The Exact Moment I Stopped Believing in the Mormon Church

If you had told me years ago that one day I’d be sitting down to write about the exact moment my faith in the Mormon Church crumbled, I would have dismissed you outright. My entire life was built around the idea that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was the one true church.

It wasn’t just a belief; it was my entire identity. But there was a moment—one undeniable, gut-punching, soul-shaking moment—where it all fell apart.

A Life Immersed in Faith

I wasn’t just your average Mormon. I was Ultra Mormon. My upbringing was deeply devout—church every Sunday, whether we were home or on vacation, four years of Seminary, leadership positions in the Youth Organization, Brigham Young University (BYU) education, a full-time mission, temple marriage, and even a stint as a temple worker. If you could name a Mormon milestone, I had checked the box.

For most of my life, I truly believed. I believed so deeply that I never thought there would come a day when that belief would dissolve entirely. But the thing about belief—especially belief built on unwavering faith—is that when cracks start to form, they don’t stop. You can try to ignore them, push doubts aside, and reinforce your conviction, but at some point, the weight of those cracks becomes too much. And then everything comes crashing down.

The Slow Unraveling

Many ex-Mormons describe their faith crisis as a slow burn, a years-long journey of questioning and doubt. For some, it’s a single earth-shattering discovery—a historical fact, a doctrine that doesn’t sit right, or a personal betrayal. For others, like me, it’s a gradual process, a shelf that keeps piling up with unanswered questions until it finally breaks under its own weight.

I had my first real “wait a minute” moment before my mission, but I buried it. That’s what faithful members do. We’re taught to “put things on a shelf” when we come across troubling aspects of church history or doctrine. Every time something didn’t make sense—whether it was polygamy, the Book of Abraham, or the ever-controversial CES Letter—I placed it neatly on my shelf and carried on.

Until one day, I couldn’t.

The Breaking Point

After six months of deep soul-searching, researching, and questioning, I found myself back in church, desperately hoping for something—anything—to reignite my faith. I wanted to believe. I wanted to feel what I used to feel. So I went back, sat through Sacrament Meeting, and then made my way to Relief Society.

That Sunday, the Relief Society president made an announcement that felt almost tailor-made for my final test of faith: “Today, instead of our planned lesson, we’ll be sharing testimonies about Joseph Smith.”

Joseph Smith. The one topic that had been gnawing at my conscience. By this point, I had read too much, learned too much. I knew about his secret marriages, his manipulation of young girls, his disturbing polygamous practices. And yet, there I was, surrounded by women standing up one by one, tears in their eyes, bearing testimonies about the man I could no longer see as a prophet.

I knew what I had been taught my whole life: “A testimony is found in the bearing of it.” So I stood up.

I started with the safe words: “I want to bear my testimony. I know that I have felt strongly about Joseph Smith in the past. I know that I have had spiritual moments where my feelings told me he was a true prophet.”

But then, without planning to, I kept talking. I mentioned his polygamy, the secrecy, the troubling aspects of his history that I could no longer justify. I tried to reconcile my past beliefs with what I knew now. I fumbled through my words, attempting to grasp onto something—anything—that would let me stay in the space between belief and disbelief.

I ended my testimony, sat down, and waited.

Waited for someone to acknowledge what I had said.

Waited for some feeling, some confirmation, some whisper of the Spirit telling me that despite my doubts, I could still believe.

Instead, there was silence.

The Relief Society president immediately stood up and bore a glowing testimony of Joseph Smith, effectively erasing my words from the room. One by one, the other women followed, each testimony reinforcing the same message: Joseph Smith was a prophet. No mention of what I had said. No recognition of my struggle. No validation that my concerns were even worth addressing.

I was invisible.

At that moment, I knew.

I knew that I could no longer force myself to believe in a system that required me to ignore reality. I knew that my shelf hadn’t just cracked—it had shattered. I knew that no matter how much I wanted to cling to my faith, it was gone.

I got up, mumbled something about needing the restroom, and walked out of that church building. I sat in my car and waited for my husband to finish his meetings, knowing I would never come back.

Life After Belief

Leaving a high-demand religion isn’t just about rejecting doctrine; it’s about dismantling your entire life. My social world, my family, my marriage, my education—all of it was rooted in Mormonism. Walking away felt like stepping into the void.

But there’s something they don’t tell you when you leave: the air is fresher outside. The sky is wider. The weight on your shoulders disappears, and for the first time, you realize just how heavy it was.

Since leaving, I’ve learned more about myself than I ever did in the church. I’ve learned that morality doesn’t come from obedience, that spirituality isn’t confined to an organization, and that truth can withstand scrutiny.

I also learned that I was never alone. Thousands of others have walked this path before me. Each story is different, but the theme is always the same: we were searching for truth, and we found it outside the walls of Mormonism.

If you’re reading this and you’re in that place of doubt, of uncertainty, of fear—know that you’re not alone. And know that whatever you choose, your truth is yours to claim.

I stopped believing in the Mormon Church that day in Relief Society. But in doing so, I started believing in myself.