Don't take the survey

Being a server is the perfect practice ground for learning poise under pressure. The kitchen and the dining room are two very different places--one a calmer place where the appearance of composure is key; the other loud as Tarzan's camp when the gorilla's find the dishes and just as fast and crazy--and you are in constant interchange between the two. Orders get messed up, the kitchen is running behind, customers are getting impatient, the printer isn't working, you have six sauces and three drinks you are trying to keep in your head, four people are trying to cram along an isle barely wide enough for the shoulder span of Dwayne Johnson, a precariously balanced pile of dirty dishes are coming through behind you, and trays of food to go out are lifted over your head. It's a little like an entire boy scout troop trying to learn how to square dance. In a bathroom. 

The customers can never know this. Before turning the corner to the dining room, I pause, breathe out long and slow through lips shaped around an imaginary straw, smile, take a deep breath, and deliberately slow my steps as I enter the dining room. Everything is fine. We aren't almost out of warm bread. Your salad isn't ready before your appetizer. The ice isn't coming out of a broken machine in clumps bigger than your nonslip shoes. And certainly the new host knows better than to seat two or three tables in your section at once. Smile. Everything is fine. 

And, usually, it is. Despite, and sometimes even because of, the craziness, I like serving. I like greeting my tables, chatting with customers, laughing at the crazy antics of the kids. One of my favorites was a little kid--probably three or four--who was so excited to come to Outback and get fries that he couldn't wait for me to finish my customary greeting before shouting out his order. And just in case I didn't get it, after each person in the party finished their order, his excited voice would pipe up, "And fries!" Don't worry, he got his fries. I even brought out an extra plate with the drinks. 

As a server, there is a lot you can do to really make someone's day--and that is my favorite part. Just last night the cutest little girl came in with her parents. I grabbed one of the plastic koala floaties (disfigured rubber ducks in my opinion) that we put in the Pina Koala drinks and brought it to her. The big smile on this little girl's face almost made up for the mediocre tip. 

But there's also a lot you can't do. You can't fix an over or undercooked steak without ordering a recook or cook-up; you can't speed up the wait time when there are twenty orders ahead of yours. You can't bring warm bread when it only cooks so fast and the restaurant is slammed full; and you can't make their alcoholic drink for them--only the overworked bartender can do that. This may seem obvious, but all of these things contribute to a customer's overall satisfaction. And all of these contribute to the responses they give on the survey that the convenient table-side kiosk prompts them to take after they tap their card. For all these reasons and more, it is debatable how reliable these survey responses are in representing good or bad service on the part of the server. Yet it is these very surveys that, for the servers, determine which and how many shifts you are scheduled for each week. 

Last week, noticing that the closer is given the best section in the restaurant, I asked our assistant manager if I could possibly be scheduled for more week-night closing shifts. Yesterday he told me that I wasn't able to get those shifts because my survey scores weren't high enough. "You're a great server," he told me, as I had likewise been told a couple days previously by our manager. "So here's what you can do." He then advised that when it came time to for the customer to pay, I grab the kiosk, navigate to the payment, ask for their card, tap it for them, show them the screen where they put in the tip, and then, taking back the kiosk ask them if they would like their receipt and then take the kiosk back with me to fill out the survey myself while the receipt prints. It was similar to what our server of the month told me shortly after training--if a table has a bad experience, she doesn't let them pay on the kiosk so they don't have the option to fill out a survey. Instead, she takes their card and makes the payment at the bar on the only cardreader still in the restaurant--even though we have been asked to not make payments there when possible. Our manager believes in these surveys.

Part of me wants to take our assistant manager's advice. I've never agreed with the surveys anyway. I don't think they are a very accurate reflection on the server, and for that and other reasons I don't agree with scheduling based on them. I certainly don't agree with having your survey scores posted on a large screen in the kitchen for everyone to see. And if I don't take his advice, I'll never beat the fabricated survey scores of those who do. But if I do take the advice, then I am cheating all the honest (or ignorant) servers who don't take it out of the better shifts, not to mention the disrespect to our manager and my personal values. I dropped my shift tonight because I still don't know what to do. I hate to quit another good job, and one I like decently too, but nothing about it seems right. While I am stuck in my own dilemma, here's what you can do: don't take the surveys. Stick to google reviews. 

You wouldn’t believe it

The last time I’d been in the psych ward was four years ago. Until this October. This last time, I stayed just across the hall from where I did four years ago. Everything was mirrored. Even though it was four years ago, I could remember how it was supposed to be. To get from my room to the community room I would walk north, then slightly east. The drinking fountain was on my left. This time, I would walk south then slightly west, the drinking fountain on my right. Everything is backwards. The same, but also–completely different. 

Four years ago I came voluntarily. I knew it was the best thing for me and for my concerned friend. I was scared, but I agreed to go because I knew I needed the help it could provide. 

This time was different: my admittance–and stay–was entirely involuntary.  It was go by will or go by force. I took the obvious choice of will, but it was hardly a choice at all, and I was far from willing. 

Four years ago, I was nervous and sad, but I was also cautiously optimistic. I had a lot to work out–including my sexuality and my very recent marriage. I knew it would be hard and taxing, but it was something I knew I could do. I was almost hopeful. This time– I have never had a situation in my life that has made me feel so overwhelmingly helpless and entirely lacking in hope. 

Four years ago my friend Marie asked me to never contact her again and severed our relationship. Sadly, in the four years since then I’ve grown somewhat used to it. Well, you never really do grow used to it. But it happens more often than not. It had almost happened again with two new friends I made during my first month-and-a-half of law school, Paige and Megan. 

