Chapter ??: Depression and Infertility

When I was eighteen, I was diagnosed with poly cystic ovarian syndrome. At the time, it meant very little too me. It gave me the advantage of rare periods, but that information was what clued my mum onto my possible health issues.

When I was in year ten, I suffered from some severe pains in my reproductive organs area. Cramps, stabbing pains, the works. I was examined and had tests done, but at the time nothing was found. I believe though, that this was the time my condition started.

My symptoms slowly crept up on me. Lack of menstruations isn’t uncommon in teenagers, so it didn’t bother me. I began to gain extra weight, but I wrote that off as being less physically active due to my HSC classes. I had gone from having two P.E. classes, playing school sports, doing swimming club in the summer and netball in the winter, to just netball. P.E. was no longer sports but sitting in a classroom basically studying biology and sports science. Doing school sports was traded in for TAFE on Wednesday afternoons. And so, my physical activity declined, leaving me with a reasonable assumption for that being the reason for gaining extra weight.

During my time as an exchange student, I gained even more weight and had a total of one period the whole time. I started to notice dark hair on my face and other awkward places. After I arrived home, I was talking with a friend and told her I hadn’t had a period in six months. My mum overheard and booked me in to see a gynecologist.

After blood tests and several ultrasounds, I was diagnosed. My left ovary looked like honeycomb it had become so bad. The gynecologist explained to me that I could be treated by taking the pill, but one of the side effects could be trouble conceiving in the future.

I was eighteen, so I didn’t think much about that issue then. For the moment, I focused on getting my other symptoms under control; regular periods, reducing the hair issues, and losing the extra weight. I did, however, suffer from some severe pains during the early medication period. I felt my body trying to extract the cysts, and one occasion I curled up in my bed and cried from the pain.

Eventually, my body settled. Time passed and I got married. My first child came along quickly. I hadn’t been off the pill a month and I was pregnant! This shocked me because I had assumed I would struggle to have children, but, here I was, pregnant without any effort. I wasn’t terribly overweight then and I had been careful to maintain the PCOS. I think those factors helped with the quick conception.

What a happy and exciting time! Although my husband had said he didn’t want kids yet, he was excited along with me. Even when I projectile vomited on him in bed! He tended to me carefully and lovingly. He would make up songs about how much he loved me and laughed when I called him in tears over spilling ramen.

Her delivery was traumatic on my body. I had just turned twenty-four when I gave birth to her. My waters broke at two in the morning, but I didn’t go into labor. It turns out, my body likes to do that; dump all the fluid then do nothing. The nurses didn’t believe me because I had no contractions and said I’d peed my pants. I insisted that I hadn’t, and when they tested the fluids, they found that I had, indeed, broken my waters. This meant I needed to be admitted and labor would need to be induced asap.

Pitocin is not a friendly drug. It gave me these double, extremely painful contractions. I had wanted to avoid an epidural, so I was given medication through the IV. They made me loopy and apparently, I said some strange things. I saw bizarre images of pink bubbles that contained my pain, but I couldn’t make them pop and go away.

Eventually, the pain meds wore off and I asked for an epidural. The Pitocin induced contractions hurt worse than anything I could recall. In fact, my contractions with my second daughter weren’t half as painful. With the epidural in, I relaxed enough to get some rest. I slept for an hour or two. When the nurse came in to check me, she immediately called for the doctor to arrive and told me not to push. I wasn’t pushing. She said she could see the baby’s head. The epidural had made me relax enough to go from five centimeters dilation to engaging the baby’s head and unintentionally pushing her out in a very short amount of time. We had to wait for the doctor though, which didn’t help anything. In fact, I believe being told to wait was what caused the problems that followed. The baby came out fast when the doctor arrived and tore me from the inside out. I bled like crazy while my doctor worked to stitch me up and the nurses took care of my screaming newborn. I ended up with forty-five stitches. I was ordered to be on twenty-four-hour bedrest and was treated like a cesarean patient.

It soon became apparent that I had latching problems. Nursing required several hands on deck just to get my baby to latch on. With so many people looking at and touching my private areas due to the tearing and nursing, I began to feel no shame regarding my body.

The nursing issues meant I had to pump and supplement my newborn with a bottle. She also developed jaundice. So, I had to deal with fighting to get her to latch, a bilirubin blanket, and the pain of my recovery. The jaundice soon passed and, slowly, after the pain of cracking and swelling, I began to get her to nurse. Except, my healing didn’t seem to be going so well. I still had pain when I sat. My mother-in-law told me to stop complaining because I should be fine by that time. I felt bad, like I had done something wrong. At my eight-week check, I told my doctor about my pain. She took a look and found there was something wrong. The scar tissue had overhealed and was too thick which was causing the pain. With a quick, sharp snip, she solved the problem. I smarted for the next few hours, but the pain vanished.

After all that had settled, my baby developed colic, then reflux, then she started to cut teeth. In a letter I wrote to my former sister-in-law, which I will use since my journal entries weren’t well kept during this time, I wrote of these struggles by saying, “She would wake up at midnight like clockwork and scream for a solid two hours every night. I was exhausted and exasperated.”

I sunk into a deep hole, a hole I soon learned was postpartum depression. I didn’t know what was happening at the time. I just thought my lack of sleep, my baby’s constant need to nurse, and all her sicknesses had driven me a little bonkers. Because postpartum depression can often make me feel a bit like I’m going insane. My temper gets short and I lose a lot of control over my emotions. It turned me into a person I didn’t recognize. I was definitely not myself anymore. In the letter, I explained, “My depression with (my oldest), looking back, was quite bad. I struggled to function in so many ways. I couldn’t keep up the house, there were even days when I wouldn’t shower and I’d lie in bed for hours. I even told (my husband) that I didn’t like (our daughter). I was in a dark place, and I wish I could have seen what was happening, or even someone else see it. Instead, I was criticized for a messy house and not making dinner every night.”

I had married into a family who considered mental illnesses something that could be brushed away by a simple decision. I wished I could brush my feelings away! Finally, I was medicated and the meds took the edge of my depression. It still lingered, however. My postpartum depression lasted between eighteen months to two years for both my girls.

After getting out of the depression, I began to think about having another baby. With my PCOS and weight gain, I was in no denial that a second child would not come as easily. The months turned into a year and still no baby. I began to grow disheartened, especially with so many women around me making “I’m pregnant!” announcements. Especially the teenagers who only recently married. There were times at work or at church I would slip away to the bathroom to have a cry. I tried not to make a big deal out of it because, as my husband kept telling me, we were blessed to have one pretty great kid. Still, my heart ached for the life that never seemed to come.

My husband’s younger brother was the perfect and favorite child. When he married, his wife could not be more perfect and I couldn’t be more ostracized. Even things we said and did the same, I was criticized for and she was praised. When, during my time of grieving for my infertility, they announced they were pregnant, I was crushed. Of this occasion, I said in the letter, “I said to (my husband) on the way, “If they announce they’re pregnant, I’m going to break.” He understood and agreed we would leave if need be. And you did announce it. My soul died. Although, I couldn’t cry there. I turned to (my husband), and he understood. We packed our things to leave and (my mother-in-law) pulled (my husband) aside to tell him that I was being selfish and needed to stay and be happy for you. I couldn’t stay, and (my husband) knew it. So, we left. At home, I put (our daughter) to bed and locked myself in our back room. I cried and ached and prayed. All I wanted was children, and I couldn’t even do that. (My husband) eventually came in and held me, letting me cry. He understood even if no one else did.”

