fighting Reality Is Literally Insane (And How to Stop)
The mind wants to be the iron-fisted manager of the universe. It wants the comforting illusion that if you pray enough, work hard enough, manifest correctly enough, reality will comply.
But have you ever won an argument with reality?
I tried for years. I tried to make my patriarchal blessings come true through perfect obedience. I perfected my speech about why I left, hoping to change non-receptive family members who thought they already knew.
Exhaustion comes from spending energy on what was never ours to control, then feeling betrayed when reality doesn't comply.
Resisting what is, demanding it be different, railing against the unfairness, that's the definition of insanity.
It's already happened. It's the past.
I know. I was insane for years.
The Paradox That Changes Everything
We think: First, I'll fix myself, then I'll accept myself. First, I'll make reality different, then I'll stop fighting it.
But it doesn't work that way.
Change doesn't come from resistance. It comes from acceptance.
When I accepted that I'd spent nineteen years in a fraudulent religion, I could finally grieve it instead of railing against the unfairness of such religions existing.
When I accepted that some family relationships might never heal, I could finally stop contorting myself and invest in the relationships that could grow.
When I accepted that my mother would never apologize, I could build the relationship we actually had instead of grieving the one I wanted.
Acceptance isn't giving up. It's giving up the fight with what already is so you can focus your energy on what you can actually influence.
When You Can't Change the System: Acceptance on a Larger Scale
Some realities aren't personal. They're collective. Made of history, power, ideology, systems.
Joseph Smith didn't just hurt my family. He built an empire on fraud that's still operating. Still controlling. Still covering up.
I can't change that history. I can't undo the harm. I can't make the institution suddenly become honest.
But I can stop exhausting myself wishing it were different.
I can accept what is: The Mormon Church was founded on lies and has spent nearly two centuries protecting those lies.
And from that acceptance, I can write. Bear witness. Publish the documents. Tell the stories they don't want told.
Not because I'll destroy the institution. But because I'm not wasting energy lamenting its existence.
That's where power lives. Not in controlling outcomes. In accepting reality clearly enough to act from truth instead of fantasy.
This Is the Only Freedom That Actually Exists
True freedom isn't getting reality to comply.
It's accepting reality clearly enough to act from truth instead of delusion.
Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional. And suffering arises almost entirely from resisting what is.
Acceptance transforms you from victim to agent. From "it shouldn't be this way" to "it is this way—now what?" From wasting energy on what you can't control to focusing energy on what you can.
I can't control whether my memoir becomes a bestseller or disappears into obscurity. I can't control whether my family ever validates my experience. I can't control whether the Mormon Church admits the truth.
None of that is up to me.
What's up to me is this: Do I waste my life resisting realities I can't change? Or do I accept what is clearly enough to focus my energy on what I can actually influence?
That's the paradox. That's the freedom.
Not the power to control outcomes. Just the clarity to see what is and the courage to meet it honestly.
With Love,
Lyn