We had spent the first month or so of law school always studying together. A week or two prior to my admission to the psych ward, however, they had started ignoring me–not just ignoring: aggressively avoiding. It brought back painful memories of my freshman year of college when, at the beginning of the second semester, my roommate moved right across the hall and then spent the remainder of the year pretending I didn’t exist. 

Being ignored is worse than being yelled at.

After a week and a half, almost two, of them both saying nothing when we met or passed in the locker room, changing study spots, taking any seat in class but the two open ones next to me, saying “hi” to and talking to people around me, but not to me, I was barely coping. 

When I met with my therapist of four years, he told me the best way to cope in the moment would be to accept that Paige and Megan didn’t matter–that they were nothing to me; I couldn’t keep giving them power to affect my mental health or emotions. He, of course, was making no diminishing remarks as to their value as human beings, but only intended to assert that my mental health and well-being needed to exist outside their influence. 

As such, I found when it was hardest, when my assigned seat was next to them and they hardly spoke a word to me, that it was helpful to pretend that they didn’t exist. I thought of them as dead only to say that my life would be easier without them. 

On a Thursday evening I confided my pain and this image to a service missionary at my church, Heather, someone I thought was a confidant and friend.  

I had not, before that moment, considered any course of action–nor do I now. Their being dead was to me an expression of their complete non-existence that no human action could or would bring about. But in that moment, rife with pain, I recalled a scene from a crime show I had watched–a scenario in which they might be caused to feel and understand the pain I felt. There never was nor is any desire or intent on my part to actually hurt them–how could there be when all of my pain existed solely BECAUSE I cared about them and our friendship? If I didn’t care, it wouldn’t hurt that they ignored me: we are ignored by hundreds of people every day–on the sidewalk, on the train, in the locker room–but none of that hurts because we do not know them and so do not care about nor hurt for the relationship we might have had. 

Heather quite apparently did not see it this way. Even though I told her explicitly, “It’s just the way I get through class. I’d never hurt them.”

The next day, Friday, September 27th, I called the Assistant Dean of Students, Dean Burton, who I had talked to previously about accommodations and who Paige and Megan had contacted concerning my psychogenic seizures. I asked him if I could meet with him, Paige, and Megan, and discuss everything, hoping to smooth things over. 

During our morning class, after my phone call with Dean Burton, Paige sat next to me and passed me a note. In the note, she mentioned that Dean Burton had contacted her, and she asked if I wanted to meet with her and Megan after class, Dean Burton being out of the office. I agreed gratefully, and Megan, who had gone to the earlier session of class, scheduled a study room.

Given everything, the conversation could hardly have gone better. Megan was still rather set in continuing to avoid me, but now, at least it had been communicated why, and I could live with it. Megan left early and Paige and I continued to talk. We resolved our misunderstandings and left as friends. We made plans to study on Saturday at a Cafe, outlining for exams and reviewing for the quiz in Civil Procedure. She texted or emailed Dean Burton with the update that we had met and that, in essence, all was well. 

I was on top of the world. Not because we were friends again, but because I had been able to rather calmly communicate with them and reach a resolution. Easier said than done. On the way home I even tried to call Heather to tell her the good news. When she didn’t answer, I left a voicemail that said, in effect, that I had smoothed things over with Megan and Paige, that Paige and I were still friends, that I was headed rock climbing, and that life was good. I then called my mom and told her much of the same. It was the last communication I would have with the outside world about anything that had happened that day or the previous night.

While I was out rock climbing at Red Rock in Draper with my climbing partner, I got a call from the University Police. They said they were at my apartment, that someone had called concerned about me, and they wanted to check in with me. (Heather had called my Bishop, who I assume called them.) I thought it quite extreme, but I appreciated the concern and, knowing that, given the events of the day, I could certainly alleviate any concerns they had, I agreed to meet them when I returned home from climbing. 

They asked about my conversation with Heather, and, though I retold to them all the events of the day, being mainly my conversation with Megan and Paige, they didn’t seem to care about anything that had happened after my conversation with Heather the previous night. 

You CANNOT imagine my shock when, with my hands cuffed behind my back, the metal eating uncomfortably into my wrists, and an officer on each side of me, they led me out of my apartment building. I vacillated viciously between fury, helplessness, and grief. Nothing made sense. 

It was shameful walking out of my apartment complex in handcuffs, escorted by police. People assume that you did something wrong. People assume you are dangerous. People assume you are a criminal. People assume you put up a fight. People assume a lot of things. 

When we got to the hospital and while I waited to get checked in, I talked to the social worker who had come in with the police to talk to me back at my apartment. I had myself considered a career in social work–I even took a master’s level class in it my freshman year of college. I asked her why she had chosen to be a social worker. Her response was something like, “I don’t really know. I just sorta fell into it.” That, honestly, was when I first realized that my case was hopeless and everything I’d said had fallen on deaf ears. This was not someone who cared or was here to help me. This was just someone collecting a paycheck. My heart sank. 

I honestly remember very little after that. Four days in a hospital room eating the exact same meals, wearing the same scrubs, looking at the same walls, and everything blurs together. I’ll tell you what I remember, but everything is out of order: time here was irrelevant, except for the acute awareness that it was passing. very. slowly. 

My room had a bed, a TV,  a countertop, and a cabinet equipped with empty shelves and drawers. It was white and tan with a gray countertop beside the bed and a sink in the corner by the door. The door was thick and wooden with a good-sized crack by the handle (someone in here had had a hard time) and a large window from which I could see the desks and computer screens of the small nurses’ station that was just outside my door. It meant that I could also see the camera footage from my own room, the other five patient rooms, and the connecting hallways. It also meant that I could hear almost everything the nurses said. When they left my room and, assuming they were out of ear shot, talked about me or about what had gone down, or what I’d said, or what had happened with other patients, I heard it all. 

