Religious Upbringing
I was a very religious child. Until it was deemed an offensive term, I was occasionally called “Molly Mormon” or “Peter Priesthood.” Interestingly, the nickname shifted from innocent to offensive because of the word “Mormon,” rather than the commentary on my personality, but that’s neither here nor there.
Primary
From as early as four years old, I was encouraged to share my testimony in Primary and Scout meetings. Despite not fully understanding what I was saying, I recited the familiar lines: “I know the church is true”, “I know Heavenly Father loves me,” and so on. In church meetings, we sang songs that emphasized my belonging to the church, my future role as a father, and the infallibility of prophets. Even before I knew what a mission was, I sang about my hopes of being called on one. I loved singing and dancing to the primary songs; I recently found a home video of my three-year-old self belting “Follow the Prophet” at the top of my lungs.
After I turned seven, the adults in my life became concerned about my upcoming baptism. My parents worked to help me understand the importance of what I was doing. However, given the somewhat complex theological concepts involved, I’m not sure I truly comprehended the full weight of that decision.
I learned that I would be held accountable for my sins starting the day I turned eight. I remember secretly hoping I would die before by birthday so I would never have to worry about sinning. The night before my birthday, I laid awake, staring at the clock until midnight. I prayed fervently for God’s help to avoid committing any sins now that I would be accountable for them. The following day, I was baptized, and my awareness of all of my sins amplified.
Priesthood
When I turned 12, someone from church visited our home to explain that I would soon be ordained as a deacon. They provided me with a laminated map of the chapel and instructions on how to properly pass the sacrament. They told me about my expected duty to collect fast offerings, going door-to-door on the first Sunday of each month. Shortly after, I was officially ordained and began participating in these responsibilities.
I remember receiving praise for making the decision to receive the priesthood. However, I don’t recall ever making that decision – it simply seemed to be an expectation that came with growing up.
Several months later, we moved to a new ward just a few blocks away. In the first Sunday School lesson in the new ward, I learned more about the significance of the priesthood I had received. I was told that when I passed the sacrament or collected fast offerings, I was acting in God’s name, as if Jesus himself were performing those duties. The priesthood I received at 12 years old gave me more authority in the church than any woman could ever have.
In the new ward, I started receiving calls to meet with the bishop for interviews. I was always instructed to attend these meetings alone. I felt confused years later when the church began allowing parents to join. These interviews typically began with casual questions about my life – how was school going, what were my hobbies, and so on.
At my first worthiness interview at age 12, the bishop explained that I could now enter the temple to participate in baptisms for the dead, something I hadn’t heard about before. He said he needed to sign a recommend for me, but he first had to interview me. He began reading the series of standard interview questions from a huge binder.
Some of the questions, like my belief in God, Joseph Smith, and the current prophet, were ones I hadn’t fully figured out yet. But I could sense the “right” answers he was looking for, so I simply said what I thought he wanted to hear, not wanting to disappoint anyone by being the only young man who couldn’t go on the temple trip.
The bishop asked whether I obeyed the law of chastity. He asked if I understood what that meant, and when I responded that it meant staying pure (that was the only explanation I had heard on the matter), he told me not to worry – he could explain it to me. He explained that sometimes people take photos and videos of sexual activity and put it in a magazine or on the internet. At this point, my understanding of sexual activity was limited to the poster of things we weren’t allowed to do in the middle school hallway. He told me in a hushed voice that sometimes, people look at those photos and videos and do sexual activities with themselves.
He gave me a detailed description of the mechanics of masturbation, then informed me I was never to “abuse myself” in such a manner.
He told me he knew I didn’t have any problem with chastity because I was such a good kid, and he winked. I felt embarrassed for my lack of understanding, but there seemed to be no way to stop the conversation, and he was supposed to be a trusted adult, so I just nodded along while he explained.
After that initial interview, I was understandably reluctant to meet with the bishop again. However, I continued to sit through these interviews every six months, not wanting to be the only one excluded from temple trips with my peers.
Scouting
It was abundantly clear in every young men’s meeting that God wanted me to be an Eagle Scout. I tried to be a good sport about scouting despite relentless teasing from fellow scouts and leaders. I hated Scouts with all my heart. But I put a smile on my face and went anyway since it was what God wanted, and I was told I’d never find a worthy wife if I wasn’t an Eagle Scout. I even got second-degree sunburns spending a week at a Scout Encampment because it was what Thomas Monson said to do. You can imagine my confusion when the church cut ties with the Boy Scouts.
I even went so far as to get second-degree sunburns during a week-long Scout Encampment, all because it was what then-prophet Thomas Monson had instructed us to do. You can imagine my confusion, then, when the church suddenly announced it was ending its longstanding relationship with the Boy Scouts of America program.
Looking back, I recognize the immense pressure I felt to conform to these rigid expectations, all in the name of pleasing God and securing my future. When I was young, impressionable, and disassociatively compliant, I perceived little choice but to participate fully, even when it meant enduring experiences I deeply disliked.
In hindsight, I wish my church had empowered me to pursue my own interests, rather than simply accepting its youth programs as divine commandments.
Mental Health
After I was baptized, I began to feel an overwhelming sense of shame, guilt, and anxiety every time I believed I sinned. Would Jesus have spilled some water from the sacrament tray? Would He have arrived at church a few minutes late? Would God Himself have laughed at an inappropriate joke? Yet, no one at church seemed to talk about feeling anxious or guilty. Instead, the constant refrain was about the guidance of the Holy Ghost, described as a divine conscience helping us discern right from wrong.
During my formative years, I became an expert at interpreting my own feelings of shame and guilt as direct inspiration from the Holy Spirit. I wasn’t just ashamed of myself – God Himself was ashamed of me.
