Proving Worthy

thoughts on striving for perfection and shame

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Last year, I encountered my shame face-to-face.

I was in a writing retreat in the hills of North Carolina, of all places. The retreat was at an ashram, and the center held yoga and meditation classes we could go to in our free time. Right when I got there, before any of the writing workshops began, I decided to go to a meditation class.

The students all dressed in comfortable clothes, grabbed yoga mats and set up around the room. I’ve been in meditation classes before. This day, though, I came into the room already emotional.

Going to the writing retreat itself felt vulnerable. The class was titled “Your Sacred Story” and I knew my sacred story was inexplicably tied to Mormonism. At that point, I was in the thick of my faith deconstruction. I was scared of what some people would think of me if I was Mormon, and what other people would think of me if I wasn’t. My religion informed my life in both destructive and constructive ways, and I knew I wanted to write about it, but I was afraid.

Before I got there, I had concluded that I wouldn’t bring religion up in my conversations with others at all. I’d keep my stories and writing to myself, and nobody would have to know or have any sort of opinions about my religious upbringing.

That plan was cut short when I met my roommate, Gigi. She was a 60-something vivacious and free-spirited woman, and within ten minutes of meeting her, she had shown me a picture of a 70-year-old man’s penis and asked if I was religious. I’m still not sure how either of those things were brought up, and I was completely caught off guard in both respects. My face was a deep, deep red when I stammered, yes, I was religious, I had grown up Mormon. In her perfectly frank New York accent, she clucked her tongue and responded, “Oh, honey. It seems like all they care about is money. But that’s okay!”

It was in this state that I entered the meditation room.