Content Note:

This piece contains discussion of religious discipline, shunning, disability, trauma, pregnancy loss, and experiences of institutional harm within the LDS Church. It is written from a personal, reflective perspective and may be difficult for some readers. Please read with care

“It’s the People, Not the Church — and the Weight of Invisible Disability.”

For a long time, I accepted a sentence that was meant to comfort me:

“It’s the people, not the church.”

I accepted it because I wanted to believe it. Because I believed in God. Because I believed in Jesus. Because I wanted to belong somewhere that promised love, structure, and meaning.

But lived experience eventually teaches you when a sentence is incomplete.

People do not act in isolation.
They act within culture.
And culture is taught.

The discipline that never named itself

After the birth of my baby girl, a bishop came to my home. He was gentle. He spoke with kindness. He never used the word disfellowshipped.

But he told me I could not:

• take sacrament

• lead prayers

• give talks

•hold a calling

until I had “properly repented”.

What I did not realise at the time was that this was disfellowshipment, just wrapped in softer language. I was allowed to attend, but not to belong. Present, but silent. Visible, but diminished.

That distinction matters, because the harm was not loud.
It was quiet.
And quiet harm is easy to deny.

Accountability and where it ends

I want to be clear about something, because clarity matters to me.

I was still married, but separated.
I had a child outside that marriage.
By LDS definition, that is adultery.

I accept accountability for that.

And it ends there.

What followed was not accountability. It was expectation without accommodation.

I was undiagnosed autistic and ADHD. I had diagnosed depression and anxiety. I had four children. I had a history of trauma. I was separated from a marriage that was already over, and the man I was married to would not initiate divorce.

I knew what repentance required:

•divorce

•marriage

• separation from my partner until then

But knowing what is “right” is not the same as having the capacity to carry it out safely.

I asked for help. Repeatedly. Not for money. For practical support. Help understanding how divorce worked. Help navigating a process my brain could not organise alone. Help that acknowledged I could not live independently without care.

That help never came.

Capacity is not character

I spent years believing I had failed morally, when in reality I had been asked to perform tasks beyond my executive and emotional capacity.

There is a difference between:

• unwillingness

and

• inability

Between:

• rebellion

and

•limitation

The church framed my situation as a moral issue.
It was a support issue.

A doctrine that was never applied to me

What haunts me most now is that the church already had language for this.

LDS doctrine teaches that people who lack full moral agency because of disability are “clean before God”. That accountability depends on understanding and capacity. That this is why children are not baptised before age eight, because they cannot sin without full agency.

That doctrine exists.

And yet my invisible disabilities were never considered.

Had my autism and ADHD been recognised, not as flaws, but as disabilities, the moral expectations placed on me should have been different. Not erased. Not excused. But contextualised.

God did not need a diagnosis to see my limits.
The institution did, and never looked.

The quiet shunning

Our ward was small. People who had once spoken to me began to avoid eye contact. I moved through lessons alone. I learned about Christlike love in theory while experiencing the opposite in practice.

No one was openly cruel.

That’s what made it devastating.

Autistic people rely on consistency between words and behaviour. When a community teaches love, but practices withdrawal the nervous system registers betrayal.

I was told to show compassion. I did.
I was still mistreated.

Selective compassion

What I could not ignore was the inconsistency.

Men with pornography “addictions” were offered support groups.
Men with substance issues were met with kindness.
Other families received practical help.

When my benefits were stopped — not due to irresponsibility, but because I failed to “prove” disability — I was offered budgeting lessons before practical help was offered.

I did not need instruction.
I needed help.

The message was subtle but clear: Your suffering is a personal failure.

Why this is dangerous for vulnerable people

The LDS church can feel incredibly safe at first; especially for those who are autistic, traumatised, disabled, or searching for family and structure.

New members are warmly welcomed. Encouraged to serve. Surrounded by care.

But belonging is conditional.

When life becomes complicated, when you don’t recover quickly enough, obey cleanly enough, or fit the narrative,  warmth withdraws. And the shame is internalised.

For people like me, this can be devastating.

Forgiveness without intermediaries

I still believe in God. I still believe in Jesus. I believe God sees everything, including effort, limitation, fear, and intent.

I no longer believe forgiveness requires institutional completion.

I repented as fully as I was able.
What remained undone was not spiritual; it was procedural.

That distinction has brought me more peace than years of guilt ever did.

Why I left

I didn’t leave because I wanted to sin.
I didn’t leave because I lost my morals.
I left because I could not reconcile a system that spoke of love while practicing conditional belonging.

When I left, my light came back.

The scars remain, because loss is real. But so is relief.

A final word

Knowing right from wrong is not the same as understanding outcomes.
Understanding outcomes is not the same as having capacity.
And capacity should never be mistaken for character.

If you are vulnerable, neurodivergent, or seeking safety, ask not only what a church teaches, but how it treats people when life becomes complicated.

Culture matters.

And silence is not neutral.

—Frost ❄️