A Good Mixed-Faith Marriage in Mormonism Is Still a Painful One

The church only sees only one thing - we failed.

I always tell people that I’m one of the lucky ones.

When I stepped away from the church in 2020, telling my husband was the scariest part. The words - “I don’t believe in the church anymore” - didn’t want to leave my mouth. My entire body was screaming against it.

Yet, I knew it had to be done.

We had been married for 18 years at that time, and the only reason I felt I could even tell him is because we had been in therapy for two years at that point for other issues. We had better communication skills, and more trust and vulnerability in our relationship.

Most importantly - I knew he wouldn’t turn his back on me. I knew he wasn’t going to divorce me because I didn’t believe anymore.

Believe it or not - many marriages in high-demand religions don’t survive someone losing their faith.

Fast forward to now and I sometimes marvel that he doesn’t give me a hard time about my inactivity when he goes alone with our three kids and doesn’t say a word about my new morning coffee ritual.

We have interesting talks about religious topics and doctrine that we never talked about in all the years we’ve been married. We’ve stumbled around tricky subjects with our kids where we disagree. We try to present two polar opposite viewpoints in a way that doesn’t offend each other.

I try not to call the church a cult even though the longer I’m away, the more it feels like one, and he has never implied that I’m deceived by Satan (something I worried about myself, in the beginning, more often than I would like to admit).

And some days, he lets me cry about how much I hate the church and wish they weren’t in it.

So, for the most part - we’re doing it. We’re making the mixed-faith marriage work.

But, this is where I have to be totally honest -

Being in a mixed-faith marriage when you both used to believe in a high-demand religion fucking sucks.

Despite all the respect in the world, and all the tip-toeing around hard topics, and the four years of marriage therapy we’ve got under our belts, I often feel like there’s an entire universe separating us.

I’m in my little universe of happiness and pain where I am open to more ideas than I ever thought possible, and he’s in his little universe of happiness and pain still in the church. I won’t speak for him too much because frankly, he’s a man of few words anyway. He’s more nuanced than I realized before all this, and I’m glad he doesn’t see the church in all black and whites like I used to.

There are things to be grateful for, for sure. But, let’s not paint a pretty picture that as long as you have mutual respect for each other everything is fine when you leave a religion like Mormonism.

No bishops are patting us on the back, and there are no conference talks congratulating us. The church doesn’t teach that our family is forever anymore.

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Because everything is so not fine when you’re in a mixed-faith marriage like this.

The church only sees only one thing - we failed.

Despite all the talks, and therapy, and love, there is immense pain in the survival of a marriage that’s built on a foundation that gave way on one side. The church’s narrative is that one has fallen off the path - the right one. How can that not affect our marriage?

We were the all in family. The ones that woke up Sunday mornings and didn’t have to talk about whether or not we were going to church - because we were always there.

I’ll talk about mine (because like I said - his pain is his to share) only because this is what I know and feel.

I know he loves me, but I also had to ask him through tears if I ruined our marriage.

I needed reassurance that he didn’t think the devil himself had fooled me.

I wish he didn’t pay tithing to a multi-billion dollar church that won’t even open it’s doors to the homeless in the dead of winter.

I sometimes cry big heavy sobs when they all leave for church. It’s lonely.

Sundays aren’t my second Saturday. They are my reminder that nothing will ever be the same. That there is loss. That there is trauma. That there are lies that I can’t look away from.

I wonder if my kids worry they won’t be with their mom in heaven.

I wonder if my husband worries his wife won’t be by his side.

I feel insecure despite all the self-work. I know people talk about me, and gossip, and make assumptions.

I feel pain thinking I might not see my only daughter get married, or that my sons might go on missions.

I wonder if my husband wishes he had chosen someone else to marry entirely.

I daydream of him leaving with me.

I sometimes can’t sleep from the worry that my kids are internalizing homophobic messages, racism, purity culture, and anxiety from never feeling like they are good enough in a church that demands so much.

I feel sad that sometimes I want to parent alone because parenting together with someone who sees the world so differently than you is the hardest work I’ve ever done.

I wonder if my husband sees me as weak, and not strong for leaving.

I picture my husband and kids in “our row” in the chapel, with an empty seat now that used to be mine. There’s pain just thinking about that.

I feel the looks when I do go, and hear the words said loudly to my kids, “It’s so nice to see your mom here!” when I do decide to attend on the rare occasion.

I feel like an outsider when I had always belonged.

I feel lonely in a family of five, trying to do the balancing act of standing strong on the integrity the church built in me, but feeling all everyone else sees is a weak minded person that couldn’t do it anymore.

That’s the thing about leaving a high-demand religion - the high-demand religion never leaves you.

Sure, I am deconstructing, and deprogramming my brain slowly. But after 40+ years of believing in a system, it’s hard to get that system out of me.

And it’s especially hard when it’s surrounding me constantly. In my home. In my community. In my mind. In my newly built mixed-faith marriage.

There isn’t enough room in a blog post for all the issues we face. All the conversations set aside that haven’t happened yet.

All the pain the church causes for families like us.

There is a backlog of topics we still have to cover that we’re probably both dreading if we’re being completely honest.

There’s a divide that neither of us wanted created by a system that doesn’t value the non-traditional. There are no accolades for following your integrity in this circumstance. There are only whispers and pitying looks, and “we miss you’s” and false hope that I’ll come back because of a plate of cookies left on my doorstep when the more active members feel like doing their homework.

No matter how healthy you try to make a mixed-faith marriage, when you leave a high-demand religion like this one, there will always be an element of pain, grief, and sadness, no matter how hard you try.

I tell people all the time I’m one of the lucky ones just because I got to keep my marriage intact.

But a marriage with a gaping chasm between two people where there used to be solid ground is a marriage that will never be the same.

It’s not our fault. It’s not because of a lack of trying. It’s not because we don’t love each other enough.

It’s because of a system that pretends to be all about the family, but only if you’re the right kind.

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