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When I left you last, I had just been baptized and was entering into what I thought would be a promising relationship. Now, fast forward about six years. Clay was now my soon-to-be ex-husband. Ford, the one son from our marriage, was now officially in his grandparents custody. I was living on my own, with little (positive) contact from friends and family and was wondering how I was going to handle this. I decided to turn to my faith. I had not forgotten about the Church, though my faith had gotten a little dusty on a shelf in my mind. There hadn’t been much religious observance in my marriage. Mostly because Clay just wasn’t that into it and I didn’t want to rock the boat. Clay was prone to abrupt outbursts of anger when things didn’t go his way. But now that I was on my own, I could choose my own path. I began my journey back into the gospel by paying a full tithing. This turned out to be very beneficial. On my small income I was able to afford all of the things that needed for my newly found apartment. My next move would be to start attending church on a regular basis. I didn’t know what to expect going back to church, but it couldn’t be that bad. After all, paying tithing had worked out well. When I went to church that first week, I filled out a paper with my address and phone number for church records, standard procedure when you move into a new ward. What happened next was not. I received a phone call about two days later. “Hello,” an elderly man's voice said, “This is… from the ward. I’m calling to get some information from you.” “Okay,” I answered. “You moved to… correct?” “Yes.” “And what about [the former tenant], is he still there?” “No,” I answered. I thought that much would be obvious, “He went to jail.” “Oh, I see,” the man answered in a voice that, in hindsight, sounded suspicious. At the time, my autism was acting up and I wasn’t picking up on this subtle social cue. I was only comprehending the words as I heard them. “But you are there now?” “Yes,” I said. What was this guy's problem? Of course I lived here. “Oh, okay,” the man said in a clipped tone. In a similar tone he thanked me and got off the phone. Later on, it occurred to me that the former tenant was most likely on the record as still living there and it looked like I had moved in with him. To most people, this wouldn’t seem like a problem, but living together without being married is highly frowned upon in the church. Three weeks later, I went to church as I had been, trying to forget about that awkward phone call. That was until I got another phone call that made things even more uncomfortable. About half way through Sacrament meeting, my phone vibrated with a text message from my sister, Cyndi. I kind of shrugged it off; I could call her back after church. Then I got another message: “We have to talk.” Somewhat annoyed, I sent Cyndi a message back saying that I was in church and would call later. I thought that would surely solve the issue. To my surprise, I got another message. Then another and another, all insisting that I had to call Cyndi back. After about four of these messages, a woman in front of me turned and looked at me as if I were some kind of terrible hoodlum. Frustrated and thoroughly embarrassed, I left the chapel and went outside to call my sister. It turned out that my step-mother, Carol, had insisted on speaking to me. Why she couldn't call me herself, I do not know. So I called her. It turned out all Carol really wanted to do was to yell at me about how I already knew about my soon to be ex’s difficult disposition and other “issues” before I married him. After I hung up the phone, I walked home, too abashed by the whole thing to return to church. A few weeks later, I went to visit the Bishop. I can’t quite remember why, but I do remember the reception that I got. I wasn’t sure how to go about things, but the church bulletin said that the Bishop had open hours on Tuesday evenings. When I arrived at the church the following Tuesday, I was incredibly anxious. I had never met with a bishop before and didn’t know what to expect. When I walked in I could hear a group of boys playing basketball in the cultural hall (basically a multipurpose room with a gym floor) down the hall. I saw other groups going to and fro. The mix of noise and people only added to my anxiety. On top of it all, I couldn’t find the bishop’s office. When I finally stopped and asked someone where it was, I was nearly panicking. The man I asked seemed to take no notice of my state of mind. “The Bishop is busy,” he said, as if he were speaking to a petulant child. “You need to make an appointment to see him. And you need to dress,” he proceeded to pull on his suit jacket, as if I had no understanding of English, “appropriately.” (At the time I was wearing jeans and a t-shirt.) I left feeling downtrodden. Not so much because I didn’t get to visit with the bishop, but because of the way I had been treated. I was beginning to feel as if I weren't really wanted in this congregation. Next Sunday, I felt uncomfortable going back to church. With every negative experience I had, I felt less and less welcome. The ward members hadn’t exactly jumped at the chance to fellowship me and now some of them almost seemed hostile. But that wasn't why I was there. I was there because I believed in the doctrine of Jesus Christ and that this was his church, regardless of how others treated me. I went ahead to church that Sunday and the next and the next. After all, I was going to church for myself and God, not them. Eventually I would move out of this ward and into a wonderful and accepting one. I would rent a mother-in-law apartment from an LDS family. I felt welcomed and comfortable exploring my rediscovered faith with them. I won't say this is the happy ending of my story. It wasn't. But it helped me along the way to reach a point where I could grow into a better, more fulfilled person. It helped me to realize the fullness of my faith that I enjoy today.

