Listening to Your Gut When You’ve Got Really Loud Anxiety


I struggle with social anxiety. A lot.

When I was a young teenager, I attended a fabulous princess birthday party. As part of the royal treatment, fellow homeschool boys had been recruited to play butlers. One of their jobs was fetching our drinks. At a snap of a finger (or really, a breezy, “Brent, could you refill my glass, please?”) they would happily ladle in some sherbet-colored punch.

This was a nightmarish situation for me.

For one, boys. I was intimidated by boys my age for a variety of incomprehensible reasons that left me in a sweat. For two, inconveniencing people. I could get my punch by myself. I felt uncomfortable being served. Those boys (sharp inhale) probably hated the very idea of cutting their male banter short to serve some punch to an ugly dork like me. (I wasn’t even wearing a prom dress like the other beautiful, sparsely-pimpled girls.) For three, cutting into their male banter. I was (and am) terrible at grabbing people’s attention. It required speaking up. Inserting myself. Making myself seen and heard. Demanding that I be seen and heard, requiring them to dedicate five seconds of their life to ladling punch for me in the middle of their butler-y conversations.

I couldn’t handle any of that.

So I went the whole long party without anything to drink. For some reason, I was exceptionally, dangerously thirsty upon arrival…and I remained so the entire evening. I kept looking for a chance to sneak over to the punch bowl and serve myself, but there was always a crowd of bantering butlers lounging around the counter.

I was beside myself with thirst and anxiety.

And that was pretty much how a decent chunk of my teenage years went. And my college years. And my adult years. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I am felled by such tricky social situations like,

walking around the block multiple times when someone on North Orchard Street is sitting on their porch and might think badly of me for doing so;

coming back for seconds of fruit and crackers at church coffee hour because someone might think I am a glutton; 

or — and this is a tough one —

driving so slowly on the highway at 15 miles over the speed limit that I hold up and inconvenience all the pickup truck dudes who want to go 30 miles over the speed limit.

Do you want to know what my top three anxieties were about giving birth?

(1) At what point do I take my underwear off, and what if I accidentally take it off at the wrong time and people think I’m a slutty weirdo?

(2) Should I bother shaving my winter-hairy legs for childbirth, because hairy legs will probably personally offend the female attendants?

(3) What if I don’t make it to the hospital in time to get an epidural?

Spoiler alert: I didn’t make it to the hospital in time to get an epidural. You want to know why? Because I felt like a silly, uninformed, overthinking wimp about calling the midwife again over whether my contractions were serious enough to come into the hospital. I was so worried I would come to the hospital too early, embarrassing myself and inconveniencing everyone.

My social anxiety led me to almost give birth in the car in rush hour traffic.

The first time I gave birth, I apologized profusely for being in pain. The second time, I was in too much pain to apologize for screaming like a second-rate actor in a medical drama, so my social anxiety had to take a horrified back seat.

It’s really fun being me.

For me, an anxiety flare feels like someone slapped a blindfold over my eyes and yanked it tight. I am blinded and disoriented. I lose all perspective, lose all sense of where the facts and beliefs and thoughts I once had perfectly lined up and ready to go fit together. Depending on the situation, I freeze or fawn. I make myself as inconspicuous, innocuous, and innocent as I can. This is a powerful internal gut response.

And because it’s so overpowering, automatic, and deep-set, I despaired of ever following that oft-touted advice to trust your gut — because my gut reactions usually ended up making everything a whole lot worse for me.

Social anxiety isn’t the greatest at helping you achieve what you want out of life, set boundaries, protect yourself and your kids, or make difficult decisions.

I stuck with making columns of pros and cons, keeping everything as rational and unemotional as possible. The problem was that at the end of the lists and charts and rational arguments, I still needed the courage to implement my decision. Now that I’m older, I know what I believe and want. It’s not a question of what to do. It’s a question of doing it. And even if a decision needed a little pondering, it needed to be done in a reaction time shorter than a whole week of agonizing: no, I’m not going to laugh at that sexist joke to smooth over the social awkwardness; hey, my kid is clearly uncomfortable with you picking him up right now; yes, I’m going to take two kinds of treats at the church coffee hour. 