There was one time in particular that I remember the most. As I mentioned, Paige and I had planned to study together at a café on Saturday, but we hadn’t yet set a time. It was Saturday morning and I wanted to call her so she wouldn’t think–after all the work of restoring our relationship–that I had stood her up. Because I wasn’t allowed to make phone calls on my own, the nurse dialed, put it on speaker, and then held the phone a foot or so away from where I sat on the bed. Paige answered but it was clear from the beginning that without caller ID and a muffled speaker phone held a foot from my face she had no idea who was calling and she was having trouble hearing. She repeated multiple times that she couldn’t hear me. It just so happens that right after I’d said my name for what I believe was actually the second or third time, she hung up. After leaving, the nurse, speaking to others of the hospital staff and evidently unaware or not caring that I could hear every word, said that Paige had hung up because she was afraid of me. (By now she had realized who Paige was and seemed to blame me for even asking to call her even though I had honestly told her the name of who I wished to call and the reason) 

She, of course, in her account to the hospital staff, failed to mention that Paige had not been able to hear, nor that Paige and I were honestly, as I had told her, friends. Why would she be afraid of talking to a friend? In speaking to the staff about her “horrid blunder” she ignored all the facts in front of her because of the story she had been told: everything had to fit her pre-constructed narrative. It killed me how close-minded they were. I wanted to scream. At this point, I had not yet been issued the no contact order and I had no way of knowing that they had likely already informed Paige and Megan that threats had been made against them (according to the body cam footage, Paige and Megan were informed by the police while they were picking me up that I had “plans to kill them”). Nevermind this isn’t true—How could I have known? But also, how was that fair? I was stuck in a hospital with no access to phones or internet without close supervision—there was no way I could contact or threaten them, so why did they have to hurry so fast to inform before even investigating if the “threats” were valid?

My first night in the ED, the two police officers who had spoken to me at my apartment returned. They said very little but handed me an unusually long sheet of paper of a material very different from your standard printer paper. It was a notice that, because I had issued “threats” against Paige and Megan, if I stepped foot on campus, I would be arrested for trespassing. I cannot remember a time in my life that I sobbed so hard. It was to be outdone more than once in the coming days. 

Before that notice it had been hard enough, but that notice just about broke me. It was then I realized the full gravity of the situation. I had never issued any threats, but I knew threats, when they are issued, are taken very seriously. (We had just read a case in my torts class about a man who issued indirect threats to his wife through his song lyrics.) I had also not considered prior to the notice that it would have any impact on my schooling. I had thought that I would be in the hospital only a few hours–that they would realize their mistake and send me home. If you had told me then that I would be suspended from school and would be in the hospital for five days I would have told you that penguins can fly and I had a pet unicorn. 

I stayed up till 3:00 or so, still quite mistakenly believing that at any moment they would realize their mistake and send me home. I was so certain that I refused to take any sleeping medication–I didn’t want to be drowsy getting home. I honestly hadn’t expected to even stay the night. I knew by then that the pink slip they had taken me in on allowed them to hold me for 72 hours (I just didn’t think they would). I would later learn that the 72 hours did not include weekends. It was just one more item in a bombardment of bad news. Since I had come in on a Friday night, this meant they could keep me on the involuntary hold through Wednesday. 

I passed the time mostly by trying to sleep, which I did in a sporadic series of short naps during the day since my nights were hardly restful. One day we had a new patient admittance to the room across the hall from mine. The patient came in screaming. By this time Dad had arrived in Utah. He and I listened to the commotion outside my door with nothing but empathy for this poor woman who no one would listen to. (Well, no one except us.) 

Someone pounded their door all night that night. I assume it was her. As you can imagine, she was not the only one to have a restless night. I did not sleep either. It wasn’t just the constant pounding that kept me awake–I was thinking about what she had said–or what I got from her screams: that she was being kidnapped, that they couldn’t force her into a completely empty room all alone when she was prone to panic attacks and had severe anxiety, that they weren’t listening to her, that she needed to call her husband to tell him she was here, that they weren’t helping her. My dad and I had both wanted to applaud or cheer. “Preach, woman, preach.” It was all too true to me. 

They had kept telling her the same words I had heard so many times by then: “we’re here to keep you safe” and “we’re here to help you.” These words honestly made me want to scream into a pillow and punch the wall. I was safe. If they had been listening at all they would know that I had always been safe–and if I wasn’t, it was certain nothing they did made me feel more so. And here to help me? I had asked them since the moment I’d arrived to investigate the threats–to contact my counselor, the assistant dean of students, my bishop, Heather Skanky, and Paige. Had they contacted any of them? No. 

On Sunday I was told of the possibility of my being transferred from the ED to Huntsman Mental Health Institute possibly as soon as Monday morning. That night, someone came to meet with my dad and I, and, in the course of that meeting, he let it slip that Paige and Megan had been informed that I had threatened their lives. I had been in the hospital then for 72 hours and this was the first time I had been told this. Apparently, they had been informed as early as Friday night, while I was still in the hospital under a pink slip and after no investigation beyond the police officers’ initial report. It broke me. 

I tried to run, and, because they had a “take-down” incident, lost the privilege, or chance, of getting out on Monday. The doctors agreed this wasn’t fair. Information had constantly been withheld from me, no one was open about why I was there, and then they had dumped on me the worst news of my life all while ensuring that all my normal coping mechanisms were beyond my reach. What did they expect? 