Not long ago, I was struggling to find peace. I was dealing with angry thoughts and feelings directed at an episode of domestic violence that I thought I had moved past. It happened in 2019. I don’t want to go into detail except to say it was severe enough that the police were called and my husband, Josh, was taken to jail. Several months later he was released from jail and put on probation. A restraining order was issued, and Josh moved to another city. Later on, I would learn that my husband had violated his probation and was sent to prison. At a loss for what to do, I decided to look more closely into the feelings I was having. Several years ago, I took a class called Dialectical Behavioral Therapy or DBT. Among other things, DBT teaches about emotions and how to identify and deal with them. From what I had learned in DBT, I knew that anger was a secondary emotion. That it could be caused by fear, frustration, loss, and/or guilt among other things. I had definitely experienced all of these things while dealing with my husband's assault, but I thought I had moved past them when I had forgiven him. Then one morning I was thinking about this problem, and I was prompted by the Spirit to look up “survivors guilt.” I typed the words into my phone. The first result turned up with the following: “Survivor's guilt is a response to an event in which someone else experienced loss, but you did not. While the name implies this to be a response to the loss of life, it could also be the loss of property, health, identity or a number of other things that are important to people.” (1) At first it didn’t make any sense. I was the one who had experienced a loss. But as I pondered on it a bit more, the Spirit helped me to realize that my husband had also experienced a loss. He had lost his freedom and I had not. Was I feeling guilty because my husband was in prison while I was free? Was that guilt turning into anger? Sitting down to think about that night and what had happened, my mind began to wander down a path of questions. If I hadn't pressed charges, would he be where he was at? If I had done something different on that night, would he have gone to jail? After all, he was struggling, and we had had a pretty big fight. Immediately I had to stop myself; these questions were not helping me. However, they led me to the truth. I did feel guilty because my husband was in prison. Not only that, but I felt partially responsible. But how was I going to deal with these kinds of thoughts and feelings? I knew the first thing I had to do was look at the truth behind what had happened. Even though Josh had been struggling at the time, he still had his own choices to make. He was the one to make the decision to do what he had done. He also made a choice when he violated his probation. I was not responsible for his actions or the consequences of them. What I had done, I had done to protect myself. And yet I still felt guilty. I knew in my mind that I deserved safety as much as anyone else, but that’s not how I felt. When I went to speak to my therapist about this, he reminded me of something else I had been taught in DBT. Feelings aren’t facts. This teaching had become long buried in everything else going on. Just because you feel a certain way about something, doesn’t automatically mean that’s what is actually happening. Just because I felt partially responsible for Josh being in prison, didn’t mean that I was. At this point, I realized that I needed to accept the truth of what I was experiencing. That I had done nothing wrong, and that Josh was now experiencing the consequences of his actions. Although I am still learning to accept this, I have escaped the majority of the feelings of anger and guilt that used to hang over me. I now live my life with a healthier mindset. (1) Unknown. “Understanding Survivor’s Guilt; Learning How to Deal with Survivor’s Guilt.” Centerstone, 9 May 2023, centerstone.org/our-resources/health-wellness/understanding-survivors-guilt/. Emphasis added.