But I still experience these social dilemmas as a question of what to do. “I don’t know what to do!” I wail at my confidants, after an agonized rambling that, summed up, is, Life is complicated and uncertain but still demands a decision.

At this point, presented with several good, rational options with different outcomes, I am usually advised to “go with what you think is best,” “listen to your gut,” “you do you” — something that assumes I’ve got some sort of guiding principle that’s not my hilariously irrational and self-destructive anxiety.

After some years of adulting, I have learned that I do indeed have an internal guiding principle that’s quite wise, calm, and decisive. It’s the part of me that holds me back from leaping headlong into my anxious impulses, the part that holds the other end of the rope during the back-and-forth tug-o-war about what to do in a tricky situation. I just need to clear the anxiety long enough to hear what that part of me has to say, to feel the force of its calm rationality long enough to do what I know I should do.

And for that, I’ve started asking myself, “What would I do if I wasn’t afraid of what other people would think?”

Usually, my confusion and disorientation is not because I don’t know what I want to do. It’s precisely because I do know what I want to do, and I know that it does (or might) cause another person to react in a negative way. This one question clears the air for a bit. It reframes the issue as not what to do but how to work up the courage to do it. It halts my dithering about in despair and sets me on a clear (if extremely uncomfortable) course.

And if I don’t know exactly what to do, if I’ve lost sight of key facts or beliefs, that question filters out the anxiety enough for me to regroup and regain perspective.

What would I do if I wasn’t afraid of what people would think?

For starters, I would ask for a glass of punch.

Date Night: Re-reading Childhood Favorites


There’s nothing quite like the bond of reading and rehashing a book — even a terrible one. Unfortunately, my husband and I aren’t usually on the same page in our personal reading lives. He likes dense books and technical nonfiction, classics and sweeping five-hundred page narratives. He’s been begging me to read a fantasy trilogy for years that I just can’t work up the interest in. I love character-driven modern novels about relationships, different cultures and lifestyles, and self-discovery. I don’t even bother suggesting my favorite books anymore — though I did buy him Trevor Noah’s Born a Crime for Christmas and got him to love it.

The one book I did read on his recommendation was one of his childhood favorites — River Boy, by Tim Bowler. It was not my cup of tea (even though it should have been, being a moody narrative about loss and growing up), but what kept me reading was trying to figure out why this was my husband’s cup of tea. What did middle-school-aged husband see in this story that kept him coming back again?

It’s a unique sort of intimacy, reading your spouse’s childhood favorites, getting a peek at who they were as a kid, and what that might say about them now.

So we started reading our favorites — together. Fortunately, I love reading aloud, and my husband loves being read to. Children’s literature is generally shorter and faster-paced than our adult favorites, making them perfect for those few grown up hours after the toddler goes to bed.

We just finished one of my favorites that I read a million times growing up — Shadow Spinner, by Susan Fletcher, an adventure tale about a girl helping Shahrazad find stories to fill a thousand and one nights. I must have read it during a homeschool history unit on Persia, and the book is filled with lush, sensual descriptions of the bazaar and harem life. I knew my husband would be just as fascinated as I was by this peek into a different time period, culture, and religion.

Now we’re reading Ella Enchanted, by Gail Carson Levine, another book I’ve read to pieces (literally — I need to dig out some spine-reinforcing packing tape!). It’s already made my husband laugh. There’s something amazing about sharing a book I’ve loved for half my life and seeing my spouse experience it for the first time. (Not as amazing: trying to pronounce all the made-up languages I skipped over when reading to myself….)

Lately, our evenings look like my husband working on his Minecraft world while I read a few chapters aloud…until the baby wakes up. That’s our introverted idea of a great date night!