This pain was only compounded by my struggles with my daughter. “Meanwhile, (my daughter) had become a demon child. She would beat me almost daily. I had to lock her in her room and hold the door shut while she rampaged and screamed inside. Once, she even unbuckled and attacked me while I was driving. I had to pull over and hold her down until she was done. I have no idea even now where any of this came from. She only ever did it to me. Unfortunately, this was used as more proof that I was a terrible mother. I couldn’t control my child, so obviously I was doing something wrong.”

My in-laws always seemed to make my feelings worse. Instead of letting me grieve, they told me I was selfish. Instead of understanding, they told me to shut up and stop complaining. “All of this pain, grief, feelings of failure, all swelled and mixed and drove me back into a dark place. During this time, (my husband) caught me contemplating self-harm. I think it was the first time he really saw how bad things were for me. He took me to the bishop who immediately sent me for therapy. The therapy helped me a great deal and I began to climb out of my hole. Still, I struggled to be around pregnant women without a wave of grief creeping up, and I’m pretty sure you saw me avoiding you during this time. Know that it wasn’t you, I just wanted to avoid the pain. But, again, this avoidance was taken as a massive offense. I was told by (mother-in-law) to stop being so selfish and be happy for you. More salt in that wound…

“However, I was beginning to feel more like myself again. I was happy and having fun, and even went on a trip to Vegas with some writer friends. We were having a great time, until my phone started to buzz. Over and over. I looked at it and it was like a slap to the face. You’d had the baby. I tried to ignore it, but the messages kept coming, slapping me over and over. I felt sick, and left to return to my room, having the great excuse that I didn’t want to join my friends with their drinking. In my room I lost it. I collapsed in sobs, struggling to call (my husband). He knew right away what was wrong and hung up to tell (his brother) to take me off the text. Before he even called me back, I received an angry text saying how dare I ask to be removed from the group text. When (my husband) called me back, he let me cry as I said over and over, “I can’t do this.” The grief was back worse than ever. I hadn’t felt so much sadness and loneliness since I’d been persecuted in high school.”

Infertility is a pain I wouldn’t wish on anyone. Sometimes, you feel on top of it, and other times it slaps you across the face and paralyzes you. During this time, I was blessed to have wonderful friends who knew the same pain as me. One friend in particular I had long and heartfelt conversations with as we both worked together in an office full of pregnant teenage brides. She had a harder time than me because she had also suffered from a string of miscarriages, but we both knew one another’s pain and consoled together. Having gone through that pain has given me the power to be empathetic to those who suffer from the lost hopes and dreams of infertility. As hard as it was, I am so grateful for it.

Unbeknownst to me, I conceived my second either before or after my trip to Vegas. I have no doubt the Lord saw my agony, knew I had learned what I needed to learn, and sent me my little daughter. My daughter who would be so much like me. By the time she was born, my older daughter was almost five years old. It’s hard to be grateful for something so painful, especially when the people around you seem to compound the pain and drive a knife deeper at each turn, but I am grateful for it. My sister and my brother’s wife both struggle with infertility and miscarriages, so it has helped me love and appreciate their strength through their trials. It also helps me appreciate other women who, despite the cultural expectations placed upon young couples in our church, don’t have children. I never ask them why. I know what it feels like to be asked, “When will you be having another?” and the answer is, “I’m trying and failing!” I know what it feels like to have people treat me like that failure is some sort of sin that means I deserve to be treated like garbage, and if I feel pain, I need to get over it.

When my second daughter was almost two, I began thinking about having another baby. However, I was wary. The pain of the struggle to conceive was still sharp in my memory. On July 2^nd, 2017, I wrote, “I want to have one more child… I prayed about having another child because I’d been having doubts about having more kids. I felt very strongly impressed there’s a little boy waiting to join us… I also felt he would arrive very soon. I hope so… the toll the whole preconception takes on me emotionally and the post delivery problems I have with my body and PPD (worry me). We’ll see how it goes. When I prayed, I felt the promise of the Lord that He would help ease the struggles I face when having children and I have faith in that. He’s the only person I believe will always follow through and understand all of it completely.”

This was more than two years ago, and I have not had another child. However, the grief of not conceiving has never come. The Lord promised to ease my struggles, and He has. He still tells me another child is waiting, even though I no longer have a husband. But, I’m at peace with it. I trust the Lord, and I know His “soon” is different to my “soon”. When the time is right, my child will come. The Lord took away my grief as promised, and so I know His promise to send me a child will also come.

I know that I’m not alone with these feelings and struggles. I’m grateful for the friends and family who lent me their support and empathy, even when other family members used it against me. The Lord has a purpose for everything, and I have no doubt He had a purpose for me struggling with infertility.

Chapter ??: When I Fell In Love

 Young Single Adult Conventions hold some of my favorite memories. Held annually, we alternated between locations in Sydney and Brisbane. These conventions were held at boarding schools that had closed for the summer so we could stay on campus for the entire time. The conventions were always held over New Years, so we always had a New Year’s ball/dance that was the highlight of the entire convention. I attended three in total for the entire time, and one in Sydney where I only went to a few events.

My first convention was in Brisbane the New Years between being an exchange student and moving in with my grandparents. Conventions were meant to accomplish several things; help build strong friendships among the YSAs from two states, provide a wholesome and fun environment to help us build our testimonies, and, although it was never a spoken rule it was clearly known, to help us get married. That first convention I attended I was nineteen, so, although I was interested in guys, marriage wasn’t my top priority. I hung out with friends from my stake and had fun with them. I also rediscovered my super crush on the guy I had met at TFY and crushed on my entire eleventh grade year. But the most significant thing for me was making friends with people from my grandparents’ ward and stake. That convention helped me make the decision and get through the trials of the year that would follow.

The next convention I went to was in Sydney. By then I had built some wonderful friendships with amazing people I loved so much. That whole convention was pure fun. We ran around in a box-bus, took weird photos in our dorm’s common room, had very little sleep, and drank too much non-alcoholic wine and ended up on insane sugar highs. My favorite memory, however, was on New Year’s eve laying in the moist grass with my best friends. We stared up at the stars as the music from the dance throbbed in the air. We just talked, I can’t remember what about, but I will cherish how close we were in that moment forever.

Then, I went through 2007 which was a rough and heartbreaking year.

The next convention was back in Brisbane. My sister went to that one with a long-time friend of ours. It was their first convention as they had turned eighteen that year. I had more friends after my time living out of home, so the fun had more potential. We also went to Dreamworld as part of this convention. I love theme parks, so this was amazing!

During this convention, a group of guys from Queensland got together and made themselves shirts with ’08 on them. They set a catchphrase for themselves and said, “Set a date for oh-eight.” They came with the specific goal of finding a wife and getting married that year. The guys were proactive with meeting new girls, and I believe most of them were successful with getting married that year.

For me, that set my mind on the question of marriage as well. I was twenty-one and a few months earlier had received the revelation to not serve a mission but to go to university. These guys made me wonder if maybe I could join their ranks and set a date in ’08. My friend who came with us ended up meeting a guy she married on my birthday in ’08 at this convention. She found a guy at convention, but despite making tons of friends and meeting guys who thought I was cool, no one showed any interest in me romantically. It was the story of my life; guys liked me as a friend and thought I was super fun and enjoyed hanging out with me, but none of them wanted to date me.