Recently, I was thinking about my days in elementary school.  I had a whole host of complications at that time including problems walking long distances, difficulties in math, and a need for both speech and physical therapy.  I also had a significant overbite.  These things, among others, led to me being bullied.  Thinking about these things, I began to think of what I might have said to myself at that age. For this reason, I decided to write a letter to myself in elementary school.  I was surprised at the amount of personal growth that I found.  If you haven’t already, it is something I would definitely recommend that you try. Dear younger self, I know that elementary school may seem impossible today but let me tell you something.  You will make it through, and it will get better.  No, I have not forgotten what elementary school was like.  I remember being picked up in the mornings on that dreaded short bus.  I know the doctor said that we couldn’t walk long distances, but Mom wouldn’t even let us walk to a regular bus stop.  Because we couldn’t afford a car, she had us taken to school on the bus that picked up all the kids with intellectual disabilities. I remember just how embarrassing it all was. If I can give you one bit of advice, it would be this: don’t worry about it.  As you get older, you will understand that what other people think of you doesn’t really amount to that much.  People are going to make assumptions about you throughout your life, based on everything from your disabilities to your religion, to your parenting choices. The thing is that these assumptions rarely have much effect on you.  Learn to stop worrying about them now. As for the kids on the bus themselves, they are some of the kindest, gentlest, and most pure souls heaven has to offer.  It won’t hurt you at all to spend some time in their presence. Then there was the ever dreaded special ed math class.  I remember walking down the hallway to the special ed room, the whole time praying that no one sees us.  Not that it would make much difference either way. There was that giant corkboard with bright yellow paper on it just outside of the classroom.  It had everyone in special ed’s names on it in two-inch-high letters.  I’ll give it to you, that was mortifying. Now as for the special ed itself, unfortunately you need to be there for right now.  Not forever, just right now. But it’s not because you’re stupid. You are in advanced reading for goodness sake, so please don’t think that.  You just struggle with math for now.  Eventually, we’ll become pretty comfortable with it. But this isn’t the only reason you are in special ed.   It’s also where you receive speech and physical therapy, something that you need.  Why they couldn't do that outside of the special ed classroom, I don't know.  Just hold on a little while longer; you’re out of special ed by the time elementary school is over. And of course, the struggles don’t end there.  There’s the overbite and the weird haircut that Mom insisted on.  Not to mention that you have always been your own person (by the way, hold on to that) and didn’t always act like the other kids.  Combine everything else with this and it’s a recipe for disaster.  Some kids pick on you and everyone else seems to misunderstand you.  Some kids just think you’re a little bit weird.  Others think you are full on mentally retarded. Let me tell you something now that a wise woman will tell us in the future: “Some people just won’t get it.” Why?  Because people often take shortcuts with their thinking.  They see certain things (the short bus, special ed, physical deformities, acting differently) and draw conclusions from that.  They also ignore things that negate the ideas that they have (advanced reading, spending most of the day outside of the special ed class). I promise you that anyone who gets to know you doesn't think these things about you.  Don’t let what other people assume about you change how you think or feel about yourself.  And just as an FYI, in the future the overbite will be corrected, and you will choose your own hair style. As for bullies, you are going to run into them throughout your life.  Even in places where you would think people would act like adults, like work and church.  I know it doesn’t seem like it now, but bullying behavior will bother you less and less overtime.  You will eventually react with a mixture of humor and pity.  Like you can’t decide if you think it’s funny or sad that some people never outgrew seventh grade behavior. I’m not going to lie to you, life isn’t easy. But you will get through it.  What you are experiencing now will make you stronger and more adaptable in the future.  As you grow older you will begin to experience life and your troubles differently.  Specifically – through learned skills and life lessons –how to be more understanding and patient with yourself and others.  You will also join a church that will leave you confident that there is a purpose in all this.  Until then, try to understand that you are not any less because of what anyone else may say or think about you.  You will get through this or I wouldn't be writing to you today.