In my opinion, hospitals should not be allowed to hold mental health patients without proper facilities: windows, outdoor time, music, books, journals, showers, phone calls, and visits, to say the least. I would have given anything just for my weighted blanket. 

Huntsman had all these things and more. Most importantly, it had a competent psych evaluation and medical team dedicated to my care. I met with my team and finally, someone did as I had been asking all along: they conducted an investigation. They called and talked to Bishop Knoll, Paige, Megan, my counselor, and Heathery. The team, led by a forensic psychologist, quickly determined that I was there by mistake, that no threats had ever been issued, that I was not a danger to myself or others, and the best thing for me would be a good night's sleep in my own bed. I was finally released to do just that on Thursday, October 3rd. Over 130 hours later.

Police visited my apartment three times during the next few days to deliver notices of the stalking injunctions both Paige and Megan had filed after being informed of the “threats.” Seeing the police at my apartment again after all that had happened made me so frightened I was shaking. I still panic when I see a cop car on the street. Whoever said red, white, and blue was freedom never had to fight for it. 

My parents hired a lawyer who responded to the stalking injunctions. In the meantime, I responded to the two documents I had received from the school during my stay in the hospital by reaching out to April Pavelka, associate director of student accountability at the University of Utah to set up a virtual meeting for October 4th. It was very clear from the beginning that April had an agenda. She was more concerned about protecting Paige and Megan than she was about hearing me. If she had only heard me she would have known that Paige and Megan didn’t need protecting. 

April had informed me that the decision that would result from our conversation would be made by a team of higher-ups. I later learned this was a lie. April made the decision on her own. Five days after our meeting, on October 9th, we received her decision. I was put on probation and suspended from school. I was still not allowed on campus and was directed to have no contact with Paige and Megan.

In the meantime, the assistant dean of students at the law school, Brian Burton, had tried to make my continuance in the law program a possibility. He asked my professors to record their lectures and work with me, but, while well-intentioned, since I had been informed that my academic suspension remained in place and no end date or conditions were given for lifting that suspension, this seemed a lot like straining the deck chairs on the titanic. 

I couldn’t work or study with any of my classmates, I couldn’t work on the podcast project for my Torts class because Paige was in my group, the few classmates who were my friends were listed as witnesses on the stalking injunctions and had certainly by then heard whatever rumors Paige and Megan had started, I couldn’t participate in class discussion (which is most of the learning process in a school of thought structured on the socratic method), I couldn’t go to any functions or events to network, and most-importantly, because the university upheld the restrictions of the stalking injunctions, which could last as long as Paige and Megan are in school, it could be three years before I could resume attendance. Accordingly, I withdrew from school and moved home to Georgia.

https://gofund.me/c81d6847

I am Satisfied with my Care

At the end of eighth grade everyone selected a person from the grade to whom they thought one of a number of superlatives applied. I was selected as "Most Likely to Succeed." 

At the beginning of last year, as I struggled to figure out the next step in life, I thought back on what had, at the the time, felt like an honor, and felt only crippling discouragement. I'd thought of all the hallmarks of success for someone in their mid twenties--a husband, kids, real estate, a career--all things I didn't have, and couldn't help but think that maybe my eighth grade peers had gotten it wrong. 

At the time, I had all my earthly possessions, including two cute rats, a disassembled bike, and a trunk full of mostly books and games, crammed into my Camry and was halfway through the drive from Kansas to Utah. Though I had some job prospects, I'd had no offers yet, and I still had no idea where I would be living when I arrived. I had been working for my Uncle in Kansas who had generously offered me room and board, and, largely thanks to that time period, I had ample savings, yet every other aspect of my life was insecure enough to make me wonder at least a little what in the world I was doing. 

But things fell into place, as they often do. 

One year later, I have found a nice apartment in Provo that is walking distance to my favorite climbing gym and to my favorite nephew. I have worked for over a year now at my current job and while work is still work, some days I really enjoy it, and most every day I am grateful for it. 

I have reached that stage in life in which my friends are less plentiful but my friendships are deeper. Most of my friends have full time jobs and husbands. Some have children. That they keep in touch despite obstacles and distances means a lot. 

While I keep my friends close, I keep my family closer--which is easy to do when all the siblings are out in Provo. We enjoy weekly DnD sessions every Saturday, and every Wednesday, Jordan comes to my complex to watch the garbage truck, and, lately, to play with Tad Cooper's roaches. And did you know that grandparents get discounted plane tickets? That must be the case, because ever since Jordan was born we have seen a lot more of my parents in Utah as well. 

This is not to say things are perfect. I could leave out that I've been sick at least once a month already this year, that I was really hoping Biden's student loan relief would come through so that I wouldn't have to pay off student debt, that I still haven't managed the balance of time and finances that would allow me to ski, rock-climb, aerial dance, work, and sleep, or that I am starting to feel a little bit of the anxiety that comes with uprooting a portion of my life and moving to a big city to start law school in the Fall. 

But overall, I am satisfied with my care. 

I was talking recently with a friend about how we live in a culture of, in the succinct words of The Greatest Showman, never enough. It is hard to be satisfied in a culture that is always wanting more. More sleep. More money. More friends. More time. 

I think for a while, I inappropriately conflated satisfaction with comfort. I would be satisfied when I had everything I wanted. But life isn't always comfortable. In fact, a lot of it happens outside of our comfort zone, like driving to Utah with no job and no housing. If we waited until we were comfortable to be satisfied I think we would all-too-likely find ourselves joining Angelica Schuyler in the refrain "I will never be satisfied."