I came home from that convention discouraged. Yeah, I’d had fun with my friends, but most of my friends had met guys during that convention or were on or about to leave on missions.

When we arrived home, my sister turned on the movie Flag of Our Fathers. In the movie, there is a Native American man who is among those who raise the iconic flag in Iwo Jima. The actor reminded me of a friend I made as an exchange student. Strangely enough, the Spirit told me then that I would marry this friend... but I brushed it aside as me being silly.

In my journal I wrote, “On Christmas day I called (my host family) as normal and amidst conversation (my host mother) asked if she could give (this male friend) my email address which he had asked for so he could email me… I said yes because I have always liked talking to him. I thought though, “I wonder if he still likes me?” It was a pleasant thought that even after all this time he might still.

“Anyway, I went off to convention in Brisbane and forgot about it until the day we got back and (my sister) put on Flag of Our Fathers which the actor who plays the Navajo character caught my attention because there were some expressions he pulled and at the very end when they swam that reminded me of (my friend). It was the weirdest thing and unsettled me slightly.” (June 22, 2008)

Because yes, during my time as an exchange student, this male friend had a thing for me. We went out on a double date, he tried to take me on a second date but his mother pulled me aside and told me he needed to focus on his mission and not be distracted by me. His best friend also cornered me not long before prom and told me I should ask him to go with me. I didn’t, because I didn’t go to prom, but it was pretty clear this guy was crushing on me, especially when he would get shy and tongue tied around me.

In a journal entry from my time visiting Arizona for my friend’s wedding and when my grandad died, I said, “(His mother) was over talking to (Host mother) she asked me why I hadn’t written to (him). (Note: He was on his mission at this time.) I told her I did but he never replied. She told me he wanted me to write to him so should try again. I told her to tell him he needs to write back if he wants me to. So I wrote to him again.”

This brings me back to the conversation I had with my host mother. She gave him my email address and we started to email back and forth. Unbeknownst to me, he did get a girlfriend during this time. His emails became sparse, and I said, “I’m a little confused… which is why I’m apprehensive. He wanted contact with me, then gave me the bare minimum. I don’t want to play games, I’m over games.” (22^nd June 2008)

2008 was a great year for me. I loved doing my university course. The classes were right up my alley and I thoroughly enjoyed doing them. I made awesome friends, and had a ton of fun with them.

I loved my calling in primary. I was the primary secretary and ended up going through three different presidencies due to various reasons. I ended up being allowed to basically run the Sunday process since I was so familiar with everything and the president trusted me completely. So was the dynamic of my ward. The love and trust people had for me in my home ward growing up was incredible. Even people from stake were like, “She’s got this. We’re all good.” That trust and love lifted me up and brought me such joy. I can’t remember a time I felt happier or more confident within my own skin. I had a small job doing a delivery route, I enjoyed university, and church made me so happy.

I loved the primary kids I worked with too. In my journal I talk about them all and how they made me laugh. It’s funny to me now as they’re all grown up. Some have gone on missions or are currently serving missions, some are married, some have finished university degrees and entered the working world. It’s like you go away and don’t expect things to change, but they clearly do. These kids I loved and teased and joked with are now grown adults. Many of them, even if they don’t know it, I’m incredibly proud to see how well they’ve done with their lives.

In June, the semester ended and we had our final exams. We also had a regional YSA convention over the long weekend prior to exams starting. The Monday the day before my first exam, which was biology, the convention took us ice skating. I have always loved ice skating! I’m not terribly great at it, but I could do well for someone who went every few months or so. The skating rink was close to where I lived, so most of the people from my ward and stake were familiar and more confident with skating than my friends from other stakes. So, I helped my friends from the other stakes by holding their hands and guiding them through the basics. One of my friends from my ward came up behind me and, as a joke, bumped me pretty hard. Under normal circumstances I would have balanced and chased him down for revenge, but, I had both hands with unstable people, so, to keep them upright, I stabilized them and hit the ice myself. Right on my tail bone. I got up in serious pain, but tried to ignore it. Until the second time I went down, landing right on the same spot. After that, I could barely walk, so I got off the ice and took off my skates. Sitting came as a painful issue as well, so my friends told me to call my mum because I couldn’t drive myself and get to the hospital.

Mum came and helped me into my own car. The short trip to the nearby hospital was absolute agony. Every bump and turn left me in pain. At the hospital, we entered and found several other groups of people from the rink. I’m pretty sure the hospital staff wondered what the heck was going on down there to have so many young adults sustaining injuries! One group of Polynesian guys were there with their friend who needed stitches. He’d fallen over, and a friend skated over his hand.

Anyway, it turned out that I had dislocated my coccyx, aka my tailbone. They gave me pain meds because that was all they could do. It’s not like they could put a cast on it or anything! I was told it would heal itself eventually. However, I had exams to sit, and I couldn’t sit! When I went in the next morning to work out what to do for my biology exam, my friends got a real kick out of my injury. Being a bio exam, we’d had to memorize the bones as part of the course material, so they knew exactly what and where the coccyx was and laughed so hard about it.

I also started to feel nauseous during this Tuesday, and with my mum driving me everywhere, she started to notice me looking a bit green. On my way home from my voice lesson, I asked her to pull over. I threw up on the side of the highway. Turns out, codeine doesn’t agree with me, so we had to get me different pain meds. It was good to know as over the years I have been in situations where having codeine would have been far worse to discover my allergy to it than at that moment.

Anyway, I finished my exams using a donut cushion, and sat my biology exam during the end of the testing period. After exams, I jetted off to the U.S.A. First stop: California. Because parks! I had a friend with me, so we had park hopper passes for Disneyland, California Adventure, Universal, San Diego Zoo, and Seaworld. Since it was the week of July 4^th, we decided to go to the zoo on the 4^th because the other parks would be packed. It was still a busy week, but I think it was the best choice. Every night Disneyland let off fireworks, and on the 4^th we watched the main show while having dinner. I love parks, which I mentioned earlier, so I had a blast that week.

The next three weeks I spent in Arizona. My friend stayed with me for one of those two weeks before flying back. My friend when I was an exchange student took us to the Science Museum in Phoenix. I also spent time with another friend who had spent time in hospital for overnights due to a serious accident. We had been friends when I was an exchange student, but we had talked almost daily during her time in the hospital as it was late in Arizona, and I was usually just getting home from my classes.

I had also agreed to spend time with the guy friend. That first week I didn’t see him much probably because I had my friend with me. I also spent time with my oldest host brother’s fiancé as she made plans and gushed over my host brother. She and I were friends when I was an exchange student, so I enjoyed seeing her so happy.

But, if I wanted this guy friend to do something, I needed to give him a nudge. I started with trying to tell his younger brother that I was interested, but, his younger brother was useless. Next, I told his best friend who I knew had a big mouth and would spill the beans. And, as I anticipated, he did. This was Sunday. My friend who came with me left during the day the next day on Monday.

Monday evening, this guy showed up at my host family’s house. A bunch of us from the neighborhood decided to play capture the flag, so he joined in. During the game, I snuck into the alley to slip around behind where the flag was being guarded. As I crept, someone called my name. I swung around to find the guy barreling after me. Thinking he had ended up on the other team, I ran for it. But he was fast and caught up with me. Turns out, he wasn’t on the other team and we walked back talking the whole way. He was no longer the shy guy I had known as an exchange student and spoke confidently with me and made me laugh.

