I posted this sentiment as an aside comment, and several people wanted to chat about it, so I’m making it a full post.

In 2013 and 2014, I served a mission for my church in the northern half of Italy. When I came home, I told those closest to me that they would be hard-pressed to find somebody who loved their mission more than I did. (Note: I said more than I did, not as much as I did.) That sentiment still rings true. I love talking about it because I loved my mission.

And it is also true that some of the most painful moments of my life happened on or stemmed from my mission. I have shared I was sexually assaulted on my mission and frequently sexually harassed during it, and that I was later stalked by somebody I met on my mission. I also developed health problems on my mission that made most of my time on my mission extremely painful and left me with lingering health effects.

All of that pain is very real, and so is the love I have for my mission. This juxtaposition of loving my mission and recognizing it caused some very deep wounds and some intense pain is (to be cliché) very complicated for me and stirs very poignant emotions. I also know I’m far from unique in feeling this way.

I want to be clear about one thing from the get-go. This is my experience, and these are my thoughts. Neither is universal. It is my personal experience, and I do not judge anybody who chose differently or feels differently. I know many amazing people who cannot honestly say they loved their mission. There is nothing wrong with that in my book. Many say it was really, really hard, and they are glad they did it, but they did not love it and would not want to do it again. And for many, memories of their mission sparks only pain for many reasons. I hold no judgment for any of that. All of that is valid.

I’ve been told by more than one person that my eyes light up, and my demeanor changes when I talk about my mission. I absolutely loved it, and I still do!

When I think of my mission, I think about service and connection. I think of the Italian, Nigerian, Ghanaian, Senegalese, Bolivian, Ecuadorian, and Peruvian grandmas and mothers who loved me so freely and so fully and fiercely. They didn’t need to know somebody to love them.

I think of all the people who wanted to make sure I was fed and taken care of physically. I think of the American woman who helped me with my health issues and our many apartment issues so carefully. I think of the small branches that were full of such passion and vigor. I think of the deep faith and power of so many I met.

I think of the man from Ghana that I started teaching how to read. Though I will admit, I should have let my companion be more involved in that process. (Sorry, companion!) I think of the Nigerian refugees I met who trusted me with their stories and told me their deep struggles. I think of the Italian man who told me about his desires and hopes for a better life but told me about how his many crippling addictions were holding him back but how he was scared to try to change because his fear of failure. (Addiction is the right word to use here as well.) I think of the Italian woman who had a horrible break-up and called to tell us she was depressed and didn’t know who else to call. I think of the people who wanted to learn English to better their lives that we taught.

I also think of the woman who told me about her harrowing escape from war and asked me to help refugees when I returned home. I think of the impoverished woman who told me to help poor people like her when I returned. I also think of the woman I met who had been and was being trafficked and who also asked me to help people like her. I think about how I have tried to live up to these sacred requests and how I will continue to do so.

I think of the ways in which we got to go about doing good. I do also think of the religious aspects and teachings, but honestly, more than anything else, I mostly think of the people and their goodness (member and non-member alike.) I think about how I would tell them stories about my life and my family and how they would do the same. I think of the deeply meaningful conversations and the deep connections that were forged. This, too, is sacred to me.

I met people on my mission who changed me forever and left deep imprints on my soul. I think of them and the lessons they taught me often.

When I think of my mission, I also think of my companions. How much they taught me and changed me, and how much we grew and learned together. I think of the experiences, the burdens, the fears, the hopes, and the dreams we shared with each other. I think of all the support and patience they showed me. I think of the times I fell short most of all.

I often think of all the times and ways I could have been a better companion. It’s my one and only regret from my mission—the times I wasn’t a good companion. That’s not to say I think I was awful. I remain close to several of my companions, and I tried very hard to focus on them above anything and everything else. I often succeeded. The times I failed still haunt me. I also know that the deep and immense pain I often felt made it hard for me always to show up as kindly and vibrantly as I wanted to. When you’re in deep constant pain, it is a struggle to show up with true courage and charity as often as you would like—especially when you can never truly be alone.

