For years, my voice was valued. Cherished, even.

As a gospel doctrine teacher, people came to my class eager to learn, often sharing how much they appreciated my insights and the way I made the scriptures come alive. As a Relief Society President, I was commended for my ability to speak truth in a way that resonated, to uplift and strengthen those in need. As a seminary teacher, I taught the rising generation the gospel as prescribed by the church, emphasizing faith, obedience, and the well-worn narratives that shaped our understanding of truth.

In all these roles, I was trusted. My voice mattered. My ability to discern and communicate was respected.

And then, I asked different questions.

I studied. I searched, not in anti-Mormon literature or obscure sources, but within the very materials the church itself has published—The Joseph Smith Papers, Gospel Topics Essays, church history manuals. And what I found shook me. Truth claims that weren’t true. Historical facts that contradicted the stories I had taught and believed. Patterns of omission and carefully constructed narratives that unraveled when viewed in their full context.

Suddenly, my voice—once valued—was unwelcome.

My intellect, which had been praised, became questionable. My ability to discern truth, once admired, was now suspect. It wasn’t that I had changed how I engaged with information; I was still deeply invested in understanding and teaching truth. But when that truth no longer aligned with the church’s preferred version, my credibility vanished.

How does that happen? How does one go from being a trusted teacher to an unreliable source overnight?

The only difference between then and now is that I no longer serve as a mouthpiece for the church’s approved message. My voice was never truly mine—it was only cherished so long as it reinforced the faith-promoting narrative. The moment my words challenged rather than affirmed, the respect disappeared.

This week, I had an experience that reminded me just how quickly people are willing to dismiss me now. I mentioned to someone that I couldn’t schedule something on a particular day because I had a podcast to co-host. They asked what podcast, and I responded honestly but carefully: Based on your faithfulness in the church, it may not be a podcast you are interested in.

Their immediate response? Oh, it’s anti…

That word cut deep.

Anti. A label meant to discredit, to dismiss, to shut down any curiosity or conversation.

I responded, No, it’s not anti. It’s truthful facts, many based within the church’s own teachings and records. I’m trying to help people who are struggling with isolation, confusion, and heartbreak as they navigate these difficult discoveries.

But it didn’t seem to matter. The moment I wasn’t reinforcing the dominant narrative, I became “anti.” And that hurts—because the only thing I am truly anti of is untruth.

I am not against faith. I am not against people who choose to believe. I am not against anyone who finds meaning and peace in their religious path. But I am against deception. I am against suppressing information. I am against narratives that intentionally mislead.

The painful irony is that my voice didn’t lose credibility because I started lying or misleading—it lost credibility because I started telling the whole truth. Yet, the Church has made it clear that only certain voices are to be trusted.

In his October 2023 General Conference talk Think Celestial!, President Russell M. Nelson told members:

“Never take counsel from those who do not believe.”

“Seek guidance from voices you can trust—from prophets, seers, and revelators and from the whisperings of the Holy Ghost.”

By framing trustworthiness as exclusive to Church leadership and discouraging members from listening to those who question, he reinforced the idea that voices like mine—voices of those who once led, taught, and believed but have since discovered difficult truths—are no longer valid. My voice mattered when I taught what I was supposed to teach. But the moment my conclusions diverged, the respect disappeared.

This realization has been both painful and freeing. Painful, because I deeply valued the trust and relationships that once surrounded me. Freeing, because I now understand the conditions under which that trust was given. It was never about me—it was about the message I carried. And when that message changed, so did everything else.

But I refuse to be silent.

I refuse to believe that my voice only had worth when I was saying what others wanted to hear. I refuse to diminish my own intellect, curiosity, and integrity for the sake of maintaining a false sense of belonging. I refuse to let others dictate whether I am credible based on whether my words align with their comfort zones.

The truth remains, whether it is welcomed or not. And my voice—though no longer cherished in the spaces where it once thrived—is still mine. And it still matters.