Two days later, while on our way to institute, he called my host sister’s phone. She answered and handed it to me, giving me a “What is this about?” look.

My friend asked me on a date. I was delighted. He picked me up from the institute building and we went to see a movie. While waiting for the movie, we walked around nearby shops. To my surprise, he took my hand and held it. Throughout the evening he was charming, sweet, and made me laugh over and over.

At the end, as we approached his car to go home, he stopped me during our conversation and kissed me. I couldn’t believe he kissed me, just like that! His mission had brought out a more confident side of him, while the sweet guy I’d been friends with remained.

On Monday 21^st July, 2008, I wrote, “we went away with his family… to a ranch to visit (his sister) who was working there as it is her birthday today.” His mother had invited me to go because I had been friends with his younger sister since my time as an exchange student and she was disappointed I’d be in town when she wasn’t.

The drive up there and the time we spent together drew me to him. Of him, I said, “He makes me so happy and I feel safe with him…. He wants to be with me no matter what… I love that he comes to me when he sees me, or that he signals for me to come with him. That I’m not a waste of his time or a burden to him. I love that he always wants to kiss me, and that he wants me to kiss him and doesn’t make me feel stupid or cheap when I do…. I love that he wants to protect me from everything but lets me be my normal stupid self.

“I love that I am so comfortable with him. We can talk endlessly about everything, then sit quietly and just enjoy each other’s company…

“Most of all, I love his heart. He is an easy-going, kind, and gentle man who loves the gospel. I know that he wants to do things the Lord’s way and that he has a testimony of the gospel.”

I was falling for him for sure, and he while we had been kissing prior to this trip, stopped and told me he loved me. While on the trip, we began talking about marriage. Fast, yes. I had apprehensions, but he seemed so eager and I admired him greatly, so I took it to the Lord. It was Sunday and we’d had a mini sacrament meeting at the ranch. I retired to the room and spent the next while on my own sorting out my feelings and praying about what to do.

The thoughts from convention earlier that year came to mind; set a date in oh-eight, the prompting while watching the movie that I would marry this man. So, I ran through all my apprehensions before I asked, “should I marry him?”

First off, the Lord shook off all my worries. He showed me that what mattered was that I cared about him and I wanted to be with someone who had a good heart more than anything. Then, He answered my question of if I should marry him with a resounding yes. Peace wafted over me. Warmth filled my heart. The Lord told me I would be greatly blessed if I followed through and married this man. He was a good man who wanted to do the right things and follow the teaching of the gospel.

And so, later that day, I emerged. We didn’t have the opportunity to be alone for several hours, but when we did, I told him that I had prayed about marrying him like he’d asked, and received a yes.

I can’t say I was really in love with him at that point either. I liked him a whole lot, but my decision to marry him relied purely on faith. However, red flags began to wave even then. When his mother found out, she pulled me aside and questioned my motives. Why would I want to marry him? Wouldn’t I be more interested in my still single host brother? When I said I liked the way he made me laugh, she looked at me like I was insane. Everyone else seemed happy for us, so I let it slide and didn’t think much on it.

When we arrived back at my host family’s home, I called my mum back in Australia to talk it over. She said that if I had felt it was the right choice, then she would support me whole heartedly. I don’t think I mention how much I love my parents and how amazing they are. Even though they knew they’d lose me, they never stopped supporting me and guiding me through the process.

After I told her, I told my host mother. She said it was no surprise, especially when I asked to call home and spoke for more than an hour to my mum. She was happy for me, though, and like my own mother, her support has never wavered.

News spread fast. My friend who had messaged me from her hospital bed helped him pick out and purchase an engagement ring for me. Since we didn’t have much time as I was leaving at the end of the week, at first he bought me a stunning promise ring and saved up for a proper engagement ring. He took me to the Mesa Temple grounds and proposed to me properly there, down on one knee and everything, and gave me the ring. Despite the fact that it was July in Arizona, I don’t remember the heat suffocating me, I just remember being incredibly happy. It was his twenty-second birthday.

Afterward, we had dinner at his home, I returned and said my goodbyes to my host family and he took me to the airport to go home.

Back at university, my friends were shocked. Engaged? They didn’t know I was dating anyone! But, the good friends they were, they supported me and got excited with me. They wanted to see pictures of him and of the wedding dress, they examined my ring, and attended our engagement party when he came over in November.

People at church were less shocked. Some of my friends even teased me and said of course a trip to Mormonville in America would result in me being engaged.

Still, I didn’t feel truly in love with him. It came slowly for me. I can’t pinpoint an exact moment where I was like, “Wow, I really love him.” In fact, when he came to visit in November, my apprehensions resurfaced. He went to a regional YSA dance with me where I had tons of friends and, admittedly, dances were my thing. He lacked any enthusiasm for it, and we ended up sitting outside for most of it because he didn’t want to be there. Red flag, yes, but I chalked it up to differences in likes.

During his visit, I swear half the ward threatened him. If he hurt me, they would destroy him. I laughed it off because I knew how much they loved me. But he voiced his annoyance about it.

I had grown irritated that he seemed uninterested in my world, so I took it to the Lord. He reassured me of my decision and said to trust that I would be blessed. So, plans moved forward.

I finished my year of university and said goodbye to my friends there. I was heavy hearted to not be continuing with them and considered postponing the marriage until I could complete my degree. However, I could tell my fiancé wouldn’t wait that long as he had grown antsy waiting, especially as all his friends married over the months we were apart. I also felt that I needed to marry him then and not wait, as the Lord had a plan for me.

By the morning of the wedding, I had love for my soon-to-be husband. He was a good man, and, despite the constant issues I had with his mother’s obvious disapproval of me, I trusted that the Lord would guide me through. And, as if as a sign, the sealer we had for our wedding spoke and looked similar to my grandad. I stared at this man as he spoke to us, in awe of his similarities, and I knew the Lord was sending me a message.

At the altar, I watched my husband as we married and I knew then that I loved him. I knew that I would do all I could to grow that love and be a good companion with him. I felt the Lord wrap me in warmth as He approved of my feelings and the covenants I made. He blessed me to feel that love for my husband.

And so, my new life began. A married life. A life in a different country. One where more often than not, I found myself… alone.

Chapter ??: Mission or Marriage?

If you read through my journals from 2004-2007 you will see me flip back and forth between serving a mission and feeling like maybe it’s not what the Lord wanted for me. While I was on my exchange, I become bound and determined to be a missionary, but during my time with my grandparents I served in the nursery and felt like the Lord was preparing me for motherhood.

2007 was, well, a difficult year. I still carried a heavy heart for the loss of Grandad, but I also stepped all the way into being an adult. I moved into a flat near the city to be closer to work. At first, three sisters lived in the flat with me, but eventually two of them moved out. My job took me away for most of the day, and for the few hours in the evening I was home, the remaining sister, being fairly quiet and insular, didn’t talk to me much.

I went to the YSA ward for a while, but most of the members didn’t speak English. I made friends through institute with some girls who lived within my family ward, so I switched and attended with them.