When I reflect on my teenage experiences in the church, the dominant emotion that surfaces is fear. I was absolutely terrified of making any misstep or failing to be a perfect, Christlike example. I walked the halls of middle school in a constant state of anxiety, worried that hearing one too many curse words or off-color jokes would somehow corrupt me. I didn’t dare allow myself to develop even the slightest crush, as the church’s interpretations of scriptures like Matthew 5:28 and Alma 39:3-5 had convinced me that attraction was akin to the sin of murder, especially before I was allowed to go on (group) dates at 16 years old. It wasn’t until my 20s that I realized the anxious voice in my head was my own inner critic, not the Holy Ghost protecting me from sin.
Compounding these issues, I am autistic and introverted. I felt deeply ashamed every time I was asked to speak in sacrament meetings, participate in missionary activities, go home teaching, or lead class discussions. My peers and church leaders would use scriptures to imply that my struggles with social interaction meant I was a disappointment to God, my church community, and my family. I was regularly asked how I could possibly serve a mission if I couldn’t talk to people. Despite the church’s teachings of universal welcome, it became clear that I was only truly accepted if I could perform in the ways they expected.
I saw myself as one of God’s “factory seconds”, not the outgoing, charismatic leader that the straight, white men in the church were supposed to be. I was convinced I was letting God down at every turn. Looking back, I was one of the most privileged members of the church. I fall in nearly every majority group, I was raised in a middle-class family, and I came from generations of church members. And still, I didn’t feel welcome. I cannot imagine the harm this pervasive culture of perfection, guilt, and shame does to people who aren’t as lucky as I was, and I feel a great deal of remorse for the work I did to perpetuate a culture of exclusion.
As I advanced through the priesthood offices with each passing birthday, praise and support from family and church leaders only reinforced the notion that I was doing what was expected of me. When I turned 14 and became a home teacher, the prospect of sitting on someone’s couch, trying to make conversation with 30-year-old parents of four, filled me with dread. But because God Himself had commanded it, and out of fear of disappointing Him, my parents, and my church leaders, I went.
Called to Serve
The church had assumed I wanted to be baptized and receive the priesthood, and they similarly assumed I wanted to serve a mission.
I had been taught since primary that failing to serve a mission would disappoint my family and community and likely result in being berated or shunned by other church members. I was told I wouldn’t find a wife if I didn’t serve a mission, and I knew the young women in the church were taught to only date returned (with honor) missionaries.
I attended mission preparation classes and activities, but when I turned 18, I still felt unprepared. I had spent my whole life in the church, yet I still found its doctrine so convoluted that I couldn’t make sense of it. I had prayed for years about the Book of Mormon, Joseph Smith, and the truthfulness of the church, but I never felt anything. I determined God was holding off or I was not righteous enough to receive a response. If everyone around me said the church was true, it must be – I was likely the missing link.
At 17, I received a phone call from the ward secretary asking when I would like to meet with the bishop to start my mission paperwork. I was not given a chance to opt out of this meeting, and when I arrived, I learned my papers had already been started. I was given a list of tasks to complete along with deadlines, and told what date to set as my availability (July 1, to beat the summer rush and get home in time to start college in the fall).
My mission call arrived by mail about two weeks after I submitted my papers. My mom texted me about it while I was on a school trip; I’d have to wait a couple of days to open it. I couldn’t eat or sleep. I brushed off the feeling as excitement, but I was terrified. I had spent years hearing I was too shy to be a good missionary, and that if I didn’t improve my social skills, I’d get eaten alive. I had also heard my dad talk about how stressful, exhausting, and abusive missions can be. But I felt I had no other choice – people who didn’t serve missions became social pariahs, and I was already on shaky ground socially. I didn’t want to be “Landon, the one who didn’t serve a mission”. If I wanted to marry a worthy woman, earn respect in the church, and be a decent father, I had to serve a mission.
When I finally opened the call, I was shaking so much I could barely get the letter opener into the envelope. There was a giant map of the world spread over the kitchen counter with circles where people predicted I would go. My parents set up the video camera to record the moment, and we later streamed an announcement on Facebook. Even now, my heart rate elevates and I start to sweat when I recall that experience. It has been the center of many nightmares since. In the moment, it was an exciting day, but it’s saddening that it was so thoroughly soiled by the trauma of the rest of my mission.
My mission call was the same template letter many of my friends received. God had supposedly told a church leader where I should live for the next two years – I was assigned to the Honduras Tegucigalpa mission. After some research, I learned it was statistically one of the most dangerous places in the world. I reached out to someone from my neighborhood who had recently returned from the same mission, seeking advice.
Her email was friendly and helpful, but it was terrifying. She mentioned that Honduran people are some of the kindest and most generous in the world, which I will readily attest to. But she also gave me some alarming advice. She hinted that missionaries often didn’t have enough money to eat properly. She said the missionary apartments were usually cheap and insecure, so I shouldn’t bring any valuables in case of break-ins. And she mentioned I should bring my own medications, as the ones supplied in the mission apartments were often out-of-stock or expired.
Into Adulthood
Of course, it would be unfair to view my religious upbringing in a strictly negative light. While I believe the church ultimately caused me more harm than good, I am grateful for the positive aspects it did provide. Through scouting, I learned the value of developing a diverse skillset. I also gained important interpersonal skills, including the surprisingly useful ability to teach a class or give a speech without much advance preparation. Additionally, my experiences taught me to be cautious when communicating with young people, as it is all too easy for an impressionable mind to internalize something that can cause needless shame, guilt, and long-lasting pain.
Mission
Content Warning
This section describes labor trafficking, imprisonment, abuse, and other serious and potentially triggering topics.