It was a Friday morning and I had way too much going on in my head. My relationship with Ford seemed to be slipping away. Now that he is older, he doesn’t want so much “mom time.” And most of our conversations seemed so mundane. But this wasn’t my only relationship problem. It felt like I didn't have anyone to talk to. I was starting to wonder if anyone had ever really liked me to begin with. From there, my thoughts just continued down the rabbit hole. If no one liked me, how could I do my job? At that time, I worked as a Peer Support Specialist and one of my main duties was to be a mentor for others with mental illness receiving treatment where I worked. But who was going to want to take life advice from someone they don’t respect. Why would they? I can’t even get my own life together. On top of that, over the past couple of days I had developed a nasty sore throat and a cough. I had already taken a home COVID test that had come back negative. But when I checked my temperature and saw I was running a fever, I decided to see a doctor. The doctor gave me a once over and asked me how long my symptoms had been going on. When I told him for a few days, he sighed, “We’ve been seeing a lot of false negatives on home tests. Just take it as if it’s the real thing. Go home, isolate for a few days, and rest.” When Sunday came around, I was feeling better physically, but I was still feeling upset. I thought that finally being able to leave the house might make me feel better. If I counted from the day my symptoms had first started, my five-day quarantine period was over, and I could go to church. But as I put my shoes on, I had a strong feeling that I should stay home. What's one more day? I thought, suppressing an eye roll. So, I put on tennis shoes and connected to the Zoom link for church. As the grainy feed came up, I noticed an older man sitting beside the bishop and his councilors. He seemed familiar, but with the angle of the camera, I couldn't tell who he was. However, he seemed to carry a strong presence, even though the computer screen. Weird, I thought. As the prelude music faded, the bishop's first councilor, who I will call Brother Linwood, came up to the mike. He seemed nervous, unusual for someone who speaks to the congregation regularly. After a customary greeting, he said, “I will be conducting this meeting and Elder Dale G Runlund of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles who is seated on the stand with me,” he indicated the elderly man at the end of the row, “will be presiding.” What? A visit from an apostle is a rare occurrence, and when it does happen, it is usually announced ahead of time. (I later found out that Elder Runlund was in town for one of the many festivals we have here every year.) I let out a disgruntled sigh. Well, at least I won't give Elder Runlund COVID, I thought. “We will be blessing my daughter today,” Brother Linwood continued. He invited the men forward who had been asked to participate in the blessing, then walked off camera to gather his infant child. I wondered if Elder Runlund would be asked to take part as I watched the other men file past the camera. After a moment, I saw Elder Runlund, lean forward, nod and walk after them. That would have been a sight to see, I thought as I listened to the prayer. Brother Linwood came forward again, wiping at his eyes. He announced the sacrament hymn and as the music began, the screen went black. (The sacrament [what we call communion] is considered sacred and is not to be recorded.) The quiet moment gave me some time to write down what had happened. I can compare notes with Ford later, I thought. Maybe he will pass the sacrament to Elder Renulnd. That would be something to talk about. Then it occurred to me, this is just what we needed. Here is an opportunity to talk to Ford about something real and important. Instead of laughing with him at the antics of a YouTuber or passively watching him build things in Minecraft, we can have a worthwhile conversation. About this time, I heard Brother Linwood’s voice again, “It is now time for the sharing of testimonies.” The screen had come back on, and the councilor was at the stand. “I would like to start by bearing my testimony. I knew that my daughter would be blessed this morning, and that made me nervous. Then when I heard who might be coming to Sacrament meeting…” there was an awkward pause where you could almost hear ecclesiastical leader gulp, “and anyway…” He went on to speak about his own witness of Jesus Christ as the son of God and His redeeming mission here on Earth. At the end of his remarks, he invited others in the congregation to share their testimonies. “At the end of the hour,” he said, “Elder Runlund will speak to us.” Brother Linwood’s wife was the first person to come to the podium. “I would like to say how grateful I am to be here and in this wonderful ward…” That's easy for you to say, I thought. People actually like you. She went on to speak about how her neighbors had been helpful and kind. I was ready to make another snarky comment to myself when the Spirit spoke to me, what have people here done for you? So instead, I sat back and thought about it. It didn’t take me long toI remember when a woman had given me a hug when I was having a panic attack. I recalled how the bishoprick had given me $100 out of the blue last Christmas when I had missed a great deal of work due to illness and didn’t know how I would get through the month. Lastly, I thought of how Eric and Iris not only took in Ford but have adopted me as a full member of their family. There really are people who care about me, I thought. The next speaker was a girl in her teens. "I'm so grateful that I got to go to Girls Camp this year…" Most congregations throughout the Church hold annual camping trips, one for teen boys and one for teen girls. The camping trips are a time for teens and their leaders to spend time together and discuss spiritual things. Activities are always at the heart of these events. The young lady at the stand described an activity where the girls were blindfolded and tasked with following a string, tied between two trees, from one end to the other. The girls had to start out on their own, but through prayer and with the help of their leaders, they were all able to find their way. The exercise was meant to symbolize our journey through life and how we need both prayer and the help others to get though, but what most stood out to me was the role of the leaders. Because the girls were blindfolded and the leaders could see, the girls needed the leaders to help them find their way. Right then, I was reminded of my job at the time. I was responsible for helping others with mental health challenges to find their way to a happy and successful life. And the thing that most qualified me for my job is being a person living well with mental illness. I was able to help others along because I can see the steps along the way to a healthy life. At that moment, I understood that I really was needed at my job. (Although I no longer work at this job, I consider this blog to be an extension of this type of guidance.) As the testimonies continued, relief and gratitude replaced anger, loneliness, and frustration. I may have missed this opportunity to meet Elder Runlund, but I gained answers to the problems I had been experiencing. As the last member sat down, Elder Runlund took the stand. He extended greetings from President Nelson before he went on to comment on the baby blessing. He said it reminded him of a French lullaby and how it was meant to reassure children about the love of their Heavenly Parents. I couldn’t help but think about how I had been comforted and reassured. That in the way that I have established a relationship with my Heavenly Father, that I could establish a relationship with my son. That I not only had God’s love with me, but also the love of others around me. At that moment, I was given an impression that reaffirmed that I was needed. Not just at my work, but also in the Church. That I was to stay home that day to record what was happening. If I had been in church, I would have been too distracted by the situation at hand, and no doubt Ford's questions, to write anything down. Elder Runlund also assured us that “Jesus Christ leads and directs this Church.” As he bore his testimony of the Savior, I understood that my life was full and had more meaning and purpose in it than I had known before. That although I had missed Elder Renulnd, that I had gained a greater awareness of the significant parts of my life.