My mission left an indelible mark on me. I could never regret my mission. I could never not love it. I do love it with all my heart I am so grateful for it. And it is also true that my mission was extremely painful.

When I think of my mission, I also think of pain. I will touch briefly on that pain. About six months in, I became very, very sick. Any time I ate food started leaving me in excruciating pain. Not eating also left me in a different sort of pain and a very weakened state. A right old catch-22. Eat and feel pain; don’t eat and feel a different kind of pain. I would feel like I was being stabbed over and over again underneath my ribs every time I ate most food. At one point, people thought I was having an appendicitis attack because the pain was so bad, but it was on the wrong side to be appendicitis. Another time, part of my body went into a sort of shock due to the pain. Only very plain white foods didn’t cause me debilitating pain, but all food left me with at least a constant dull ache and feeling weak. Best doctors can tell it started with a bad bacterial infection. In short, the pain was constant. The restrictions, many. (And it fueled some fun rumors that I had eating disorders on my mission.)

When it started, I was asked if I wanted to go home. I thought about it. I prayed about it. I felt strongly that if I wanted to, I could go home. That going home would ease the symptoms, and I could get more help in the states, and that if I wanted to go home, the Lord would count my service as full and complete, and so could I. I could go home without shame.

And I also felt that if I wanted to stay, I could. I also felt that it would not be easy and that I would be in a lot of pain the whole time, but that the Lord would help me make it, and I could do it if I desired to. I felt that it was my choice and mine alone. I chose to stay because I loved my mission, and I didn’t want to go home. I wanted to keep experiencing what I explained above. (Others not of my faith may have a different read of this, such as intuition, and that’s okay, but I didn’t feel coerced. It was a decision I made and one I felt supported in.)

I was right. I did make it. I was in immense pain throughout the rest of my mission more often than not, and the symptoms did ease when I got home.

I do want to be very clear here. I don’t judge anybody who faced different circumstances, felt differently, or made different decisions. I sincerely don’t. Everybody’s life stories and situations are different. My health condition and pain allowed for me to stay, and I wanted to. Not everybody had the ability to make that choice to stay with their ailments, and some may not have wanted to and chosen to go home. I judge neither. Sincerely, I don’t. It’s a complicated calculus and one not everybody gets the chance to make.

I have also written about my experiences with sexual harassment and sexual assault on my mission. I won’t do so in-depth again here. You can read some about it here. The harassment was constant, and it, too, left its mark. I am forever changed and forever altered because of those experiences. As I also recently wrote, somebody I met on my mission stalked me after and left me terrified. That, too, left its mark and sorrows. It, too, left me forever changed and altered.

Now did my mission cause my assault, health issues, or harassment, or did it just happen there? That’s a tough question with no easy answers. But all of this happened on my mission or because of it. That’s a reality every bit as true as the fact that my mission is defined by immense joy. Immense joy and immense pain, like two sides of the same beautifully messy coin.

So when I think of my mission, I think of the deep connection and soul work that occurred, whether the conversation was inherently religious or not. And I also think of the lack of safety I felt, the fear, the health problems that linger, and the pain that came from this time. And I know I’m not alone in this.

We need to be doing better here.

Loving your mission and also knowing it caused pain while also knowing that some of the rhetoric surrounding how we talk about missions is unhealthy or problematic makes many people very uncomfortable very quickly. Many are quick to excuse anything but the good, and many are quick to dismiss all of the good.

I have also been critical about how “health experts” in the MTC and on the mission inappropriately and incorrectly advised women about their health (e.g., telling one it was okay that she was bleeding every day for months and telling others it was okay if they stopped having their period completely while on their mission or that “it was a blessing of serving” when it was actually a signal of real health problems for them that shouldn’t have been so glibly dismissed.)

I am also concerned about the broader safety and well-being of missionaries. Many former missionaries have written me privately to talk about harassment, abuse, assault, and heart-wrenching trials they experienced on their mission. People have written to tell me about their companions threatening to kill themselves by suicide or witnessing others experiencing extreme bouts of severe mental health due to going off medications they needed but couldn’t use while on a mission. I’ve had people write me about being held up at knife or gunpoint. And yes, many have written to tell me about sexual assault and harassment by companions or others while serving. Some who have written me served decades ago, and some only a few years ago.

