Finding Strength After My Husband’s Release as Bishop

 

 I was born and raised in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. From my earliest memories—cleaning the chapel with my family every Saturday to prepare for Sunday meetings—I have always loved to serve. My life in the Church was filled with meaningful callings: from Primary to Young Women, as a missionary in Cebu, a temple worker in Laie, Hawaii, and eventually being sealed in the temple in 2015. My husband and I served together in many capacities, including as couple missionaries for BYU–Pathway and leaders in the youth organizations of our stake.

When my husband was called as bishop in 2020, I was pregnant with our second child, raising a toddler, and managing over a hundred employees as a general manager—right in the middle of a global pandemic. Still, with faith, we accepted the calling, believing that giving our best would allow the Lord to do the rest.

But two years later, without clear explanation, my husband was released. I had hoped for understanding, clarity, or, at the very least, kindness. Instead, what followed was confusion, betrayal, and emotional distress—during what was already the most vulnerable time of my life. I had just given birth, was navigating postpartum depression, and was trying to lead both at home and at work.

What made this season even more painful were the interpersonal dynamics in our ward. A newly arrived member gained popularity by offering generous gifts, and soon, factions formed. I was shocked to find myself the subject of gossip, screenshots, and silent bullying. Even my newborn son, who spent time in the NICU, was not spared from their judgments.

Months before my husband’s release—around September—a leader visited our home to inform us that a letter had been submitted to the Area Presidency, raising concerns allegedly tied to me. He mentioned that not everyone was happy that we were providing jobs to church members through our company. He also said that someone from the area would reach out to discuss the matter with me in detail.

I waited and waited, but no one came. By December, still no formal discussion had taken place, and no evidence or explanation was ever shared. Wanting closure before the year ended, I sent a message requesting that we resolve the issue so I could enter the new year without carrying any unresolved concerns.

Eventually, both the stake leader and an area authority came to our home. But instead of addressing the letter or offering any clarity, they simply offered a prayer. The issue was never mentioned again. It was confusing, deeply disheartening, and mentally exhausting. After months of waiting in emotional limbo, that moment left me feeling dismissed and invisible.

In the first quarter of the following year, a member of the stake presidency informed my husband that he would be released in less than two weeks. My husband broke the news to me, but we still had no clear understanding of why. He received instructions to arrange our unexpected ward conference. I was the pianist that day, and it was heartbreaking to see my husband cry hard at the release.

During the sacrament meeting, it was announced that his release was due to a boundary change: the neighboring ward would be split, and our address would now fall under the new ward. A week later, for the sake of our peace and healing, we decided to transfer to that ward. We embraced it as a new beginning.

But the unanswered questions lingered—until one day, a sister visited our home. Tearfully, she confided that she had witnessed the creation of the letter sent to the area and told me who did it. Her honesty gave me the closure I needed and allowed the healing to finally begin. We embraced, cried together, and forgave each other. 

Later, when I reached out to the letter's author, I encountered denial and defensiveness. I realized that some people choose self-preservation over reconciliation. But through that, I learned powerful lessons:

 

What This Pain Taught Me:

1.  Sisterhood must be free of envy. Being a woman is challenging enough. We thrive when we lift each other up, not tear each other down through crab mentality or competition.

2.  Leadership is not perfection, but humility. It’s okay to make mistakes. But spiritual authority must never be used to justify harm. Great leaders own their shortcomings with grace and grow from them.

3.     Accountability is not deflection. You do not restore relationships by attacking others or recruiting allies against someone you've hurt. Healing requires courage and truth.

I share not to shame anyone, but to speak to those silently suffering. If your place of refuge becomes a source of pain, know that you are not alone. The Church should be a spiritual hospital, not a battlefield.

Despite everything, I’m still standing. With support from my husband, my children, my therapist, and yes—my faith—I found healing. I now share this story without tears, but with gratitude. If you’re going through something similar, know that thanks to your faith and courage you will get through it.  And when you do, you’ll see that there’s so much more ahead.

To be continued...