Thank you for being here. Just...thank you.

Last night, I received a comment that stopped me in my tracks. It was so kind and affirming, I found myself tearing up and reading it over and over.

The comment was under the article where I responded to the question, “Are you a Christian?”

Spoiler alert: I don’t like labels, most especially when it comes to my faith. This reader connected with my sentiment and let me know that I wasn’t alone, but then she went a step further. She said my voice was the one she connected with most in the “deconstruction space.”

Hearing my work referred to in that way—and myself as a voice in any kind of space—felt a little jarring. Sometimes I forget that the way my platform is received is quite different from the way it feels to me.

Let me explain…

This whole thing started 10 years ago when I was a brand-new mom, struggling with severe postpartum depression while staying at home with my son, Benjamin.

I began writing blogs as an emotional exercise--screaming my struggles into the internet abyss, and hoping someone out there felt the same way I did.

It turned out, a lot of people did—so I made a whole page for my writing. A year later, I landed a job at Scary Mommy, the largest parenting website in the world. That job launched my author career as I got my first book deal smack dab in the middle of the pandemic.

Still, the book was a success because wouldn't you know it--right around that time, I made a Christmas video that went viral globally. I was featured on Ellen, and of course that affected my sales. Call it luck or fate or God, all I know is within the next year, I was signed to a major two-book deal with a Manhattan faith-based publisher.

I was now a Christian author.

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But what people don’t tell you about publishing is that by the time you’re reading a book, the author probably wrote it about two years earlier. All that to say, the 2016 election and the pandemic brought out things in my faith community which I could no longer unsee or ignore. So by the time my faith-based books were in readers’ hands, I was already grappling with big questions about the church, theology, and inclusion.

The beliefs I had when I wrote those books were not the beliefs I held when people were reading them.

The dissonance was glaring.

Readers came expecting one version of me but found someone entirely different online. Instead of finding the sunshiney Sunday School girl who wrote those books, they found someone angry and hurt by the church—someone asking hard questions and challenging tradition.

Folks were disappointed in me. Others felt I had been a fraud. I was told that I was never a Christian--some even called me a false teacher.

I can't tell you how much that stung.

I was angry, hurt, and frustrated so doing what I have always done--I wrote about that, too. I showed the world all my big angry feelings, and as it turns out anger sells. My platform continued to rapidly grow—but not always in ways I anticipated.

All of this snuck up on me.

My voice, I guess, became one in the space of deconstruction—boosted by the fact that I was a two-time national bestselling Christian author. I was writing to process, but this time the effects were much broader—and they started seeping into my private life.

The moment I knew things were different was the day my son was uninvited from a birthday party—all because of an article I wrote about God’s love for gay people. It was a gut-wrenching realization of how deeply my work could impact not just me, but my children too.

I don’t share this to gain sympathy, only to highlight what my everyday life looks like and the role this work plays in it.

I live in the Bible Belt, in Huntsville, Alabama, which is a beautiful and educated southern community but still, a fairly conservative one. My criticisms of American Evangelicalism are not broadly embraced here, although there are small pockets where I’m able to find support.

I do have friends—hard-earned ones that took a lot of vulnerability and trial and error—and I’m grateful they are in my life. But for the most part, my beliefs don’t find solidarity in my local community.

I come here for that.

I come to y'all.

And I think that is why the comment I received last night made me feel so many things. When she said my words helped her feel seen and less alone, that was beautiful —but it also made me wonder...

Do any of you realize how much you do that for me?

This space is a reciprocal and supportive community, and it has been one of the greatest gifts of my life.

After all these years and so many life changes, people are still here. Loving, kind humans who have stood by me to ask big questions, to show up with big hearts, and to challenge the status quo.

This audience makes me feel so seen and loved in this world. I really want yall to know that.

While my personal life was unraveling and my faith deconstructing--this page was my haven and support.

And you know what?

As I am healing and coming into my own once more, it still is.

So thank you, readers, from the bottom of my heart, for being here. For supporting my writing, and in turn, supporting me.

Thank you for sharing your own stories.

Every time someone writes a comment, I may not always respond, but I see it.

I feel it.

And it means the world to me. 💚

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Dear friends,

As I hope this post has made clear, it means everything to me that you’re here. Writing is not only my work—it’s my way of connecting with you, and I’m deeply grateful for that. I’ll always keep my words open and accessible because encouragement should never come with a price tag.

For those of you who choose to support this work financially, thank you for keeping the lights on.

With love and gratitude,

Mary Katherine