My Strange Friendship Problem


I was asking myself the other day whether I was lonely. Was I? Was I starving for human companionship that didn’t require me cleaning up half-chewed banana from the table? Was I pining for human conversation that didn’t involve one person screaming bloody murder for ten minutes straight while the other person played a rapid-fire 20 Questions (Is it an injury? An illness? An emotion? Do you need a third banana??)?

Yes, a change of pace is always welcome, but I don’t feel lonely. I don’t feel socially deprived. I am a low energy, introverted mother who wants a nap more than a night out.

Besides, I have friends. I have many amazing friends, some collected and kept from as far back as my high school days. I knew that if I truly needed someone to talk to, I could text any one of them and they’d say, “I can’t tonight, but after I get through this week of overtime and move to a new house and give birth to this baby and raise him to adulthood, we should totally get together!”

No, I truly do have amazing friends who would indeed drop things to at least call me if I really needed them.

I don’t ever really need them, though, because they are busy, and I am busy, and I have learned to live life without being able to pick people’s brains in real time — thus resulting in a strange adult friendship problem that I will share with you now.

When I was in college, the longest I might have to wait for a friend to be available to talk was…not long. If I could just survive classes, I could crash in a cafeteria booth and spill everything. If I couldn’t survive that long, I could text after class and get at least a little bit of human interaction as they walked into their class.

Adult life obligations do not come in block schedule form. They are never-ending, with too few and too short breaks. Counsel and encouragement are often a day, a week, a month away. Obviously I can’t wait that long to solve a pressing issue. And so, I have had to learn to deal with my crises on my own. I have had to learn to self-soothe. I have had to learn to sit and think through things by myself (or post them to a sympathetic Facebook group and hope a helpful person responds with something more substantial than, “No advice, but solidarity” *heart emoji*).

These are all excellent adult skills to have, and I don’t resent the emotional growing up I did while learning to solve my own problems without hand-holding. It feels good to feel competent and self-sufficient, rather than a co-dependent puddle.

But connecting with others is a still a basic human need that doesn’t go away when emotional maturity blossoms. (And if it does, I don’t want to grow up anymore.) Even though I might not need someone sorting life out with me 24/7, even if I can wait until after work hours, I still would like to process things with somebody rather than monologue the half hour round trip to and from work. I don’t need to reach meltdown mode to justify wanting a friend.

The thing is, now that FRANTIC AND IMMEDIATE NEED is not driving my get-togethers, it’s easy for me to say, “Sure, go ahead and raise your child to adulthood — I can wait until you’re free.” And I can. I can. I’m proud of myself that I can.

Here’s the problem.

I am tired, brain dead, low energy introvert. I do not want nor can I muster up much energy to have conversations about things I don’t find interesting. And I’m finding that I’m really only interested in crises and questions and thoughts as they happen in real time, rather than relaying them all in retrospect at a predetermined date. Texting my husband about how the toddler is screaming for ten minutes straight is a far more relevant and interesting conversation when the toddler is doing the screaming…but if I’ve already dealt with it, and had my ten minutes of screaming, and moved on, it takes more energy than I want to give to recap all those exhausting emotions and thought processes. I don’t need him to know about the toddler screaming. I need him when the toddler is screaming.

Same with friends. The days and weeks and months pass, and by that time, I have usually come to a solid, if not entirely satisfactory conclusion or course of action. Since it’s not bearing down on me, mom amnesia and exhaustion set in, and I find that I don’t really have anything interesting to say about my life.

I’m focusing on the negative things because this week has mowed me over, but this is true for happy things too, like vacations and funny memes and sweet anecdotes. I don’t care much about them a couple months after they occur, and even if I do, I probably don’t remember them. I have been trying for a month to remember to tell my husband about the cute elderly couple who ride their electric scooters to the duck pond on Green Bay St. every single evening, holding hands on the park bench and throwing bread crumbs to the duck with the huge cyst on his eyelid. If I can’t even remember to tell the man I see five minutes after I pass that scene, how am I supposed to remember and/or bring it up naturally in conversation with someone I only see once a month? (I did remember to tell him about the duck.)

