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?