My first job was pretty good. I liked the location in Chatswood as the office was literally right above the train station, and Chatswood is a pretty neat place. However, the office manager decided she didn’t like me. While the owner hired me and was happy with my work, the manager watched me and waited for me to make mistakes. The team would go out drinking on Friday nights and I would respectfully decline joining them. We were invited to stay at the Marriott for a night, and while I had dinner with them and took a hotel tour, when we were free to do our own thing so they decided to hit the clubs, I turned them down and retired to my hotel room. I don’t think she liked that I didn’t want to get wasted and hook up with randoms.

We had an office mobile phone we took turns taking on the weekends. Once I had finished training, my turn came up to take the phone. She pulled me into her office and told me I wouldn’t be allowed to go to church on Sunday in case someone called. I explained that I would keep the phone with me, and I was less than a five-minute drive from my church building so I would be able to take care of any issues right away. She became firm and said if I wanted to keep my job I would not go to church and risk leaving a client stranded.

I left that meeting feeling confused and deflated. When I talked about it with one of the other girls, she was confused as well. She said they often went out drinking or clubbing while they had the phone and the manager knew about it. She didn’t know why going to church would be a problem.

But, it was. It got me fired.

In hindsight, I should have taken it to court for unfair dismissal. Except, I was young, it had been my first real job, and I just wanted to move on. I needed another job fast to pay my rent and bills. Thankfully, the Lord was watching over me and wouldn’t let my steadfastness cause me grief. Within two weeks I started a new job. That was a great job that I enjoyed. The girls I worked with were fun and friendly, and Bondi Junction was, like Chatswood, an awesome location.

I served as a TFY leader during this time. After loving TFY as a youth four years earlier, being a leader came as an easy choice. I had a wonderful time and made new friends and strengthened other friendships. During this time, a guy started showing an interest in me. It took me a little bit to notice, but when I did, he took me out.

We dated for a while, and it was nice. He was a nice guy, polite, had all the checks in the boxes with being a returned missionary and coming from a good family. We were dating during my transition between jobs, and during my move out of the flat back home. In my journal I described him as being “all hot and heavy and full on.” Somewhere in there, he just changed gears and I became little more than an accessory. Whenever I would question him about ignoring me or abandoning me at events he took me to, he would get frustrated and upset with me. Eventually, he dumped me. In my journal, I explain that, “he said he didn’t love me and I was too strong for him.” It broke my heart. I felt so betrayed. However, looking back I can see it was for the best. I deserved better than the way he was treating me with his hot and cold, and on and off demeanor.

It took me a while to nurse my broken heart to heal. I remember once talking with one of my netball coaches at our end of season party and she said that we all have at least one heart break before finding the one who will never break our heart. That has always stuck with me throughout the years, and my heartbreak with this guy I believed was what she was talking about. On Sunday, 30^th September, 2007 I said, “Already I have realized one thing; this disaster of a relationship I just went through is so I can appreciate the real thing more fully when it comes along.”

However, with a heavy and broken heart, and still in many ways grieving from Grandad’s death, combined with the two hour each direction commute to work, life took a heavy toll on me. I recall 2007 as a dark year. I was depressed a lot and struggled often. Although I enjoyed my job in Bondi Junction, I needed a change.

I found a new job at a travel agency, which is where I wanted to work from the beginning. I was excited to finally be a travel agent!

I also sat the STAT test for university during this time. I had saved up a ton of money after working most of the year. I had saved it for a mission because, after the break up, I made up my mind to serve a mission. I was almost twenty-one, so the age of sister missionaries at that time. One weekend, I was waiting at the temple to meet up with some friends to drive up to Newcastle for a friend’s birthday. There, I was wandering and praying for comfort and guidance. The temple was closed that week for maintenance, so only the church office workers were present, but in general, since it was Saturday, no one was around. I sat on a bench and just prayed. My heart still hurt and I wanted direction. It was then that I received the revelation not to serve a mission. It was clear and specific. I needed to use the money I had saved to go to university and begin studying to be a teacher. I had enough money to pay for two semesters of full-time study with a few thousand dollars left over.

“So, no mission?” I asked.

“No mission,” He told me.

I still have feelings of disappointment about not going all these years later, but the direction was so clear I couldn’t deny it.

I worked hard at my new job, but things started to get weird. The owner of the travel agency had two offices, the main one in Merrylands, and the one I was hired to work in by the Flemmington Markets. He kept calling and telling me I needed to work at the main office. There were always four or five agents working there, so I didn’t see why I was needed, especially since I did almost nothing whenever I was at the office. The owner would sort of hover and talk to me and made me generally uncomfortable. When I got into my university course, quitting that job came easily.

And so, another year passed. A hard year, probably my hardest year until 2019. Harder than 2002 when my high school friends turned on me and persecuted me. What I think made it so hard was that I went into it with a broken heart, and trials I faced seemed to fracture my heart further. But the Lord has a purpose to everything, and I learned how to be resilient and come back from dark places no matter what. I learned even more how to trust God, and I discovered that my personal revelations can be remarkably clear. I wouldn’t be serving a mission because the Lord had another plan for me. Trials are lessons, and like any classroom, some are much harder than others. But with perseverance and quite a lot of faith, I knew I could get through anything.

Chapter – ??: Heritage

 About six months after I returned from my student exchange, I moved in with my maternal grandparents in Newcastle. Barely months before, my grandad was diagnosed with mesothelioma, which is a form of lung cancer caused by asbestos poisoning. His time on this earth had become a ticking clock, and I was in a position to move up there to help them.

My maternal grandparents I had always had a close relationship. They lived in the Blue Mountains for a time while I was a child, but mostly they lived in Newcastle. My paternal grandparents, however, I did not have the opportunity to get to know in this life.

My paternal grandfather was born in Yorkshire. A Yorkshire man through and through, my aunt and father describe him as hardworking, honest, and a sober man. It is his family line that goes back several generations in the church. His father’s grandmother was stalwart, steadfast, and, from family stories, she desired her children to be strong members of the church as well. There are several branches still active in the church today that trace back to her and her sons, and one of my great uncles was even mentioned in General Conference. That was a funny moment when I, as a young teen, suddenly found people around us from our stake staring at us like, “Hamstead? You’re Hamsteads!” And yes, my dad assured us we were related!

Anyway, somewhere in there my particular line of the family became inactive. I’m not sure on the specifics, but my great grandparents and my grandfather must have had their names on church records, even if they didn’t practice or attend church because, after moving to Australia, home teachers came by and brought my dad and his sister into the church and activity.

My grandfather, as I mentioned, was a hardworking man. Unfortunately, his hard work proved to be the death of him. He died of cancer, most likely mesothelioma due to exposure to asbestos in the munitions factory where he worked. My dad was just seventeen. I have no doubt though, that he was the love of my grandmother’s life. Although she lived for several decades after he passed, she never remarried even though she had the opportunity.

Born to an Irish farming family in Queensland, Australia, my paternal grandmother was stunning and elegant. Photos of her show a tall, slender woman with a lovely face and a sweet smile. When I see pictures of her I can see my sister and myself in her, but while my sister is quite pretty, and I apparently resemble my grandmother quite a bit, I don’t feel like her beauty was passed down to me particularly. I’m definitely not tall and slender!