Please take good care of yourself, especially if you have survived similar experiences. Discretion is advised.
I don’t have many clear memories of the months leading up to my mission departure. I recall feeling a mix of nerves and excitement, but I had no real idea of what to expect. People had plenty of advice to offer. I was going to a dangerous place, so I needed to strictly obey the rules in order for God to protect me. If I felt homesick or had mental health challenges, I was to work harder until I felt better. I would likely have companions I didn’t get along with, but if we ever fought, I should polish his shoes for him. And if I ever found myself in a dangerous situation, I should bear my testimony or sing a hymn instead of fighting back.
Packing for the two-year mission was a daunting task. I had to fit everything I’d need into two 40-pound bags. We went to a store that had pre-made missionary supply packages, where I selected the color of my suit and they took care of the rest. I spent weeks staring at the contents, wondering how I would manage living out of those two bags.
As my departure date drew closer, my anxiety grew. I had no context to be able to explain my emotions to others, so I simply told people I was excited. My parents were especially supportive, considering I had no idea how to express that I was terrified. I thought, as a young man with God on my side, I shouldn’t be scared. The closest thing I’d heard to my feelings was a “sense of impending doom”—a heart attack symptom I read in the scouting handbook.
I think I worried my mom once when she asked how I was feeling, since I mentioned sometimes getting this ominous sensation. She asked if I was sure I still wanted to go, and looking back, I should have taken that opportunity to consider delaying. However, we had already purchased all my supplies and booked my plane ticket. Plus, I didn’t want to be seen as “Landon, the kid who stayed home from his mission at the last second” – I’d been taught to assume those who backed out had committed some grave sin that rendered them unworthy of service.
The MTC
On the fourth of July, I left for the Guatemala Missionary Training Center. My memories of that day are hazy, partially due to being in a disassociative state, and partially because I hadn’t slept well in the days before and after my flights.
I flew out of the Pocatello airport early in the morning. I felt awful, as my entire family was in tears seeing me off. Inwardly, I wanted to be anywhere else, but I felt compelled to hold it together and act confident. After all, I was now a missionary with God on my side.
When my plane arrived in Salt Lake, I had an 11-hour layover before my connecting flight to Los Angeles. I wandered the airport alone for about 8 of those hours. Just hours earlier, I had been set apart as a missionary. In church, I’d often heard that the Holy Spirit would help me know who to talk to, especially since my leaders had pointed out how shy I was. “Oh, but you’ll be fine. The Holy Ghost will help you talk to people,” tended to follow the relentless reminders I wasn’t outspoken enough for God.
Yet as I roamed the airport, I couldn’t muster the courage to proselytize. Even before reaching the Missionary Training Center, I felt like I had already failed at being a missionary. After giving up on talking to strangers, more missionaries arrived, and we exchanged our collective nervous energy. Realizing everyone else was nervous too made me feel slightly better about my own trepidation.
We eventually took our flights to Los Angeles and then to Guatemala City, arriving early the next morning. None of us had slept since the previous night.
Introductions
Upon clearing customs, we were met by a gentleman who instructed us to board his bus. As we rode to the MTC, we did some sleepy sightseeing out the windows, all of us increasingly intimidated by the fact that everything was in Spanish. It was sinking in that we wouldn’t understand much for a while.
When the bus arrived at the MTC, we were each handed a folder with an itinerary and told to take our bags to a classroom. We were then ushered single-file into a cafeteria, where we were served breakfast – scrambled eggs with nacho cheese sauce.
The MTC president walked along the line, shaking each of our hands. I overheard him telling one missionary that he could tell a lot about our character just from a handshake. He also instructed us that it would be rude to leave behind even a single bite of food, regardless of our appetite.
The president then informed us that we were never to leave the MTC building, and that he took pride in his strict policy of not sending missionaries home. He said the only ones he ever sent back “shouldn’t have come on a mission in the first place.”
A secretary followed the president, collecting our passports to be kept somewhere safe until we were ready to depart for our assignments.
My stomach was in knots. I felt there was no going back. I was committed to this mission, and I had to serve the full two years. I hadn’t eaten since Salt Lake, and didn’t want to be rude, so I tried a few bites of breakfast. But my body immediately rejected the concept of food, and I ran to the restroom to vomit. I later learned several other missionaries were in a similar predicament. We conspired to hide our uneaten food under our napkins and try eating again at lunch.
At the garbage can, I was confronted by the MTC president, who asked why I was acting ungrateful for the food. I explained that I felt sick, and he responded that he had originally sensed I would be a good missionary when he shook my hand. He warned me not to let him down.
Worthiness, Rules, and Consequences
After breakfast, we were sent upstairs for individual worthiness interviews. This struck me as strange, since we had all recently been interviewed by our bishops and stake presidents back home. We were told the purpose was to ensure we were “the kind of missionary they wanted to see” and to assign our companions for the next six weeks.
One of the MTC president’s counselors interviewed me. He had a much gentler presence than the president and was extremely friendly. He spoke relatively limited English, but he definitely knew English better than I knew Spanish. He showed me a photo of his own son, who was currently serving a mission, and asked about how my family was doing, which helped put me a bit more at ease.
The counselor then showed me a laminated page of interview questions and suggested it would be easier if I read them and provided the answers. Most were fairly standard, except one that asked if I had ever committed a serious sin, regardless of whether I had repented. I understood this to be inquiring mainly about any past sexual activity, which seemed odd to me, given my understanding that repentance erases sin. However, I figured they had their reasons, so I simply gave a thumbs up in response. “I know,” the counselor said.