So when a friend texts, “I’m so sorry to do this to you again, but something came up. Can we try next Monday instead?!”, I say, “Of course!!” Because I have learned to talk to myself in the car.

This has resulted in me not speaking to friends for a shamefully long time, which has resulted in me wondering if I’m lonely. I still don’t think I am — the simple existence of people I love and people who love me is buffer against that — but I do need and want to spend more of my life, the crises and the play time, with friends, instead of scheduling coffee dates a few times a year to catch up on all the things that are no longer a source of much frustration, joy, and thus, interest, in our lives.

Maybe I could just call people on my way home from work and talk to them instead of texting them after work to schedule a time to talk. But that’s weird, right? And requires that I get over my deal with talking on the phone.

Ah, well, no worries. I’m sure I’ll figure it out soon in one of those heart-to-hearts with the bathroom mirror.

Do Expectations Kill Happy Marriages?


“Remember, expectations kill happy marriages!”

It sounds right. Αfter all, many of us have found ourselves stewing in hurt or bitterness because we expected one thing and got another. Sometimes we felt those expectations were justifiable (seriously, just throw the socks in the hamper already), sometimes we realize those expectations weren’t quite fair (how was he supposed to know I wanted a birthday breakfast in bed if I didn’t tell him?). Marriage involves compromises and communication, not stubbornness and reading each other’s minds.

But I don’t like the expectations-kill-happy-marriages advice. It doesn’t clarify what “expectations” mean. Worse, it implies that the only solution to unmet expectations is giving them up altogether. In fact, if you listen to popular Christian wife advice, the takeaway from expectations-kill-happy-marriages is this: You silly woman, your feelings and perspectives are what’s killing your marriage. Swallow your feelings, change your perspective, and your marriage will be hunky dory!

This might be the only survival method in a marriage where the husband’s perspective, feelings, and decisions take precedence, but this sort of thinking has no place in an egalitarian marriage. Our feelings are real, valid, and insightful. Our perspectives are significant and necessary. Our marriage’s happiness does not lie in forced female cheerfulness, but rather on mutual understanding, communication, and accommodation.

I think it’s unequivocally true that regardless of what kind of expectations they are, unexaminedunexpressed expectations kill marriages. No matter how eager and proactive the husband, if he doesn’t know what she wants, he doesn’t know what she wants.

Often those expectations go unexamined and unexpressed because they’re such basic, fundamental things, things you think you both understand and agree on. Throwing tissues next to the wastebasket instead of in it? Seriously? That never came up during premarital counseling.

Unexamined and unexpressed, “I expect you to throw your tissues in the wastebasket instead of leaving them lying around all weekend” is a real marriage killer. (Ask me how I know….) Unexamined and unexpressed, it invites frustration, irritation, exhaustion, and a negative view of your spouses’s character. 

Once examined, that expectation can be expressed in a productive way: “It really bothers me that you leave your tissues lying around when there’s a wastebasket right now. I think that you should toss them immediately so that I don’t go crazy looking at them all weekend. Can you make it a priority to throw them away sooner rather than later?”

There’s nothing wrong with that expectation. It just needs to be understood as an expectation, as an issue that irritates you, and then communicated as such.

Another way unexamined and unexpressed expectations wreak havoc on marital bliss is when spouses don’t know what they want, especially when those expectations get buried under psuedo-arguments. Pseudo-arguments, in relationship psychology, are arguments that on the surface are about the tissues tossed next to the wastebasket, but at its core are about deeper issues relating to trust and commitment: “I don’t think you’re pulling your weight around the house. I don’t feel like you respect my feelings. I don’t think you’re taking my exhaustion seriously. I don’t feel heard or respected. I feel alone and unseen.”

That’s not to say that the tissues aren’t an irritation unto themselves, but the real heat and passion about the tissues comes from the disrespect and loneliness you feel after the tissue expectation goes misunderstood or unmet.

Again, the expectations aren’t at fault, but rather the lack of understanding and communication about them.