I never felt like I had much of an opportunity to know her either. By the time I was old enough to really begin building a relationship, she had begun to decline mentally to dementia. During my sixth-grade year, my sister and I went to visit her in Queensland while on one of our school breaks. I remember it was the first time I read Looking For Alibrandi. Not sure why that sticks with me. But I also recall her telling me stories of her life repetitiously. I didn’t understand why she didn’t remember that she told me the stories already.

During my mid-teens, her mental state had declined to a point where my dad had to bring her down to Sydney and place her in a care home. Those visits were hard for me. I think as a teenager being faced with the reality of mortality and life on the decline is a hard pill to swallow. I found it upsetting to see her so frail, and she always seemed so surprised to see that we weren’t little children anymore. It was worse when she was surprised that her own son was a man in his forties.

My grandmother died the beginning of my eleventh grade year. The people who knew her were heartbroken and spoke of a warm, tender, and classy woman. A woman I never had the opportunity to know. However, over the years I have learned about the woman she was before her illness took her mind away.

A few years ago, my dad, with the assistance of his sister, compiled a biography for my grandmother. I keep it on my bookshelf and have read it and think about her life often, especially lately.

My grandmother’s father was an Irishman, and her mother English. Together, they carved out a farm from virgin bushland in Queensland, and were among the pioneers of my homeland. My grandmother’s early life I believe molded her and gave her the quiet strength she held throughout her life. When she was in her twenties, she joined the women’s force to support troops in WWII. It was during this time she met and married her first husband.

I remember once at the end of her life she mentioned seeing her first husband and being frightened. My dad had to explain to her that he hand long since passed, but this was the first time I had heard that she had married before my grandfather. Upon receiving her biography from my dad, I learned why this first husband was never talked about. At first, things were as they should be between a husband and wife, but slowly, he declined. He took to drinking and staying out late. When confronted, he became violent. My grandmother in her journal said that, “He began knocking me about, and that went from bad to worse, because if he hit me, I hit back.” She described having bruises, black eyes, and enduring threats. He would beg her forgiveness, and she would give it. She explained that, “my problem was I had no one to go to, no one to talk to…” Her experience and feelings of isolation is something I can completely relate to. There have been times while I have been in the temple that I have felt her near me, telling me that she knows exactly how I feel and lending me her strength.

Eventually, she discovered his affair and impregnation of another woman. That was enough for her. He had pushed too far. She left him.

Through my own experiences, I feel like I have grown closer to my grandmother since her death. Like her, I suffered from abuse. Not of the physical kind, but the emotional kind. I have no doubt she watched me, aching to intervene and help me escape. The problem was, I had no bruises or black eyes, so no one else could see it. Looking back, I believe she was at my side often, trying to help me remain strong and get through.

She was with me at the temple right before I discovered my husband’s affairs. She was one of several members of my family there promising to lend me their strength in the trial the Lord told me I was about to face. She knew what I would uncover, and she knew how painful it would feel. She has been one of the angels walking at my side throughout all of the wretched business I have had to endure.

My grandmother is a strong woman, and I wish I had known her better in life.

By the time I had hit my late teens, my surviving grandparents were my maternal ones. I had built a close relationship with them and felt a particular closeness to my maternal grandfather; my grandad. He had a beautiful English lilt to his voice, a tone I can still hear ringing in my memory to this day. My maternal grandparents were a little younger than my paternal grandparents, so while my grandmother had served in WWII, my grandad was a child in London. He was never evacuated during the time of the blitz. I believe he lived just outside of the evacuation zone. There is a story though of one night his mother insisted they all sleep downstairs together. That night, the streets were bombed, shaking the house. In the morning they found a fallen heavy beam resting upon my grandad’s bed. Without his mother’s keen intuition, he would have died.

As a young man post WWII, he join the British Navy. He had some great ghost stories from his time in the service, but I don’t remember them in enough detail to share here. During his time in the Navy, he was on shore leave in Goole, Yorkshire. It was there he met a pretty young lass whom he literally picked up on the street! That young woman would become my grandmother.

After he married and they had a child, they migrated to Australia. His first job was in the blast furnace area at the BHP, and from there he got a job with the dredge service on Newcastle Harbour for quite some time before becoming an ambulance driver, a profession my brother has now taken up.

When my mother was in her early teens, missionaries knocked on their door. The story goes that he was almost immediately converted. All my life I remember him having a strong testimony, one that never faltered. He was a beacon of faith for me.

When I was a teen, he was called to the Sydney temple presidency. Prior to being called, doctors had found some shadowing on his lungs. In hindsight, we know that was the first symptoms of mesothelioma, but upon getting the call, the shadowing vanished. Mesothelioma does not just vanish! However, the Lord blessed him with good health and strength as he served for several years in the temple presidency. During this time, I developed a deep love for the temple, and I believe it is directly because of his and my nana’s diligent service.

After his release, the shadowing returned and he was diagnosed. Mesothelioma is a fast acting illness, so he was given a year to live. My mother was quite distressed and worried for her parents. She and Dad talked often about what they could do. After going to a YSA convention over new years and becoming friends with people from their ward and stake, I had the distinct impression that I needed to move in with my grandparents and help them over the final months of my grandad’s life. I was nineteen.

Upon moving in, I arranged to go to TAFE and study travel and tourism nearby. At first, things seemed pretty normal. My grandad was his usual, warm, loving self. We talked about things while Nana fussed about in the kitchen or cleaning. Nana seemed to always be cleaning something! Grandad liked to do things with me, maybe a little more than usual. I signed up for a netball team and he enjoyed coming to watch me. He enjoyed talking with me, and I showed him how to use Google Earth to look at where he grew up and see how it looked nowadays. He would show me things like his sealing ledger and tried to show Nana about the budget and bills. She would always bury her head in the sand and walk away. She and I were both in denial about how serious his health problems were.

I settled in and made some amazing friends with the Young Single Adults in the ward and stake. I truly feel I was blessed with some of the most amazing people and wonderful friends at that moment because of what was to come. To this day, even though I don’t see her often, one of the girls in particular I call one of my best friends. When we see each other, it’s like we’ve never been apart. The families in the ward also welcomed me with arms wide open. I slotted in easily, and for a while I was so happy.

During this time, my friend from my time as an exchange student got engaged. So, I arranged to go to her wedding back in the U.S. and my mum wanted to come with me.

Unfortunately, Grandad’s health declined. I came home one day from TAFE to find an ambulance in the driveway. I had never been more frightened. They took my grandad to the hospital, leaving me with my irate nana. I had to do something, but since I was still quite young and distressed myself, I struggled to pull myself together, but I did manage to send Nana off to the hospital after him.

He came home with an oxygen tank. I hated that thing. The noise it made set my nerves on edge. I would lie awake listening to it to make sure Grandad was still breathing.

The whole ordeal seemed to drive my nana to the edge as well. They had been married for more than fifty years by this point. They had celebrated their fiftieth wedding anniversary in 2002 when I was in year ten. My journal entry for the 14^th of April says that we had spent the weekend at their place and had a party at their favorite restaurant “with heaps of old people Nana and Grandad have known for ages.” They also had me sing, How Do I Live? By LeAnn Rimes. Now I can’t hear that song and not think about them. This was about four years after that anniversary, so my grandparents had been together for most of their lives. I can’t imagine how hard it was for her to watch him slipping away. I don’t blame her for it causing her distress.