After the interviews, we reconvened in the cafeteria, where the MTC president and his wife formally introduced themselves and explained the rules. I remember a few that struck me as interesting:
- Only one ice cream novelty was allowed per missionary at lunch and dinner.
- We were to be strictly obedient to our schedules. If we needed an exception due to illness, we were to ask the nurse for permission to stay in bed. We were not permitted to move freely within the MTC.
- Photos of the MTC interior were strictly forbidden.
- The entire building (including the dorms) was monitored by high-resolution cameras.
- We were not to walk around the dorms in our temple garments, as the president’s wife didn’t want to see young men in that state of undress on the security footage. Walking around in only a towel was preferred.
The president also informed us that the guards at the gate had been instructed not to allow us to leave the premises. We were not permitted to move freely through the halls. Our communication with family was limited to 30 minutes of monitored email per week – no phone calls or instant messaging allowed. We were told complaints should be brought to the Lord, not our families, and that any rule violations would result in “serious consequences,” which could mean a stern talking-to or even being sent home as “the missionary who got sent home for disobedience”.
Mission Preparation
At one point, a few mission presidents and their wives visited to meet their incoming missionaries. They shared the tragic news that one of their sister missionaries had recently passed away in an accident. They told us God protects missionaries, but we still needed to be very careful. They suggested the young woman’s death may have been a “tender mercy”, since she was feeling homesick.
A couple weeks into our training, a missionary in my group began experiencing serious mental health challenges. He asked the MTC president to be sent home, but was told the president would pray about it. Days later, the president called him into his office and said the Lord had decided he should not return home. The missionary then tearfully confided to us that he was experiencing suicidal thoughts. He decided to claim his girlfriend at home was pregnant in order to force the MTC’s hand and get sent home, which finally allowed him to leave.
Later, during a devotional video featuring Jeffrey Holland (if I recall, it was the devotional in which he told us if we died, we were one of the lucky ones), a missionary suddenly stood up and began shouting, “I have power and authority!” His companion and others tried to calm him, but the MTC presidency quickly ushered everyone to their rooms, and a nurse administered a tranquilizer to the disruptive missionary. We were later told he had been possessed by a devil, and that it was crucial to maintain our worthiness to have the Spirit with us. We never saw that missionary again, presumably having been sent home to face judgment from his local church community.
Toward the end of my time in the MTC, an employee from the area office gave a presentation on safety. It began with graphic instructions on how to avoid and respond to kidnapping. We were told harrowing stories about missionaries who were kidnapped and injured or killed, then assured that God would protect us. The advice was that if we were kidnapped, we should simply sing hymns or bear testimony, and pray until we were rescued.
The presenter also had a disturbing message for the young women. He said that in the event of rape, they would have to work out with God whether they could “live with themselves” after being assaulted. He shared that he had discussed this with his own wife. He said he would have to leave her if she was raped, as it is a violation the law of chastity, and men should not pursue unchaste women. We were told the first phone call in such a situation should be to the mission president, not the police.
The MTC president, who claimed to represent God, did nothing to correct or challenge this man’s disgusting opinion.
All the talks and lessons during the MTC conveyed a clear message to me: if I was not an absolutely perfect, obedient missionary, my safety would immediately be in jeopardy. Failure to strictly follow any rule or commandment could mean my parents would never see me again.
I wanted to reach out to my family for support, but we were told not to include any struggles in our emails, as all of our communication had to be faith-promoting. There were staff members in the computer lab at all times, reading messages over our shoulders. It struck me as strange that God would trust me to represent Him in the significant capacity of representing Him as a missionary, yet He did not trust me to email my own parents without supervision. Fearing the consequences of disobedience, I dared not write home about how awful I was feeling, lest it be seen as a lack of faith and put me in spiritual, emotional, or physical danger.
The Field
As our time at the Missionary Training Center came to an end, the secretary returned our passports. A few of us set off for Tegucigalpa, while others left for other destinations in Central America. At the customs checkpoint in the Tegucigalpa airport, we realized we didn’t have enough information to properly fill out the forms or answer questions – aside from the instruction to claim we’d only be in the country for six weeks. Thankfully, the customs agents were familiar with missionaries and helped us through the process.
After customs, we were greeted by two missionaries who introduced themselves as “the assistants”. I was still new to the mission hierarchy, so their greeting struck me as strange. They welcomed us with hugs, then immediately asked for our passports. We were told our documents would be kept in a locked safe at the mission office, accessible only to the mission president and his immigration secretary.
Meeting the mission president and his wife, I was struck by their immediate friendliness. They walked us upstairs in the airport to show us the view of Tegucigalpa before piling us into their cars and heading to the mission office. There, we underwent another round of interviews and had our photos taken with a map to send back home.
That first night, we stayed in the “office home” – a large apartment where up to 30 missionaries would sleep during transfers. We were assigned the only room without air conditioning, on bunk beds stacked three high with bare, stained mattresses. The bathroom looked and smelled neglected, the walls dotted with the remains of unlucky pests. I didn’t sleep one bit, and the elders who lived in the home informed us they couldn’t afford to get us breakfast. “Don’t worry,” they said, “you’ll get used to being hungry.”
San Marcos de Colón
The next day, we were assigned companions and sent to our areas. I was sent to one of the most remote parts of the mission, so we had to break up the journey, spending a night in Choluteca. I still hadn’t had a chance to withdraw any cash, and my companion had run out of money, so we shared a bag of chips and some bags of water for dinner.
Early the following morning, we took the bus to San Marcos. I learned we were “opening” the area – the previous missionaries had been transferred, and my companion had never been there before. As the only elders within a two-hour radius, the responsibility felt daunting but exciting.