The first response to unmet expectations should not be to ignore your reactions or change your expectations. Strong feelings are not a sign of “being silly”; they are red flags signalling a deeper problem about being seen, loved, respected, and helped. Instead of dismissing unmet expectations outright, the disappointed party should examine the expectations thoroughly until she or he knows precisely what the expectation is, and then communicate that expectation clearly, respectfully, and collaboratively.

Unaccommodated expectations kill happy marriages too.

Here’s my unorthodox opinion: marital happiness rides and dies not only on one spouse clearly, respectfully, and collaboratively communicating expectations, but on the other spouse’s willingness to understand and accommodate these expectations. 

Marriage itself is a set of non-negotiable expectations. Those expectations can be mutually changed or lowered, but at a certain point, they shift so much that they no longer resemble marriage.

At its core, marriage is (or ought to be) one giant expectation that you can trust your spouse to care about what you care about. It’s one giant expectation that you will both meet each other’s needs and honor each other’s wishes. Marital trust is built on those expectations; marital commitment follows through on those expectations. Happy, healthy marriages might look different in other specifics, but that is because the individuals within those marriages have different needs and wishes being met — emphasis on being met.

The fact that your happy Christian wife friend can overlook the tissues at her house is a sign that (1) she’s in denial or (2) tissues left by the wastebasket don’t bother her. It’s not a sign that scattered tissues shouldn’t bother you.

This does not mean that you should expect to get your own way, always, exactly as you envision it. That is a dysfunctional expectation, born out of a scarcity mindset, out of a lifetime of being told that either you matter or the one you love matters: you cannot both matter and maintain the relationship at the same time.

That’s why it’s essential to examine even the smallest, most petty expectation, to see where the non-negotiable expectations lie. Only when the expectations are drawn out as distinct, uncompromisable circles can they overlap into a Venn diagram of mutual compromise.

Maybe you can live with tissues lying out longer than you’d personally prefer, because the real issue is that you can’t live with picking up after a grown man. He wants a more lax, independent, let-me-deal-with-it-when-I-feel-like-it approach, and you don’t want to deal with it at all. Maybe the compromise is that he does whatever he wants with the tissues as long as they’re cleaned up by the end of the evening, or that the tissues must stay contained on his personal desk. Whatever the compromise, it cannot be reached by lowering the expectation that the wife’s feelings and desires matter.

That’s often the unspoken command underlying “expectations kill happy marriages,” isn’t it? It’s not asking wives to compromise on the things they can live with. It’s requiring wives to compromise on the things they can’t live with. In order for their marriage to continue, their feelings, their personhood, their rights, their desires, their needs must cease mattering.

And honestly, sadly, that’s what many marriages do require to continue: a relinquishing of the expectation that both spouses matter. Marriage becomes an either/or (either my spouse matters or I matter), instead of a both/and (I matter, and he matters, so what can we do to meet both of our needs and desires?).

This might be a functional relationship in the sense that it keeps conflict at bay or the couple out of divorce court. Unfortunately for those with a scarcity mindset, maybe this is the only kind of relationship where they feel loved or loving.

But it’s not a marriage.

So do expectations kill happy marriages?

It depends.

It depends on the precise expectation. An expectation that you matter more or you matter less, for example — that can kill a happy marriage. An unexamined and misdirected expectation can kill a happy marriage (and that’s really what the either/or expectation is — an unexamined, misunderstood expectation of love). Unexpressed expectations kill happy marriages. And rebuffed expectations — those kill happy marriages too. Failing to meet certain expectations — to be faithful, caring, respectful — destroys a marriage altogether.

But when examined, expressed, and accommodated without compromising the other spouse’s needs and desires, expectations don’t kill happy marriages. In fact, they are the very stuff that happy marriages are made of.