Work was done for the day, and it was time for me to visit my son. (Because I still struggle with my mental illness, my son lives with his grandparents.) I took about two steps into the house, and eleven-year-old Ford – as I will call him – shouted, “I want to draw today.” We stepped into the back room, where his laptop and table were already set up. Sitting down with an online drawing tutorial is something Ford and I love to do together. Most tutorials have been fun, but occasionally we have find one that’s truly complicated. Something with so many steps, shapes and squiggly lines that it’s hard to get it to turn out right. Those aren’t so fun. As we sat down, Ford says, “I want to draw a dragon.” Really? I thought as Ford searched for the perfect subject. I recalled my “fantasy drawing” stage as a teenager. Dragons were especially hard. Hours of work trying to get the wings and teeth just right only to meet my Waterloo. But we’ll have a tutorial, I thought, Usually those work out okay. Usually. “This one’s super cool,” Ford said as he found an image. And indeed it was a majestic, “super-cool” dragon. A burly beast perfectly capturing the essence of its kind. It was also really complicated. Said tutorial had about eighty-seven steps and pages of written instructions. I took a deep breath. Here we go. Ford and I started marking on our pages. Circles, squares, triangles, and other odd lines. They didn’t look like much, but we persevered. Ford occasionally looked over at my page saying, “Yours looks better than mine,” in the accusatory tone that only a preteen can pull off. I looked at his page and saw similar squiggles, created with a slightly less steady hand. “Not really,” I said. Ford sighed and went back to his artwork. Continuing to put lines down, we didn’t see much improvement. Are those claws or scales? I thought, looking at my artwork, Should a tail bend that way or is that just the back leg? Would someone please tell me how a circle, some triangles and bunch of lines are supposed to make a wing? About half-way through the tutorial and my page contained a Christmas ham surrounded by snakes and some circle-triangle wings. How? Just how?  Adding more lines didn’t seem to help. At this point, I was ready to give up, but Ford was still working on his project. It’s not like a few more scribbles are going to hurt anything, I thought, lets just get this over with.  I was about to add another set of triangles to the back when Ford said, “Mom, let's just draw our own dragons.” Oh what solace those words gave. Our dragons didn’t look anything like our original target, but this time we enjoyed drawing. As we drew we joked, comparing our disastrous first attempts. We laughed at all of our dragons’ distorted features and confusing lines. At the things we couldn’t make out and even more at the things we could. You could say that following this tutorial turned out to be a failure. And in the strictest sense it was; we learned absolutely nothing about drawing dragons. Yet our shortcomings taught us something about how we can benefit from failure and let it led us in a positive direction. Failure means you are trying. I have no less than 200 hokey inspirational quote memes on my phone. I use them as wallpaper, thinking they might help me when I’m depressed. And to meme makers credit, sometimes they do. One of them says that mistakes are proof that you are trying. And when I’m not currently screwing up spectacularly, I think this is wonderful advice. When you refuse to try something, you walk away with nothing. You don’t have the chance to fail or get it right. Giving yourself that chance allows for growth. Ford and I may have flunked the tutorial, but we gained an understanding of our skill level. And with that knowledge, we decided to go with something simpler first, dragons from our own imagination. Failures don’t mean you give up. Have you ever actually been good at something challenging on the first try? Made an intricate clay vase the first time you sat at a potter's wheel? Played a symphony piece the first time you sat at a piano? Tried something from Pinterest that wasn’t a complete train wreck? Me neither. When Ford decided he wanted to draw a dragon, we didn’t understand how complicated the tutorial would be. So we tried something simpler. At the same time, we were able to laugh at our mistakes. Some failures are good for a laugh No one is perfect and there is no better proof of this than the internet. Remember what I said a minute ago about Pinterest? Try looking up “Pinterest fails.” If you have returned, I trust you have had a good laugh and congratulate you on your resolve to finish reading this second-rate blog post. Being able to laugh at our non-accomplishments helps with the anxiety that mistakes can create. After all, failing isn’t fun. Both Ford and I were upset by how poorly our work was coming along. But afterward, we found humor in our piteous first attempts. Sometimes we just fail. Even with the tutorial’s instructions, Ford and I ended up with a hot mess. Nevertheless, we decided to try something a little simpler. And in the end, we were able to laugh it off. We tried, we failed, and we had fun.