Finally finding an ATM, we withdrew some money and headed straight to a restaurant for lunch. But as I sat there, I was wracked with guilt, remembering a rule about not eating out. I couldn’t bring myself to finish the meal.
Our district leader had visited the area before, so he showed us around town and introduced us to a few people. He informed us we’d be responsible for a small group (rather than a ward or branch), and that we’d be speaking in church and teaching all the classes each week. It was an overwhelming prospect, but over time I grew to love the area. The people were incredibly kind, and a member even offered to make us lunch daily for a small fee. Our budget was tight, but we made it work, skipping a few meals when we had to travel.
One night, during a division with our district leader, I witnessed the district leader’s companion blatantly disobeying mission rules. He was reading unapproved books and listening to music I knew was forbidden. When I tried to say something, I was dismissed as a flechón, or “straight-as-an-arrow”. I was terrified – if I didn’t stop this disobedience, I’d face divine retribution. I laid awake all night, jumping at every tiny sound, certain we were in grave danger.
We decided once to take a shortcut to visit someone in a remote part of our area. The trail involved a steep climb up a mountain. As we ascended, I started to panic, remembering the safety training that strictly prohibited us from attempting such climbs. I broke down in tears, shaking with fear, while my companion laughed and took photos of me. The thought of continuing up filled me with dread, but I couldn’t bear the idea of turning back and abandoning my companion. To this day, looking at those photos makes my stomach churn.
Fuera JOH
A few months into my mission, I finally felt like I was starting to get the hang of speaking Spanish. My companion and I were talking to plenty of people, and it seemed like our efforts were paying off. Then the protests began.
One evening, as we walked home, I noticed what I thought was a parade passing by. But my companion started to panic, saying we needed to get home as fast as possible. We stopped by a pulpería (corner shop) to pick up dinner (instant ramen) and hunkered down in our apartment.
Soon, a local member called to check on us, explaining that this was not a parade—it was a political protest. Thankfully, this one remained relatively peaceful, but my companion had heard horror stories of missionaries getting trapped in their apartments for days or even weeks during unrest.
As the demonstration continued outside our window for a couple of hours, we took stock of our provisions. Two bags of spaghetti, some instant oats, refried beans, a bag of coffee (a gag gift), a hot plate that didn’t heat up enough to disinfect drinking water, and about 3 gallons of potable water. If we were going to be stuck inside, we certainly wouldn’t last long on this.
Around 10 pm, the mission office called, instructing us to stay put until the president determined it was safe to venture out. That night and the entire next day, the power was out, and our phone was dying. In the morning, the protests seemed to have died down, but the mission president still felt it was too risky for us to leave.
I am so grateful for my companion, who reminded me that while it might not be safe in parts of the mission, we’d be even less safe cooped up at home. We decided to brave the streets, pooling our limited funds to stock up on staples at the grocery store. The walk back left me feeling dizzy and terrified - certain that God would punish us for our “disobedience.”
These lockdowns continued for weeks, stretching into the Christmas season. We rationed our dwindling food and water supplies, keeping just enough on hand to potentially evacuate to the mission office if needed. I spent many sleepless nights haunted by horror stories of kidnapped or murdered missionaries. If I died, would the mission president even bother calling my parents, or would he just send an email?
We did what we could to stay positive. We sang Christmas hymns, and I finally got bored enough to risk playing Monopoly instead of studying my scriptures or writing in my journal. I even took a blurry picture of our setup to remember the experience. I figured if God put us in this mess, He would tolerate some minor disobedience. We went to bed every night wondering if we would be able to make our bi-annual phone call home on Christmas.
Finally, a few days before Christmas, we were granted permission to leave our apartment to make one of the two phone calls per year we were permitted. Sitting in the church building in Choluteca, I was wracked with anxiety, worried about going over the time limit and incurring God’s wrath. I tried to put on a brave face for my family, downplaying the difficulties we’d faced and focusing on our limited missionary success.
In hindsight, this experience was pivotal in shattering my misguided belief that my privilege and blessings were a sign of God’s favor. I came to see how my own entitlement and lack of understanding had blinded me to the realities faced by those with far less. I am horrified that I thought my privilege came because I won God’s favor, as if people who are born with less are somehow inherently less worthy than me. My mission had forced me to confront my own biases and shortcomings in the most painful way – but I have been privileged to be able to use it as a step toward true growth and empathy.
After our call, the family who hosted us treated us to a wonderful Christmas dinner. Sitting under their tree, listening to their stories and jokes, I was overwhelmed by their warmth and generosity. It was a stark contrast to the fear and isolation I’d experienced in our apartment. In that moment, I determined I aspired to have even a fraction of the humanity I’d experienced as a missionary.
Days later, I received news that I was being transferred to the heart of Tegucigalpa to serve as a district leader and train a new elder. As I packed up to leave, our group leader warned me that the city would eat me alive if I didn’t remain strictly obedient. The anxiety crept back in, but I couldn’t help but wonder if there was more to this mission than just obeying rules so I didn’t die.
Downtown Tegucigalpa
We had a transfer meeting-slash-Christmas party a few weeks into the new year, and I met my new companion. We hit it off immediately, which was a relief. Afterward, the zone leaders showed us to our new apartment – we were again opening an area after both previous missionaries were transferred away.
As we approached the apartment building, a tall concrete tower with a door right on the sidewalk, the zone leaders called the landlady. I soon understood why, as we were greeted by two massive, growling dogs at the top of a steep concrete stairwell. The landlady held their collars in one hand, beating them with a wooden dowel in the other. “They’ll get used to your smell in a few weeks,” she told us before inviting us up the stairs.