But today--despite the discomfort of illness, anxiety, and, generally speaking, adulting; despite the pervading culture of never enough; despite an obvious lack of some things I thought by my late twenties I'd have--today, I am satisfied. And I call that success. 

Candidly,

Cookie

Dreaming of Kenting

I have wanted to visit Taiwan for as long as I can remember. Which shows you how long my memory is really good for because I'm fairly certain this dream didn't form until after my first semester of Mandarin in college. 

I do remember signing up for that first Mandarin class. It felt crazy. I had already filled my foreign language credits with Spanish, so this four-credit class would be entirely useless as far as graduation was concerned. And what's more, the beginning Mandarin course was only offered at 8am. Every day. 

It felt crazy. 

And it felt soo good. So unbelievably good. I was so excited that I ordered my books as soon as I could and started studying that Summer. 

Fast forward almost nine years and I'm still studying and, given some years of neglect, am probably not all that much further along than I was eight years ago. But last month I finally did it--I bought my tickets to Taiwan. 

It feels much less real when you can't hold the paper tickets in your hand. I am not a fan of e-wallets. But with my three-week trip almost completely planned out, hotels and hostels booked, and my new luggage purchased, I am beginning to feel again like I did waiting for that first Mandarin class to start nine years ago. 

I'm excited for crowded night markets (I'm not actually that excited for the crowds but my grandpa tells me it is part of the experience), for the river walks and hikes, for a tour of Toroko Gorge, and for beautiful temples. But right now, with the every day grind, what I am looking forward to most is Kenting, a national park on the southern tip where I will stop halfway through my three-week trip. 

People had told me that Taiwan was cheap, but I hadn't realized how cheap. I splurged only a little to book the nicest hotel up in the hills overlooking the beach, and I kid you not, when I go to bed at night, my final comprehensive thought is to dream of Kenting. 

Candidly,

Cookie

How Britain's Got Talent Got Me to Law School

Over my lifetime there have been very few shows that I have actually finished. I'm just not a "series" person. But when I do find one that I like, I grow obsessed. And one of these lasting obsessions is for Britain's Got Talent. Not America's. Just Britain's. Roughly one year ago, I was divulging in my obsession and watched an aerial dance performance that blew my mind. I love pretty much anything that would terrify an agoraphobe and make my upper body sore for days, so of course, I decided then and there that I wanted to learn how to aerial dance. 

Fast forward and I met a girl who had taken an aerial dance class at a place just twenty minutes from where I lived. Ironically, I had just moved from an apartment that, little had I known, was right across from this gym. Before signing up for a class I decided to go just to check out the facilities. When I got there, it was dark and the doors were locked. I was about to get back in my car when one of my thesis advisors gets out of the car next to me. I'm a little embarrassed when, after asking her if she was doing the class, I found out she owned the place! Then I had to sign up. 

I had been going to the classes pretty consistently for a couple months and had shown up early one day during open gym when I realized I had forgotten to clock out of work. Luckily, I had my laptop in my car and ran out to get it. This spurred a conversation with one of the ladies there about what I do for work. In January of 2023 (about the time that I first watched that aerial dance performance on BGT), I had moved from Kansas back to Utah and taken a remote job as a paralegal for a criminal law firm. 

"Are you thinking about taking the LSAT?" the woman asked me as she sprayed down her silk and sanitized her mat. I looked up from where I sat cross-legged on the padded floor with my computer in my lap. "Kind of?" I had thought about it, but more in a theoretical way that was for a future Brooke to think and worry about. Turns out her husband teaches an LSAT prep course right across the street from my new apartment complex. She gave me his phone number and website and I stowed it away to get lost in the long list of notes on my laptop. 

I kid you not, two days later, my friend tells me she is thinking about taking the LSAT and asks me if I was planning to take it and whether I had any tips for her. Before I give her this random guy's website, I figured I should check it out for myself. Not only that, but I called the number. He is super nice; his class seems great. I begin to think of the possibility not so much for my friend as for myself. The only catch is the thousand-dollar enrollment fee. I do not have that kind of money. 

When I set up my pay account with my new job in January, I had elected to set aside at least 100 dollars from every pay check into the company's private saving's account. I had one thousand dollars set aside. And about three days to determine what to do with it. Classes started next week. 

Fast forward and I have received acceptance letters to two law schools and am waiting to hear back on my other four. And just in case you were wondering, I gave up aerial dancing for climbing when my budget and schedule got tight while studying for the LSAT, but I am still an obsessive viewer of Britain's Got Talent. 

Candidly,

Cookie

Trusting

 Faith is trusting without knowledge of a reward. 

I've been thinking a lot lately about faith and trust. When I realized I was lesbian, the entire reward of living a righteous life seemed to crumble. As mentioned in my earlier post, I didn't see how heaven would have a place for me, and without the promise of heaven and eternal life with God, what was the point of staying righteous?

I thought about it a lot. And I realized perhaps this is what true faith is. I'd always been a little bothered by the idea that we humans can never seem to be completely selfless, because we know that whether in heaven or on earth, every good deed is eventually rewarded. But for as long as I thought that I could not make it to the highest degree of glory in heaven due to my orientation, the reward was gone. 

So why stay?

For one, even when the reward was gone and nothing really made sense, I was happier doing what I knew was right. Which would seem like a reward in itself, and on a smaller scale, it most certainly is. But on the larger scale, I learned to trust. 

Some time ago while I was listening to a talk by Elder Eyring, I had an impression that in some ways changed everything. I'd mention the talk but it's not important in that the impression I received seemed utterly unrelated. 