I’m Wearing Braces for Lent

Photo Credit

The timing couldn’t have been better. I was having trouble thinking of what to give up for Lent this year. I’m not huge into fasting as a beneficial thing, as I’ve practiced enough self-flagellation in my lifetime that it doesn’t help me all that much. Once when I was younger, I tried fasting from food for twenty-four hours. In reality, I only skipped an additional snack or two, since it was normal for me to avoid cooking and eating in order to get on with my writing and reading. Cooking and eating three square meals a day would’ve put my feet to the spiritual fire. Intentionally nourishing my body and soul — that’s often the truer sacrifice for me.

I’m not a fan of giving up what’s good or needed (like food) for some ethereal higher purpose. Theologically, I think asceticism is anti-Christian. It introduces a dichotomy between body and spirit that’s confusing at best. We do not become more like Christ by abandoning our body and its needs. Christ became man so that our path to God could be distinctly human — not body-less.

But I do appreciate the practice of Lent when approached as giving up what’s easy for what’s good and necessary. Last year I gave up social media. The initial day or two was a bit hard, but once I was freed from the fear of missing out — it was, after all, only for forty days — I was free, indeed. I tapped into something my body and soul desperately needed: the headspace and time to do other nourishing things, headspace and time that Facebook had monopolized.

For whatever reason, I wasn’t feeling led to give up social media this year. So what would I give up?

Enter adult braces.

Yes, folks, I am a twenty-four-year-old in need of braces. Two days before Ash Wednesday, the orthodontist glued the brackets onto my teeth, strung them up with wire, and sent me off with a goody bag full of strange cleaning tools.

Braces are insanely primitive — a whole bunch of METAL and WIRE, GLUED (yes, GLUED) to your teeth, in order to wrench bone through gums. And your body responds to them as the primitive contraptions that they are: it salivates over them as it does any foreign object. Your poor teeth ache from the pressure. Your even poorer lips and cheeks get shredded and sore until they literally callous over from the braces rubbing up against them.

P.S. The only real way to circumvent your mouth’s inner suffering is sticking wads of wax all over the brackets. Attractive.

And actually functioning with braces? Well, it’s about as gainly as walking with your shoelaces tied together. There I was on Ash Wednesday, the alto section leader, trying desperately to swallow excess saliva at every breath mark, my lips getting stuck on the brackets, my soft consonants going tacky.

It’s a great way to remember one’s mortality, in a reverse fashion — your once normal adult mouth getting reduced to a goulish metallic grin that cancels out all the maturity you worked so hard to project in your already youthful body. And by youthful, I don’t mean the sexy kind. I mean the kind where someone asks what high school you attend, even though you’re married, with a child, six years out from your last high school experience.

I haven’t even kissed my husband yet. Mostly because it hurts, but also because I feel thirteen again.

That’s really the worst part of adult braces. You’re supposed to have your teeth together by now — you’re married with a child six years out of high school, for Pete’s sake. You’re supposed to have your teeth together, and you don’t, and everyone knows it.

It’s my worst nightmare: everyone, from total strangers to my in laws to my coworkers to my beloved husband, everyone, everyone, everyone knows something weird and unattractive about myself, and I can’t do a thing about them knowing.

It’s one of those things that are private enough (or gross enough?) that nobody feels comfortable acknowledging, so it becomes the elephant in the room. You know they know about your mouth full of metal and wire, but they’re too polite to say anything, and it’s silly for you to pretend your entire mouth isn’t radically altered, but you’re too polite to weird them out with your dental sob story.

I’ve never felt much insecurity about my body, but now I feel all of it. I try not to smile too big or talk too much — mostly because, again, it hurts, but also because I’m desperately trying to cling on to control over how I appear to people. I want to be that put-together adult woman with all her teeth in a straight row, and now I look like a thirteen-year-old with obvious dental problems.

That’s what I’m giving up for Lent: my carefully curated self-image of perfection — an image that’s as unobtrusive, benign, normal, and put-together as possible. An image all can love. An image that doesn’t shock or confuse or weird anyone out. An image that invites affection and admiration. An image that doesn’t let out all the crazy and gross and problematic unless it’s on my terms.