When we entered our apartment, which was across the dogs’ concrete landing and up another flight of stairs, we found two moldy mattresses on a bare concrete floor, a hot plate melted to a plastic table, and a five-gallon bucket of murky brown water. The sink was ripped from the wall, and the walls were covered in crude drawings of scripture characters – likely left by previous missionaries trapped here during intense protests outside.
I was hesitant to request a new apartment, having been told the church operated on a tight budget. Our mission president would often recount his mother’s modest donations, asking “How are you using my mom’s money?” Not realizing the church actually had vast financial resources, I assumed this was God punishing me for my previous “disobedience”. I became obsessively anxious, determined to prove my worthiness through perfect obedience.
It took over a month of pleading to finally convince the mission office to let us move to a safer, more suitable apartment—one that cost an extra $50 per month. They repeatedly questioned why we couldn’t just stay put, despite my explanations about the safety concerns and the need for a proper living space.
This constant anxiety over our living situation and my compulsive obedience began taking a severe physical toll. I could barely eat, but I was terrified of wasting any food generously offered by members. I started keeping a bucket by my bed in case I needed to vomit in the night.
One week, during our companionship review, my companion revealed that a ward member was furious with me, complaining to the bishop that I was an ungrateful missionary who refused her food. I was shocked – on paper, we were thriving, having baptized more people in two months than had been baptized in the past two years. But I was still not working hard enough to be welcome in the ward.
Sinking into depression, I bought a cheap notebook to serve as a private journal, pouring out my frustrations with God for placing me in this situation and my despair over feeling so alone and unwanted. I wrote about my suicidal thoughts and my hatred of being constantly hungry yet unable to eat. It was a vital outlet, allowing me to process the turmoil I couldn’t share with anyone else.
Then came a zone conference, where we were told that having love for our companions meant going through their personal belongings, including their journals and letters home. Panicked, I immediately discarded my notebook, erasing that precious outlet.
Bottling up my struggles once more, I decided the solution was simply to work harder. We were teaching good lessons and getting along well. Since I could barely eat, we always had enough money for food. But after a few weeks, a nagging pain in my toe began to worsen.
I’d heard horror stories of missionaries developing such severe infections that they nearly lost a foot. Concerned, I called the mission nurse, a young sister missionary. She diagnosed it over the phone as an ingrown toenail, instructing me to keep a strand of dental floss under the toenail and soak my foot in saltwater each night. If it didn’t improve in a month, she said, I should call her back.
But the pain only intensified, making it difficult to walk the 10 to 20 miles required of us per day.
When I reached out again, the nurse dismissed my concerns, telling me to just keep working hard and trust that God would take care of it. I called every few days for a few weeks, and after months of pain, the mission office arranged for me to see a doctor.
The physician was appalled that I’d waited so long, warning me that I was lucky the infection hadn’t spread. That day, he removed a portion of my toenail and prescribed antibiotics and pain medication. Afterward, I was sent back to my area, expected to resume our 12-hour days of proselytizing as soon as possible.
I did my best to keep the wound clean, showering with a grocery bag taped around my foot and using diluted floor cleaner to soak it each night, since the mission supposedly couldn’t afford proper first aid supplies. When I asked a nurse for bandages and antiseptics, she scolded me for “wasting the Lord’s resources” and told me I needed to be more obedient for my toe to heal.
A few weeks later, our zone received permission to take a special hike to a scenic waterfall. Though I worried about the strain on my foot, I didn’t want to hold my companion back from enjoying the trip. So I trudged along slippery rocks, my toe throbbing with each step.
At one point, I asked my mission president for a small increase in our daily transit budget, to afford a mototaxi ride or two. He grew visibly upset, reminding me that enduring the pain would provide me with “faith-promoting stories” to share with my children after my mission. I was grateful my foot issue was relatively minor compared to what I’d seen other missionaries suffer. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being punished, so I stopped pushing for proper medical care and financial resources.
When I returned home, my family doctor was shocked by the neglect I’d experienced. Within minutes, he resolved the lingering problem with my toe and instructed me to soak my foot in vinegar to clear the infection.
Elder Cook
Shortly after my toenail drama mostly subsided, we were informed that Elder Quentin Cook would be visiting our mission. We prepared a special musical number, repeatedly reminded of the honor of singing for an apostle of God. Despite my insecurity about singing in public, I was relieved to spend a few hours rehearsing in the air-conditioned chapel rather than walking in the scorching sun. I even laughed along as I was teased for holding up rehearsal by limping slowly off the stand.
Cook’s arrival, accompanied by his wife, Mary (introduced only as “Elder Cook’s Wife”), as well as Gerrit and Susan Gong, was a major event. Our leaders emphasized how privileged we were to be in the presence of an apostle. As we lined up outside the building to shake his hand, I couldn’t help but chuckle at the thought of meeting a revered church leader while wearing off-brand Crocs to keep my toe dry.
Yet, when I took my seat, I felt a pang of shame, listening to the others rave about the incredible spiritual experience of shaking an apostle’s hand. I didn’t feel any different. In fact, I found myself more drawn to the genuine kindness and interest shown by Gerrit and Susan Gong.
I was puzzled by the security detail accompanying the visitors and the strict protocols around the first floor being reserved solely for Elder Cook. Local members explained the extensive measures taken to secure the building before his arrival. As I reflected on this, I couldn’t reconcile the need for such elaborate protection with the teachings we’d received about missionaries being divinely shielded on the Lord’s errand. After all, my fellow missionaries faced assaults, robberies, and other dangers daily in our mission.
It seemed to me that the church’s leaders seemed to have far less faith in their own physical safety than in the spiritual protection they claimed would cover the missionary workforce. This deeply saddened me, as I had been taught that we were fulfilling an apostolic calling, serving as a direct extension of these revered figures.