I think my fellow church members and church organization need to do a lot better job at talking and strategizing about the physical, mental, sexual, emotional, and spiritual safety and well-being of our missionaries. I think the church body and organization are improving here, but there is more work to do.

“Obedience missionaries are save missionaries.” The problems this simple phrase has said. It’s easy to say and far more complicated in reality. I think it’s a statement we need to examine very carefully.

I don’t think it started from a bad place. It likely came from parents desperately wanting to believe the Lord was looking out for their children when they couldn’t and when they were far away. And I don’t think the sentiment is entirely wrong. I believe the prayers of parents are exceptionally strong, and I do believe I had extra angels looking out for me on my mission. (For those of other faiths, you can modify this to fit a number of different belief systems, but I do feel I had extra protection while serving.)

I also know of many miracles that occur on missions in this regard. I don’t want to discount any of those. I have heard them, experienced them, and know others who have. But obedience did not mean complete safety and well-being for me, and it didn’t for many others either. I know many many good obedient missionaries who faced threats to safety and health of a wide variety.

While this statement did not personally cause me pain or further trauma, for far too many, it has. Their lack of safety or trauma was recast in their mind and sometimes explicitly and incorrectly by others as consequences of lack of obedience. The pain that thought brings too many is soul-crushing. Saying that the Lord doesn’t protect missionaries if they have not been good enough, or worse, that he allows them to be harmed as punishment, is nefarious and leaves long-lasting scars. Especially if that harm is suffering abuse at the hands of another.

Yes, missionaries are often blessed with extra safety, but not always. This is a statement we need to be very careful with. It often merely pours salt on existing and deep wounds.

We need to do better mourning with those who were not always safe on their missions.

Likewise, I think we as members need to actively create more of a space for people to talk about the painful parts of their mission—including and especially the abuse inflicted by companions, members, and other people they met on their missions.

I can’t speak for how prevalent abuse on missions is; I don’t think anybody can. We haven’t tracked that data nearly well enough; we haven’t tracked any data about lack of safety on missions well enough. But if my circle is any indication, it’s far too common and frequent, and far too many have suffered. Whenever I share about my health problems that came on my mission, the assault, the harassment, or the stalking that occurred after, dozens of new people share similar heartbreaking stories with me of abuse or things that never should have happened but that did. Every single time.

And we have largely not created a space where they can heal from this pain and trauma or process it appropriately. People have told me they have never shared their stories for fear of being judged, being viewed as a “hater of the church,” or fear of harming others’ faith or their own. They also do not believe people will see their experiences for what they were and are.

My fellow church members promise to mourn with those that mourn, but when it comes to painful experiences on missions, we often aren’t getting it right. We shut down the stories and turn away because we don’t want to acknowledge the pain or we’re afraid of what the pain may reveal or challenge for us.

Missions are beautiful. Missions are also often traumatic and painful. Both these statements can be true; we often only allow space for only one of these truths, though. (And I have not even spoken of the rejection, the separation, the isolation, or any of that or the emotional pain that stems from that or other health issues here that are also every bit as real. I have spoken mainly of trauma from abuse.)

My hope is that we can shift to creating space for people to let go of unnecessary guilt and trauma they feel surrounding instances on their mission. Guilt and trauma they needlessly carry, in large part, because they have not been provided with adequate tools or space or deep enough love to deal with the traumatic experiences they faced on their mission.

I’m not advocating for “trauma dumping” or people feeling they have to share their stories, but I wish we could all hold more space for the many missionaries who experienced trauma on their missions and help them realize they can unpack it and lay it down. That they need not feel guilty for it; that they need not carry it. That they can acknowledge it when and how they choose without shame, without feeling “not enough.”

I personally had the space and tools I needed, but too many did not.

I also don’t pretend to speak universally here about the “mission experience,” as it’s different for everybody, but these are my thoughts, hopes, and wishes and those of many who have talked with me.

Photo via Unsplash license by Julia Solonina