And with that carefully curated self-image, I fostered a belief that I could only be loved and appreciated if I was lovable and appreciable in every minute way; if I was normal and benign and mature and put-together, not quirky and flawed and needing a couple more years to mature. And along with that was a belief that by being normal and benign and mature and put-together and not quirky and flawed and needing a couple more years to mature, I could ensure that people would love me.

Well, my adult braces have blown that smokescreen right up.

Being forced to give up control over a very noticeable part of my body — I am forced to realize a few facts of life that were true before I had braces, are true now that I have them, and will continue to be true when I get them off: I am flawed, and I am loved, and I can’t control either of those things.

The response to my monstrosity of metal and wire has been nothing but gracious. My preschool students didn’t notice at first, and when one did, they all demanded to see them, open-mouthed, studious — and then they moved on without a word of praise or censure. My husband asked to see them, and I said no, and he said okay, and didn’t indulge me my wild fantasies of him either having a thing for metal-mouthed women or filing for divorce at the sight of me. Nobody has done the no-you-look-good! protest that we all know is fake. They’ve just noticed and been kind. No admiration, no pity, no revulsion.

Because really, adult braces — and adults with obvious flaws — are incredibly normal.

For Lent, I’m letting myself receive grace, love, and normalcy despite those obvious flaws, dental and otherwise.

And I’m obsessively brushing my teeth.

Marriage Is Not for Sanctification


If you read almost any Christian marriage resource, you’ll hear something along the lines of marriage being about sanctification. Its purpose: to reveal just how selfish and awful we are, and to make us more loving, patient, and kind. That’s what makes marriage hard, you know: we’re such awful, selfish people, but that’s what happens when two sinners marry. That’s marriage.

Anybody who’s been in a relationship with anybody, married or not, will certainly agree that they do see ugly, selfish sides to both themselves and their loved ones. Marriage is hard.

But I think there’s a crucial difference between saying that “you will be sanctified through marriage” vs. “marriage is for sanctification,” or “marriage is hard” vs. “marriage is supposed to be hard.” When we say that marriage is for sanctification or that marriage is supposed to be hard, we run the risk of normalizing dysfunction or even abuse.

If you’ve internalized complementarian teaching, there’s a good chance you struggle with setting appropriate boundaries, understanding the difference between a responsibility to your husband and a responsibility for your husband, believing deep in your soul that you matter, and expecting to be treated with love, decency, and respect. And frankly, I think trying to figure out an egalitarian marriage with a post-complementarian mindset is brutal. You swing back and forth between pulling yourself up to your full height and demanding equal treatment, and crumpling into guilt and acquiescence.

This creates a cycle of dysfunction that keeps you down: the more you feel disrespected and unheard, the more harshly you demand and expect; the more harshly you demand and expect, the more you feel guilty and acquiesce. The more you acquiesce, the more you put up with dysfunction. The more you put up with dysfunction, the more you feel disrespected and unheard, and so on.

Things cycle through the brink of disaster to happy making up to tolerableness, resulting in a marriage that’s never bad enough to be worth ending, but is it worth much else?

For many women, this is all they know. This is what they witnessed growing up. This is the treatment they experienced as children. This is what they encountered in dating relationships. This is what they think marriage is. And when Christians say that marriage is supposed to be hard, that marriage is supposed to manifest your rotten core, they normalize this dysfunctional cycle, this feeling that marriage is such a pointless struggle, this burden of feeling unloved, unnoticed, and frustrated most of the time. Instead of teaching that hard times are an inevitable part of marriage, the “marriage is for sanctification” line makes hard times — and indeed self-loathing and despair — the default.

If you’re not suffering, do you even have a real marriage?

“Marriage is for sanctification” makes finding a truly respectful, mature, loving spouse a daydream. A mostly happy, satisfying marriage? That’s a girlish fantasy. True love is hard work and sacrifice. And it is, at times, but it’s purposeful and productive work, not spinning your wheels in a dysfunctional cycle.