During the meeting, the talks were generally uplifting, but not groundbreaking. Gerrit and Susan Gong’s messages struck me as particularly “trauma-informed,” sensitive to the struggles we were facing. Mary Cook’s talk, with a strong emphasis on music, also resonated more than Elder Cook’s presentation.
Elder Cook began by commenting on the insights he gleaned about each missionary from our handshakes, claiming he could peer into our very souls. He then shared that his own mission president had recently passed away, lamenting that he couldn’t attend the funeral, as his former companion, Jeffrey Holland, had.
Cook suggested the extensive missionary rules existed because “every time a missionary somewhere in the world does something stupid, we have to add a new one.” I couldn’t help but wonder how that applied to rules like the strict limits on our contact with family. His general advice included warnings against mocking local cultures – advice that felt somewhat patronizing, as most of us had developed a deep love and respect for the communities we served in. His closing testimony had a rehearsed quality, as he hinted at having had spiritual experiences he wouldn’t share, lest we grow envious of him.
Afterward, as we returned to our areas to continue our work, I found myself troubled. The three speakers with less “spiritual authority” had delivered messages that felt far more meaningful and aligned with our struggles. I wondered if perhaps God’s voice had been clearer through them than the apostle himself. But as a missionary, I quickly pushed those doubts aside, unwilling to question the divine calling of the Brethren.
It’s only now, looking back, that I recognize the profound dissonance between the church’s lofty rhetoric about missionary protection and the realities we faced daily - not to mention the stark contrast between the lavish lifestyle afforded leaders and the vulnerabilities endured by the rank-and-file. That experience marked an early crack in the foundation of my unquestioning faith.
Valle de Ángeles
When the mission president called to tell me I was being transferred to serve as a zone leader in an area called Cerro Grande, I had mixed feelings. It was a suburb of Valle de Ángeles, a popular tourist destination, and my new companion immediately warned me that it would be a challenging area.
He bluntly explained that the sprawling area meant that we’d have to walk everywhere and carefully ration our funds to eat. He also cautioned that the wealthy residents in our area were generally unreceptive to missionaries. This was a stark contrast to my previous, more successful area.
Looking back, I now understand that my struggles in this new area were likely exacerbated by my undiagnosed autism and subtle cultural differences and expectations. My companion regularly pointed out my confusing mannerisms, and our relationship quickly became strained and even abusive. He would walk ahead of me at a pace I couldn’t match,
so I remember spending long, dark walks alone, occasionally hearing barking dogs, groups of teenagers, or the growl of a mototaxi.
I was in a state of constant anxiety, praying fervently to make it home alive.
Eventually, we convinced the mission president to transfer us to Valle de Ángeles proper, hoping for better results. But the challenges in our relationship only mounted. One P-day, my companion secretly planned a trip to the nearby waterfall with some local young women—a blatant violation of the rules. When I confronted him about it, he left me behind to hike alone while he swam. I was furious, but also terrified of the consequences I might face for reporting his misconduct.
Sure enough, when I did report him, the fallout was severe. My companion was called to a disciplinary meeting with the mission president in Tegucigalpa. Afterward, we couldn’t even afford the bus fare back home; the mission office lent us exactly the amount we would need. We asked our neighbors if they could help with dinner. I was so ashamed.
The next day, we received our bi-weekly funds, and my companion spent his entire amount on a volleyball, leaving us to scrape by on even less than usual. I was torn between my desire to be the perfect missionary and the reality of our circumstances. I agreed to share my funds with him, but stressed that we would not be able afford breakfast or single-serve bags of water for two weeks.
The days that followed were tense. My companion gave me the silent treatment, only speaking when absolutely necessary. I tried apologizing, but he refused to engage. When our weekly planning session arrived, I felt I had to address the elephant in the room. I apologized again and asked if I could retract my letter to the mission president.
My companion broke down in tears. He began yelling and threatening me, warning me never to “snitch” again. In hindsight, I realize he was likely struggling with his own mental health issues – he mentioned problems with his girlfriend back home and admitted to feeling anxious and depressed. My companion opened up to me, mentioning issues with his girlfriend back home and struggling with anxiety and depression. At one point, he broke down in tears, admitting he was having suicidal thoughts. I was terrified for his safety, but I had no idea how to properly support him. The mission handbook discouraged us from getting too personal, so I felt I should let the mission office handle it.
They arranged for a church-employed psychologist to call him every few weeks, and the mission president offered some him some misguided advice. He told my companion that his mental health struggles were a result of sin, citing a scripture in Moroni 10 about despair coming from iniquity. I wish I had been better equipped to empathize and advocate for my companion’s wellbeing.
I wish I had known how to empathize and advocate for him. But the mission handbook discouraged getting too personal with our companions, so I felt I should let the mission office handle it. I prayed, asking for permission to be less obedient to support him, but I never felt a response.
Instead, I tried to serve him more, cooking us breakfast a few times a week. But the rest of the transfer was shrouded in a strange, melancholy haze. I was so worried about him hurting himself, yet powerless to truly help. When he was finally transferred to another area, I was anxious about his safety until I saw him near the end of his mission.
My next companion made it clear he had no interest in being a diligent missionary. I panicked, convinced that any disobedience would lead to more problems. So I tried to bargain with him, agreeing to let him call the shots if we could just get one baptism. After one person was baptized, we only left the house to visit my companion’s friends or eat. Tensions built between us, as disobedience caused me to fear for my life.
Our relationship deteriorated further, culminating in a heated argument one night. Based on the photos on this page, you can likely gather I’m not going to win a fistfight. My companion punched my stomach, and I ran into the bathroom, locked the door, and vomited. I stayed in the bathroom until I was confident he would be sleeping.