First, a little theological background for those less familiar with our Church's doctrine. We believe that before we came to earth, our spirits lived with God. There, we were presented with God's plan for us to come to earth, receive bodies, and through that experience gain the ability to become like Him. The plan necessitated a Savior, and Jesus Christ volunteered. There were some that didn't like the plan, or perhaps just didn't trust our Savior to do all he promised to do. These, with Satan, left, and rejected the opportunity to come to earth, receive bodies, and progress. All this to say that those of us who are here on earth are here because we chose to be--because we trusted the plan, and we trusted the Savior to fulfill it. 

The impression I received as I listened to that talk, in this light was merely a reminder of what I once knew. I'm honestly not sure how much we knew in heaven about the individual trials we would face on earth, but if orientation is part of our eternal nature--something that isn't ever going away--then I must have known then what I know now--that I'm lesbian. And I must have known then enough about God's plan and my Savior's role to trust that despite this relatively unique trait, I had a shot at eternal life. In this way, and perhaps rather comfortingly, it's not just about trusting the Savior, but also about trusting myself. I like to think I know myself fairly well, and I know that I can be a rather obstinate fighter. I also know that I strive for perfection, almost to a fault. Knowing these things about myself, I can trust that there had to be a strong reason, and just reward for me to come to earth. Whatever I knew then, in my perfect knowledge, made it worth it. 

Ironically, I don't have any more answers than I did before. But I know that I can trust my Savior and trust myself. And right now, I trust myself to trust Him. Is that not what faith is?

Seeing

Some time ago I was told by a servant of God that I would be blessed with the ability to see things from the perspective of others. I'm now realizing what a curse that blessing was. Rather than simply gifting me with perspective, it was perhaps in some ways warning me of the many experiences I would have that were necessary for me to develop that perspective.

I have depression and anxiety. I have been married. And I've had that marriage annulled. I am a member of the LGBTQ community. I'm a graduate student at BYU. And I'm a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day saints. Sometimes these experiences have been blessings, other times they feel more like crosses to bear. But all have blessed me with an ability to see. 

In some ways, looking back, my orientation was kind of obvious, so much so that when I first told my parents almost a year ago, their first response other than to show their love was to admit that they had already suspected as much. But for the one going through it, it was so much harder to see and to accept, especially in a culture where every expectation, hope, and dream is the opposite. 

It was so much easier to think that I merely admired the women I loved, or to tell myself that I was simply not as emotionally driven as my twitter-pated peers, or to believe that I simply had yet to find that perfect man who who would set me off. And so I kept telling myself these things, because deep down I wanted, and still want, a family, and all the blessings we so often speak of coming with it. I wanted it so bad that I married a wonderful man, and had the painful opportunity through that experience of coming to terms with a truth, that in the very least for his sake, I should have seen before, and that I don't know I could have accepted otherwise. 

What followed was honestly put, a faith crisis. I was angry at God for leading me to a marriage He must have known would not work. But more so, I was angry at His conditions, which I couldn't help but see as a bias toward His straight children, and a bar to those that aren't. In our Church's cannon of scripture there is one scripture, a revelation given to the Prophet Joseph Smith, that was hardest of all for me to swallow. The gist is that in heaven there are degrees of glory, and in order to obtain the highest degree of glory, you have to be married to someone of the opposite gender as husband and wife. I imagine that it is this notion, along with the Church's focus on the eternal family, that is so hard for so many of the LGBTQ members of the Church. 

I know there are many wonderful single people out there, and my mother pointed this out to me, to show me that I wasn't alone, and also to say that surely God has a plan for them. I agreed, but I still felt a little trapped. I imagine these people who have desired their whole lives to marry but have simply not had the opportunity walking up to the pearly gates. I imagine God is there and greets them and then introduces them to a wonderful spouse. And then, hand in hand, they walk through those gates into their happily ever after. But then there's me, and all those like me, who do not have nor necessarily want a spouse. I imagine walking up to the pearly gates and God presenting me with a wonderful man. And then I'm stuck, because either I reject the offer and my opportunity to live in the highest degree of glory with God, or I accept and spend the rest of eternity with a man I may be incapable of loving on an intimate level. Either way, where in this is the happiness that is promised to the righteous?

It left me with a number of conclusions, none of which I particularly liked. Either my orientation was wrong and would therefore be fixed when I was resurrected to a perfect, celestial body, at which point I would gladly accept a husband and walk through the pearly gates OR there was nothing inherently wrong about my orientation: it was a part of my eternal nature and simply represented another one of the many trivial differences we deal with as humans, in which case I would be left with my dilemma at those pearly gates. 

So either my very nature was wrong and sinful, but at least I might have a happy eternity OR there was nothing wrong about my nature, but for the rest of eternity it would be my cross. Perhaps it is now obvious why the temptation to leave my faith was so strong. And why it can be so hard for those like me who are trying to be both members of the Church and members of the LGBTQ community. It has taken me a long time to at least see how they do not have to be mutually exclusive, and to find the answer that works for me. 

As far as BYU, Church, and nationwide policies etc, I don't have the answers, but what I hope is that we can all be a little more empathetic, and that if we can't at first bring ourselves to understanding, that we at least can begin to see. 

Candidly,

Cookie

What You Need to Know

Charles and I are getting our marriage annulled.
We both felt it was the right thing to do to get married, and, perhaps confusingly to some, we both felt it was right to get it annulled. The decision wasn't easy, but it was mutual.
We have both learned and grown much from all our experiences, and I can still honestly say that I am grateful to have met such an amazing and good man.
Family and friends have been incredibly supportive and I am grateful to everyone for that. I have a place to live for now and am doing fine.
I know you may have questions, and that's okay--people are curious. I appreciate the concern; however, if I haven't shared more with you already, this is all you need to know.