Unfortunately, since I was the one in the house, I was served a heavy helping of misplaced frustration and anger. Nana would yell at me for everything and anything. I couldn’t do laundry right, but I needed to do my own laundry, except, I kept getting in the way so she would take over and do it for me anyway. My room was never clean enough. I never got home at the right time. I spent too much time with my friends. I wasn’t dating enough. I ate too little, but I ate too much and I was getting fat. I didn’t know which way was up or what exactly I needed to do, so we would end up fighting. It was upsetting for Grandad, and it broke my heart, but it got so bad I packed everything and left. I had nowhere to go, so with everything I owned crammed into my hatchback, I floated between two of my friends’ houses for the week. Finally, with the intervention of my parents, Grandad convinced me to come home.

Unfortunately, he was only getting worse. So while Nana struggled to help him, I struggled to watch him slowly dying. At nineteen, I was still basically a child in so many ways. It’s important to note that I had a close relationship with my grandad. I adored him. I always expected him to do my temple sealing when the time came, but here I was, watching him slip away and I had no marriage prospects. The worst part was, he really wanted to do my sealing too, but he knew he wasn’t going to have the chance. He had a book full of names of people he had done live sealings for, and he wanted to add my name to that list, but it would never happen. A lost dream is a shattering feeling.

Soon, he ended up needing to stay in the hospital. I found it hard to visit him there because, like with Grandma, facing mortality was a hard pill to swallow, and I definitely didn’t want to face his mortality. I didn’t want to even consider him being gone.

Being just me and Nana at home got rough. Her emotions were everywhere, worse than mine, and I could hardly deal with my own. We would fight and fight, then I’d feel guilty when she would hide in her room and cry. So, I would pray and write in my journal to help me find answers for what to do. The answer was always, “Keep going.”

The time came for Mum and I to head to the U.S. We talked to Grandad about leaving, and he wanted us to go. He knew it would make me happy. So I prayed and begged that he would stay alive for the few weeks we were gone.

On Friday, 18^th August 2006, I wrote: “Grandad died on Sunday here, Saturday in Arizona. It was the strangest feeling… we would have to leave for Australia asap. I was absolutely devastated. A huge jumble of feelings and thoughts overwhelmed me and I didn’t want to deal with Mum asking me what I wanted to do… All I could think of was that maybe I hadn’t had enough faith in my prayers or it was a slight setback…

“I… sat with Mum. We talked about the possibilities (for going back) When Dad called and told Mum Grandad had gone. My heart seemed to just shatter… I knew my grandad was gone and I wasn’t ready to leave that happy place for the harsh reality of everything that was soon to come.”

Grandad died while I was overseas. It made me question my faith and the strength of my prayers, but the reality is, when the Lord says it’s time, nothing can change that. I believe I was exactly where I needed to be when he passed. My host family brought me comfort and happiness, and the distance I needed from the reality of his death to be able to cope.

We flew home right away, and so the journal entries came once we had arrived back in Australia and I had returned to my grandparents’ home, this time, with the rest of my family too.

On Saturday the 19^th, I went to his viewing. My journal entry says, “It took me about ten minutes to even stand in the doorway, then another ten minutes to get close to him. I think it didn’t look like him at all. I cried a lot which was pretty embarrassing. That’s all I really want to say on the day except that I’m glad I got to see him one last time in this lifetime.”

Monday the 21^st was his funeral. Of the funeral, I said, “the whole thing was nice, but sad.” I had been asked to sing, because Grandad loved to hear me sing, but I couldn’t pull myself together enough to do it. I had sung at Grandma’s funeral and I had cried on and off through the whole song, so I knew I wouldn’t be able to get a single note out since I had been so much closer to Grandad.

Something that helped me get through was my friends. I said, “I was so glad (three of my friends) came. When (one friend) showed up, I burst into tears which was embarrassing.” Yes, I hate crying and I find it embarrassing even now if people see me do it.

It took time for Nana and I to settle, in a sense. On Sunday, 17^th September 2006 I wrote: “After church I had a meeting with Bishop at 1:30. We talked about how Nana is driving me nuts and I hated feeling the constant resentment toward her because she’s always putting me down. We also talked about how she isn’t coping and how she just paces up and down the house and cleans constantly and ceases to function like a normal human being anymore, and how every now and then she says she just wants to die because there’s nothing left for her, and the time she was pacing the house and startled calling out, “Where are you, Grandad?” and how that was really distressing.”

My bishop was perfect for me during that time. He listened and saw how hard it was for me, a teenager, to deal with my grief and my grandmother’s all at once. He gave me a blessing that reminded me to love my nana and serve her, even though it was hard to do with her grieving and taking it out on me.

It’s interesting because, upon reading what I wrote was said in the blessing, I felt that the blessings given then are repeated and are relevant to me now. They were:

·       I was blessed to feel relief from loneliness

·       The Lord is aware of the desires of my heart and wants me to be happy and have those desires.

·       Although Nana may not appreciate what I’m doing now, she will eventually, either in this life or the next.

The first two are things I have felt in the temple a great deal lately, so to find them in my journal entry from thirteen years ago was rather timely. The last one, well, Nana is still kicking and I love her so much. Although that time was hard for both of us and we struggled to be in the same space, I appreciate that time we had together. Our abrasive relationship rubbed the edges off and helped us love each other deeply. I don’t know if she appreciates all I did, but I know Grandad does, I have felt him tell me so from the other side of the veil. I was little more than a kid, barely an adult, and I had to deal with some very hard issues. I didn’t handle them perfectly, not even close, but I made it through with the help of wonderful friends, family, and a bishop who was put in at the right place and time. I can see that nothing and no one placed in my life at that time was a coincidence.

I still miss my grandad, but I feel him with me often, especially when I go to the temple. He loved the temple, so I have no doubt he enjoys visiting there with me. In fact, I heard his voice when I visited before I discovered my husband’s infidelity. When the Lord told me I had the strength to get through what was to come, I said I didn’t know if I did. And so He said, “Then let them share their strength.” Right away I felt four people around me. Three women, and then my grandad’s voice, clear as day with that English lilt said, “Katie, I’m here.” Yet again, I embarrassed myself by crying my eyes out. The way he spoke my name was exactly how I remembered it. I believe he was the one who spoke because I could recognize his voice anywhere. One of the others present was my grandmother, but I am still not sure who the other two women were. I think one was possibly my great-great grandmother Mary Ellen Monks. I have felt bonded to her for a while now. One day I will know, and that day I will hold them close and thank them for being with me through such heartbreaking times.

My time living with my grandparents came to a close at the end of 2006. I had finished my TAFE diploma and found a job back in Sydney. I would be moving back south and turning to a new chapter. Although the grief for my grandad would linger well into the following year, I knew he was happy.

I have come from so many strong and faithful people. I am proud of my ancestry, the Yorkshiremen, the Irish, the Londoners, the stoic, the pioneers, the migrants, the soldiers, and most importantly, the faithful. All have come to a place in me. I have a great lineage, and a heritage of steadfast faith to live up to. In those who have come before me I find a beacon of light to move forward. They are with me always, even if I cannot see them. They lend me their strength when I feel like I can’t fight another battle and lift me up when I feel like hope is lost. For some reason they are standing with me always and helping me push onward. In me, they find hope, and in them I find the courage to keep pressing on.