Afterward, I spent the night sitting at our folding table, crying and journaling about the anguish of wanting to do what’s right but feeling powerless to do so. I contemplated suicide, but I was stopped by the thought of my parents hearing about my suicide from my mission president.
At the next transfer, I was mercifully paired with a missionary I had met on my very first day. He was kind and hardworking, and we immediately clicked. This transfer was a breath of fresh air from the darkness I was living in. We repaired relationships with members, had enough money to eat properly, and I even kept food down. To this day, he is the only person I’ve stayed in touch with after my mission, and he has been so supportive during my faith transition.
For the sake of lightening the mood, I still laugh when I remember someone we met during this transfer. She was about 40 years old and very kind. She was a housekeeper for someone we had recently baptized, and she wanted to meet with us and learn about the church. It came to our attention over the next few weeks that she was very much in love with my companion. After my companion left, I learned that she was only baptized because she thought he would want to date her if she was a church member. She asked us if we thought she was crazy to think a 20-year-old missionary would want to go out with a 40-year-old married woman.
My next companion and I also got along very well. He was energetic, positive, and just happy to be alive. I learned from this companion how to accept life as it comes. I think we were both happy to have a companion who was interested in focusing on missionary work. Later in my mission, I went on divisions with this companion. He told me he had planned a visit to the hospital for that day, since we were good friends and he could use some support. He told me he had lost a family member to cancer before coming on his mission. He was terrified that he had some of the symptoms of cancer, but the appointment thankfully ended with good news. I tried to be supportive, but I had become so focused on being a perfect missionary that I lost sight of things that actually mattered. I regret feeling the need to focus more on missionary work than being there for a friend.
During our transfer together, we worked hard and kept up the relationships we had built with church members and investigators. We did everything we could to inspire other missionaries as zone leaders. I remember around holidays, people would feed us at every appointment, and I developed the horrible skill of eating as much as I could during appointments, then immediately vomiting after we left their house. Overall, though, life seemed pretty good.
The Office
After five transfers in Valle de Ángeles, the mission president called and asked if I would be an assistant. I was honored that he—or rather, God—had chosen me for this leadership role. During four of my final five transfers, we were to go on divisions five days a week, swapping companions and training missionaries across the mission.
While I appreciated the opportunity to gain a broader perspective, I found the constant travel and lack of continuity deeply unsatisfying. I missed the chance to really get to know people in one area. It felt like we were mass-producing missionary training, and every day blended together. The depression I had been battling crept back in.
Most of my time in the office was either monotonous or traumatic. I remember sitting in meetings with the mission president, where we were instructed to rely on divine revelation to determine transfers and companionships. But I never felt anything remotely spiritual about the process. Instead, I watched as missionaries I knew to be disobedient were placed in leadership roles, questioning the president’s discernment.
The logistical work of organizing the mission was overwhelming. I felt like we were playing chess with the missionaries’ lives, making decisions that often had painful consequences for them. I was particularly disturbed when the mission president suggested pairing two “disobedient” elders together, hoping they would mess up in a big enough way to justify sending them both home.
At night, we were responsible for calling the zone leaders to collect statistics. These conversations were often harrowing, as I heard stories of robberies, assaults, and other dangers the missionaries were facing. I was even tasked with helping missionaries through mental health crises, as the mission president didn’t have time. The pressure to talk distressed missionaries down while dealing with my own feelings of inadequacy was overwhelming.
My stomach problems worsened to the point that I could hardly eat for months, which I saw as a financial blessing since it meant we spent less on food. There were times we barely had enough money for transportation, waiting for reimbursements after long trips across the mission.
One day, I was ecstatic to return to Valle de Ángeles on divisions. I visited one of the most devout people I had helped baptize. But when she told me she was leaving the church due to hurt inflicted by ward members, I was devastated. I couldn’t process the emotions, and when I got back to the apartment and saw the sink full of dishes, I had a breakdown. I started throwing the dishes out the window, then went to hide in the storage room, sobbing.
The mission president called to offer reassurance, telling me to keep working hard until it was time to come home. But I felt so guilty and ashamed, unable to reconcile my desire to serve faithfully with the growing turmoil within me. I sobbed for a couple of hours and felt guilty when I went to bed late.
The Return Home
As the time came for me to return home, I was an anxious mess. I could hardly eat during that final week, and I still feel guilty about vomiting the previous night, after one of the kindest families I’ve ever met offered us dinner. I was so dizzy on the bus ride to the airport that I had to sit on the floor, cross-legged, just to keep from fainting.
Throughout it all, I wrestled with feelings of inadequacy. Had I truly served an adequate mission? I felt guilty, convinced that I hadn’t worked hard enough, that I had let God down by not being the perfect missionary I was supposed to be. I agonized over all the people I hadn’t talked to, the potential converts I had failed to baptize.
When I finally arrived home, my stake president immediately interviewed and released me from my missionary service. As I walked home, removing my sacred black-and-white name badge, I felt utterly lost. Every minute of the past two years had been dictated, and now I was left with only the vague instructions to attend church and start looking for a wife.
In a moment of defiant freedom, I retreated to my bedroom and began working on the talk I was expected to give on Sunday. I didn’t even succumb to the temptation of pornography, despite having unsupervised access to a computer. It was as if I was asserting my independence, reclaiming a sense of self that had been suppressed for so long.
Yet underneath that newfound liberty, I was deeply unsettled. My mission had been a tumultuous, traumatic experience, and I had no idea how to process it all. The structure and routine that had defined my life for two years was gone, leaving me unmoored and uncertain about the future. The transition back to “normal” life would be a difficult one, as I grappled with the lingering effects of my time as a missionary.
