Say More: At Last She Writes It

No. 11 | March 2024

photo by Blakelee Ellis

Alta Mesa Stake Center

by Rachel

I looked around this room and remembered all the times I wanted to die. 

This room wasn't filled with faith, hope, and charity. It was filled with shame, blame, and self-loathing.  

I felt that I could never succeed. 

Whatever I did, it would never be enough. 

I could never measure up. 

Each Sunday I sat in the pews and a darkness would envelope me, showing me everything in my life that I should have done better. My mistakes would haunt me over and over. 

I should repent more; I should be more Christ-like; I should serve more. There was always more I should do, always more to blame myself for. 

I would never measure up. 

Half my life ago, I sat in those pews as a teenager and wished for death because I thought my life would never be good enough.

I pleaded with God to take me from this world, because I sure as hell couldn't do it myself. Only He could have taken me from this world. I wanted Him to do it so badly. I felt like I didn't deserve to live. I was too unworthy. 

I could never measure up. 

I wish I could go back in time and take myself by the hand, remove myself from those pews where I thought about dying, and tell myself, 

"No, you wouldn't have ever measured up to their standards because they are IMPOSSIBLE."

"You're an inherently good person and you should have never been made to feel bad about being human, about making mistakes, about doing your best at your absolute lowest."

"You will always measure up."

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