What did you expect?

The small lip of an awning over the chairs outside the sushi restaurant only shaded the left half of my body as I sat facing my friend, but I didn't think anything of it--until two and a half hours later when I was unlocking my bike and realized I had a dark sunburn on only the right half of my body. My right leg, right arm, and right half of my face were all dark red. So I did the next logical thing: I stopped by the bookstore and went down to the nearby park to read while I let the sun bathe the other half of my body, determined to even out this burn.

I didn't get much reading done. I called my mom first and talked for a while, and then I found myself talking a little to God. I was in the middle of this latter engagement when a boy who looked to be a slightly older or just graduated college student sat down at my picnic table. Beside him he plopped down a milk carton that read "Hope & Sesame." The side of the carton facing me read something along the lines of "Life is made of simple things" and then told a short story about the miraculous contributions of the sesame seed. I didn't actually read it because from the time the man sat down to the time he left I don't think he ever stopped talking, except for the occasional brief moment to take a swig from the carton.

I was honestly a little annoyed. I don't get all that much alone time, the park had been relatively quiet and peaceful, and God and I had been having a pretty good talk. But perhaps because he had interrupted in the middle of a prayer I carried a small expectation that perhaps there was something I was to learn from this man, and so, feeling safe in a well-occupied park and not having a whole lot else to do, I listened intently.

We had a relatively interesting discussion about our purpose in life, our expectations for others, what we look for in people, and the possibilities of change. He had a heavy accent that was hard to understand and spoke in a disjointed manner that would have made it hard to follow his train of thought even in perfect English. Occasionally he would ask a question but then it was clear later on he hadn't really been listening to my answer. That annoyed me a little and I didn't actually walk away with much, except for one word from the conversation that had seemed to etch itself in my mind: expectations. Expectations are a powerful predictor of pleasure and satisfaction--or dissatisfaction. 

It was my roommate who first pointed out to me this relationship. To illustrate, she had related the story of her first time trying red velvet cake. Not knowing quite what it was, she saw the dark red color and expected a nice fruity cake--strawberry or raspberry. Consequently, she was much disappointed at its lack of fruitiness and since then has carried a distaste for red velvet cake. 

I learned a few things from my roommate and from my conversation with this man about expectations. First of all--I had expected to learn from him, and so consequently, I did. When we expect the best, that is more often what we will find. Secondly, as I thought of how often we can feel disenchanted or disappointed because of our expectations going unmet or unrealized, I thought of some of my own expectations that might benefit from adjustment. What are your expectations for yourself? For others? Are they fair? Do others know what the expectations you have of them are? 

Next time you find yourself disappointed or unsatisfied by an outcome maybe one place to start is by asking yourself, as I have done, What did I expect? 

I Believe You Need Help

There is a dice game that my husband, Charles, and I like to play during our meals. It involves rolling six dice and hoping to gain points with ones, fives, or sets of triples. Normally the game is played until one reaches five or ten thousand points, but seeing as we play it so often, we decided to keep a continuous score tally until someone reached one hundred thousand. Charles had reached the game-ending score, leaving me with one more chance to pass his score and win. It would take a miracle though, and my dice had not been rolling well.

In my family, we grew up serious competitors in this game. The dice had roll-outs where we rolled all the dice from a large bag, selecting the best ones to play with based on the results. When dice "misbehaved" we put them in timeout. We scolded our dice, taught them, whispered to them our desired rolls and strategies, and even tried to sabotage the other players' dice by telling them to roll bad numbers. Sometimes they listened. Most times they didn't. But that was an easy matter--we would just put them in timeout and get new ones that would "listen."

The game was down to one final role--one last chance to beat Charles. Talking to my dice, Charles said, "I believe in you," to which I responded, also in reference to my dice, "I believe you need help."

Afterward, we discussed that little exchange. Often we are apprehensive about asking for help. To do so can seem like admitting some deficiency or defeat. Are we not strong enough? Good enough? Smart enough?

I have been married a week today. It's wonderful, exciting, and slightly terrifying. There are a lot of adjustments and a lot of sacrifices. At times it can seem overwhelming. But I remember the exchange over the dice and am reminded that the most beautiful thing about marriage is you get to face everything together. I believe that I can do this. I believe that I need help. I believe in my sweet husband. I believe he needs help, too. And isn't a beautiful thing that we can help each other?

Sometimes though that isn't enough. At such times we call upon outside help--family, friends, our Savior. Not because we can't do it, not because we're weak, but rather because we believe in us.

And believing in us means we are willing to get help and work through challenges. We believe we need help because we believe in us. As my husband and I discussed this concept, he remarked quite insightfully, "You know, that sounds a lot like the Savior: I believe in you. I believe you need help."

We know we need the Savior's help, and we know He came to help us. We also know that His offer of grace, rather than belittling His belief in us, is a testament of his firm belief in who we can become. So next time you find yourself needing help, don't think of it as a defeat or a disgrace. Rather, think of it as an opportunity to exercise belief in yourself and in the change and progress you can and will make--with a little help ;).

Imposter's Syndrome and Answers to Prayer

While I was on my study abroad I had the opportunity to attend Shakespeare’s play Measure for Measure. It was one I had never read nor watched before and I was struck by one quote in which Lucio comes to tell Isabella that her brother is imprisoned and sentenced to death and that perhaps she can persuade the Duke to pardon her brother’s sentence. When she doubts her ability to do so, Lucio persuades her, saying, “Our doubts are traitors, and make us lose the good we oft might win, by fearing to attempt.”