Why do I have to be the staff right now? I thought, I want to go back to being the client. Standing outside of the hospital, I knew I had to go in. But I didn’t want to. This is your job, and it isn’t even that hard, I thought. Just go in, get them and take them home. By the time it’s over, it should be time for you to go too. Going home. That sounded wonderful. At home I was only dealing with my own emotional issues and not trying to help others with theirs. As a Peer Support Specialist, I was expected to have all of the right skills and confidence to help others deal with their mental illness’. But I hadn’t had either of those things for a while now. I took a deep breath and walked through the automatic doors. I was the only person available to get the client at the moment, so I had to go through with it. It’s my job, I reminded myself, and it’s not hard. After dropping the client off, I didn’t feel the relief I had expected. Even knowing that I would soon get to spend time with my son, who I will call Ford, didn’t help me feel better. This is when I pulled over and cried. I couldn’t help it; the tears just came. And they kept coming, nonstop, for at least five minutes. The doctor and I had been long aware that my psychotropic medication was not working properly, if at all. And changes I had made to diet and exercise habits were not doing enough on their own. I knew I was sick, but I still had a job to do. * * * Two weeks had gone by, and I hadn’t gotten any better. In fact, my symptoms had gotten worse. But I refused to call in, seeing as we were short staffed. I had legitimately begun to believe that this job was more important than me and was my only real use in life. I won’t get into what happened next. I will only say that it took me being in full blown crisis to understand how much help I really needed. That evening, I was taken by ambulance 200 miles away to a behavioral medicine unit. The unit was a living hell for me. It seemed like everything there triggered one horrible memory after another. The rooms, the people, even what was on the television. I lived in constant fright for those four days. It was bad enough that after the doctor found what he believed to be a suitable cocktail of antipsychotics and sleep meds, I all but demanded release. I bought a bus ticket online and waited for over an hour in a dangerous area of town (a harrowing story all on its own) to be taken back to the town where I live. But arriving at home didn’t mean that I was well. Far from it. For a few weeks I experienced psychosomatic illness that again, I won’t get into. Let’s just say that I took two weeks for my doctor to convince me that the illness had no physical cause. They also suggested that my job (that I still hadn’t returned to) was behind it. I want to say that I was taken aback and thought there was absolutely no way this could be true. Emphasis on “want to say.” But I knew it was. Even before my medication stopped working properly, it was a hard job. I felt like I had to have all the answers, all the time, for everyone. And thanks to my Autism and daily increasing anxiety, my social skills were simply not cutting it. As much as I wanted to be a support in every way possible, it just wasn’t happening. The following week, I officially quit my job. The next day I was left to think, What do I do now?  Peer Support has been a passion of mine for years, even through my crappy execution of it. While thus in thought, I was reminded of something. It was back when I had first decided that I wanted to make a blog and was considering getting Peer Support Specialist training. The voice of the Spirit had clearly said to me, You can only reach a few people as a Peer Support Specialist, but with a blog you can reach many more. So there it is, my golden invitation. This is why I need to do this blog, so I can continue on in the work that I love to do, but in a sustainable way. By proving a glimpse of my mental health journey online through the lens of faith. * * * This is the story of “Of Peers and Parables.” It’s a blog using my own life experiences to teach about mental health issues and gospel principles. Sometimes together, sometimes separately. I hope I will see you back for my next post.