Chapter Four – The Exchange: Friends

Sunday, 9^th January, 2005: “Yesterday… I went out to a wrestling tournament. (Host sister) was there as the team manager… and (my friend) had gone too. (My friend) and I sat and watched the wrestling while (host sister) was down managing the team. At first, the sport seemed kinda nasty, but once I got used to the rules and things I got pretty into it. I couldn’t believe that even the skinniest guys had these enormous, muscular arms.”

My friend loves the story of this day to today. My accent was thick and everyone was curious about me. While we watched, we talked about how we played different sports in Australia which was why the wrestling came as so foreign to me.

She asked, “So, what sports do you play?”

I replied, “My favorite sport is netball.”

She stared at me for a moment, looking confused and said, “What was that?”

“Netball?” I replied, thinking she’d probably never heard of it. “It’s like basketball without a backboard and you don’t dribble the ball.”

“What’s it called again?” she asked.

So, I said netball again.

One of the wrestlers turned around and she asked him what he heard. I said again, “I play netball.”

He looked just as confused, but then lifted his shirt and said, “Like this?” and played with his nipple.

My friend burst out laughing and I realized; my accent made me sound to them like I was saying nipple! I was embarrassed, but laughed and repeated netball with an imitation American accent. They both laughed and now we have a great story to retell all these years later.

My friends during my time as an exchange student have to be the highlight of my time. Coming into a foreign country on my own after years of bullying and exclusion had me nervous, even frightened, to see how people would treat me, just me, without any preconceived notions of who I was. The only preconceived notion anyone held was that I was Australian. I soon found out that gave me serious cool points. However, it was me that drew my incredible friends to me.

I had prayed and prayed for a true best friend, and she was given to me. It’s only recently I learned how the Lord intervened to bring us together. This friend usually did her required P.E. class at the end of the day so she could go home to shower, but this semester she couldn’t swing a last period class and was stuck with the first hour. I was assigned P.E. first hour too. It was that class that created our friendship. Going through my journals, she is easily the most mentioned person. I talk about her just about every day. Not only did we have first hour together, but we sat together during lunch and often spent time together after school and on weekends. Even when she got her boyfriend, she dragged me along with them and although I was a third wheel, she never made me feel like a third wheel. Near the end of my time as an exchange student, we did a Tenth Kingdom marathon. I had never seen the Tenth Kingdom before, and I loved it! We saw lots of movies together as her sister worked at the local Harkins Theaters. She always had way too many free passes, so my friend and I used them. We even doubled for the school’s Sadie Hawkins dance. We did so much together, and even now we can talk for hours and not notice the time passing. She was and is the greatest answer to my young prayer for a true friend.

I had several other awesome friends from school too. Members and non-members of the church. My junior friend from my first and second periods was also fun. She was sassy and sarcastic and I loved it! Several of the sopranos from became my close friends too, and as I mentioned before, they didn’t let the fact I was a member of the church change their view of me. I loved that my non-member friends accepted me as I was.

During lunch, I sat with a huge group of kids ranging from sophomores to seniors. (The school didn’t have freshmen until a few years later.) We usually dragged several tables together just so we could play games and chat. However, I had several other friends who didn’t join this mass horde. They were quieter people, and my time with them was more often than not one-on-one.

One friend who was from my ward usually sat with a group of three or four. I met her while attending sports with my host sister. This friend also introduced me to her sister-in-law’s sister who was about a year older than me. I ended up having a great friendship with this girl. She lived in a townhouse in West Mesa and took me a couple of times to the YSA ward. That was weird. I enjoyed the time with her, but the looks I got in the ward made me uneasy. Serious meat market.

I also had a good friend whom I talked to mostly during seminary. She came from the other stake, so whenever I managed to get myself invited to their stake activities, I more often than not hung out with her. We had the most unusual debates about eighties music, and she taught me how to blow bubble gum bubbles. Yes, I was eighteen and never blown a bubble with bubble gum. She’s quieter too, but lighthearted and kind.

Another girl from seminary also befriended me. She was a bit more of a drama magnet. Her friendship with me came as hot and cold. One minute she would be all over me and spilling her guts about her life, the next she would practically ignore me as she focused in on, well, boys. She made my boy crazy look like a mild interest. For a large chunk of my time she had a boyfriend. He was about to leave on a mission and, according to her, she was madly in love with him. Unfortunately, her parents made it known they didn’t approve, and so, after a weekend with him, my day would be filled with her highs from being with him, then her lows because her parents told her to ditch him. I endured these times because when she was just herself, she was a wonderful person whom I enjoyed her company very much.

I had plenty of other friends too; a group of boys from choir who formed a band, people I didn’t share classes with but hung out with during lunch, kids from my stake who were also at the school, and kids who lived in my neighborhood and I hung out with after school and on the weekends. One of the boys from my neighborhood became a really good friend and I asked to be my date for the Sadie Hawkins. I’ve always liked him. He had this innocence about him that was adorable. I always respected his desire to keep himself on that course, and even after serving a mission in the deep south among Baptists who literally hate us, he remains to this day untainted in his optimistic innocence.

The kids in the neighborhood were also in my ward. Most of them were boys. I can only recall two teenage girls aside from my host sister and I that lived on the street. In fact, the ward’s youth was dominated by young men. In my age group of the eighteen-year-olds there was one other girl and six or seven boys. Coming from being the only one as the one boy from my ward left on his mission about the same time I left on exchange, having so many peers was exhilarating. I made friends with the younger boys who lived on the street too. Several were in lower grades, and even a few freshmen. They played games like football, basketball, and so forth, and they let me teach them some basics of cricket. Although, when they used their Beebe guns I avoided the street.

At church, I befriended a few girls too. There was the girl I mentioned earlier whom I met through my host sister at sports events. My other main female friend in the ward was a young convert. She and I both sang and she was studying to become a choir director. Which she would eventually succeed in and take over our high school’s choir. She was also engaged during this time. She and her fiancé were hilarious as she was all over him. I loved catching them kissing before going to classes. I was disappointed when I discovered their wedding day would be the day after I flew back to Australia.

My other major friends from church came through the avenue of Girls Camp. I was signed up as a Junior Staff with a large group of YSA girls, most of whom were eighteen like me. Four girls in particular I made close friendships with. One stayed in the bed beside me and talked in her sleep which was hilarious, but I enjoyed conversations with her while she was awake more. The other three were already a close trio. They lived in the eastern wards, so a bit separated from us and it also meant they went to a different high school. I think they had already graduated too. But, I enjoyed their company immensely. One night we had an overnight at our cabin mom’s house. We laid on a trampoline and stared up at the stars talking about what we hoped for and dreamed of for the future, including future husbands. Mostly, I remember feeling at peace with them. They showed me a natural, easy friendship which I had craved for many years.

As life goes on, I have lost contact with many of the friends I made as an exchange student. I went back to Australia, they went on missions, moved away, married, and continued on their lives. However, I will never forget the impact they had on my life. The friendships I made gave me strength and rebuilt my confidence. They helped me see who I am and know that who I am is enough. I don’t think any of them know how much they affected me and touched my heart.

However, I am incredibly grateful for the friends that have remained. My closest friend has stayed close to me, her friendship unyielding. One of the girls from Girls Camp has remained a steadfast friend all these years later, and she and I consolidated together during times of infertility. I’ve remained in touch with several others and enjoy seeing how they continue to progress through life. I was blessed with amazing friends, and I hope they know even just a little how much I have appreciated them for all these years.