It made me think of this past spring when I applied to intern for the Ensign magazine and the first information meeting I went to where I looked around at a room full of well-qualified applicants and, thinking I didn’t have a chance against one of them, almost got up and left.

I stuck through the meeting, but when I left I tucked the application in the back pocket of my folder, and while I can’t say I forgot about it, I didn’t do much with it either. Finally, after about a week of indecision I decided to apply, only to find out in my editing class that morning that due to a confusion on my part, I had missed the deadline.

Sometimes you don’t realize how much you want something until it’s out of your grasp. And I was beginning to realize, as I struggled to hide tears, that this was something I really wanted. By the time my friend Sarah arrived I had lost the battle with my composure and we went to a small, unused classroom nearby where she in her wisdom suggested we pray.

I had been so afraid to email the Ensign and ask for an application extension because I didn’t want to start off the application process which such a low mark, but I got off my knees determined to do so.

It wasn’t the first time a prayer had put me on this path. Backing up a couple months, I was trying to decide what position to apply for in my capstone editing class. The class would be producing a travel magazine and we each had to apply for a staff position. I was trying to decide whether or not to apply for managing editor and once again, I thought, there’s no way, and even if I got the position, how would I fulfill it?

The evening before the application was due my ministering brother, Matt, came over. We talked for a bit and then when he was getting ready to leave he asked me if he could leave me with a prayer. He asked whether there was anything specific he should pray for and I told him about the decision I had to make. During his prayer the answer was clear: I needed to apply.

Applying for and receiving the position of managing editor may have been the best thing I did in terms of preparing me for an internship with the Ensign. If nothing else it gave me some of that confidence I lacked. It also proved a great addition to my resume and gave me something to talk about in my interview, along with my job in which I researched and wrote articles for a religion professor at BYU.

That job came about by way of a disappointment that proved a tremendous blessing. I had been applying to the religious studies center to be a staff editor for their publications. I made it through the editing tests and interview and a few days later received a phone call. I had been one of the final two candidates for the position. They had gone with the other candidate. But, I was told by the hiring manager on the other end of the phone, my application was strong enough that he had taken the liberty of sending it out to the religious education faculty to see if they needed an assistant.

Though flattered, I was still rather disappointed.

Within a matter of hours, however, I received an email from one of the religious education professors, Sister Woodger. She wanted to interview.

Five minutes into the interview, I had a job.

I started out transcribing, then substantive editing, then copy, and finally writing. I helped write a chapter for her book on the beatitudes, then sections on her book on significant Church artifacts, finishing with a lengthy research paper on a notable figure in Church history.

In the meantime, I had decided to take a class on Christ and the Everlasting Gospel. It wasn’t necessary—I’d fulfilled the required credits for religious studies already—but had decided it couldn’t be a bad thing. Between my work for Sister Woodger and the journals and write-ups we were required to do weekly for my religion class, I had all I needed to draw on to compile  my portfolio for the Ensign application—something I certainly wouldn’t have found time to do otherwise.

The Ensign replied to my request for a deadline extension and in one afternoon, after returning home late from my ski class, I took the required spelling and editing tests, wrote some short essays of intent, and sent it all in.

Then came the waiting. I waited. And waited. And waited. It felt like eternity.

At last the call came in. I’d gotten the position. I was ecstatic!

But the story doesn’t end there.

Maybe you are familiar with the imposter syndrome. In late July it began to hit hard. I wouldn’t start for another month and a half, but just thinking about it I began to worry that they had picked the wrong candidate and that I would never be able to deliver on their expectations.

At the time I was on a study abroad trip in the British Isles and Ireland. We were in a beautiful coastal town in Wales (Llandudno) when I decided to go for a long walk up to the tops of some of the nearby seaside cliffs. It was early evening, but it was one of those long summer evenings where the sun seems to be merely in the act of setting long into the night.

Except for the sheep and some occasional mountain goats (and the hundreds of large slugs) I was alone. I took the opportunity to tell God how nervous I was starting to feel about my upcoming internship. I also told him that I still had no idea what I wanted to do when I graduated and that that was starting to worry me at least a little.

The breeze off the ocean had been sweeping up over the cliffs and hills quite rapturously, but the moment I prayed, the wind stopped and it was silent. I got up, and walked back to our hostel.

The next day was Sunday. We attended church in a small building with an even smaller congregation and when one of the speaker’s called in sick, one of our professors was asked to fill in. He shared how inadequate he feels at the start of each school year and how inadequate he felt when he started his Phd program.

He had taken a long break between his masters and Phd and his Phd program was a different subject area from his masters. When he came back from one of his classes having understood very little, his office mate asked him what was wrong and then remarked, “The faculty in this program know you. They saw your application. They interviewed you. They brought you here. They trust you to succeed.”

When my professor shared that I knew it was the answer to my prayer. I just hadn’t expected it to come so quickly! It was just what I’d needed to hear.

Afterward, I thanked him for his talk and he talked to me more about the internship (he had worked for the Church before and had a number of students work there as well) and I felt much more at peace about it.

While I had been up on the cliffs in Llandudno praying I’d had a very clear thought: God did not get you this far to let you fail.

If there is anything more certain than my not failing, it’s that God got me here. Just a few days ago while I was packing things up to move apartments I came across a small stack of papers: applications for the Ensign internship from as far back as my Sophmore year—all of them untouched. I’m so grateful that God finally helped me find the courage to apply.

I’m still nervous. But I am so excited to start this next adventure. All I can think of now is a quote that has sat on my desk for the past four years: What if I fall? Oh, but my darling, what if you fly?