“Marriage is for sanctification” presumes that the normal capabilities of adult men and women are dysfunctional and sinful, that the sanctification process men and women experienced before marriage isn’t terribly effective to making a mostly happy marriage possible.

“Marriage is for sanctification” makes signs of dysfunction and abuse signs that you’re doing it right, that God is working on you, that you’re truly loving each other, so hang in there.

Some Christian teachers explicitly tell women to stay with abusive partners and dysfunctional marriages for sanctification purposes (theirs or their husbands’). This occurs again and again even in complementarian rhetoric that decries the abusive use of husbands’ authority. But even more egalitarian marriage teaching, or complementarian couples who function with mutual submission, use this line. It’s especially confusing when couples who do have happy marriages say things like “marriage is hard” and “marriage is for sanctification” — without clarifying that marriage is not meant to be a daily struggle.

Marriage is supposed to be a supportive relationship. Marriage is supposed to be a solace, not a struggle. Marriage originated pre-Fall, before the need for sanctification and sacrifice. Marriage is supposed to be for you and for your spouse. If marriage feels like a burden, a drain, or a frustration, if marriage is the biggest trial in your life, if “love your enemy” is your mantra to get you through your daily marriage interactions, this is not how it’s supposed to be. This is dysfunction, not sanctification. This is not a sign of normalcy. If you’re not married yet, these should be blaring red flags. They may be depressingly common struggles, but they don’t comprise a normal stage that all healthy relationships go through.

Marriage is not for sanctification.

We are not rotten, awful people who need our sin thrown in our faces until we get it right. We are people with inherent dignity and value who require a secure attachment to people who love us for who we are, even though we’re not perfect.

Actually, I take it back: if we define sanctification as becoming our best selves, marriage is for sanctification — but that sanctification ought to come through being unconditionally loved, respected, supported, and gently corrected — not torn down, run over, or wrung out. 

I don’t want to take away hope from those currently within dysfunctional marriages. Nor do I deny the redemptive ways couples view their hard times. It’s not possible to be in any relationship without experiencing some sort of disappointment, hurt, and conflict, and it’s important for our marriages that we come to situate those moments within a story of mutual and personal growth.

But there’s a big difference between saying that God can redeem a dysfunctional marriage and implying that a dysfunctional marriage will redeem you. I don’t believe that Christian teachers are making this distinction clear or that it’s coming across clearly to those whose definition of “normal” is dysfunction and disrespect.

A disrespectful, inattentive, immature, selfish, angry, or emotionally unintelligent spouse is not going to change you into a better person. It’s going to derail and exhaust you from personal sanctification, sucking you into that dysfunctional cycle of rage and guilty acquiescence. But a marriage to a respectful, attentive, mature, selfless, self-controlled, and emotionally intelligent spouse? That’s the kind of marriage that sanctifies you.

It’s Not Right That You Got Screamed At, but It’s Good


I write a lot about the importance of civility when discussing and debating beliefs and experiences (even though I personally want to throttle some people with certain disgusting, ignorant views). It’s a matter of pragmatism, if not principle: People can’t think when you’re yelling at them. People are less inclined to hear you when you hurl insults at them. Plus, it’s unkind and unloving and all that.

That is true. I believe that. I believe we all need to take that to heart — victims, minorities, the oppressed, everyone. Everyone needs to extend grace and understanding. Love begets love, hate begets hate, ignorance begets ignorance, understanding begets understanding, and so on.

But, on another pragmatic note, I’m realizing that not everyone can, will, or wants to extend grace, understanding, or even the pretense of civility. Trauma, oppression, stress — it impairs people’s ability to self-regulate, just as being cussed out for your opposing viewpoint impairs your ability to listen and extend sympathy. As a person of privilege, it’s my job to hang in with what I perceive as tough conversations or unfair treatment or misunderstandings that make me, for that moment in time, feel dismissed or unheard.

It’s not because I think that my hurt is less valuable. It’s that I usually have less to lose if I’m unheard and misunderstood than disadvantaged people are. Hurt feelings and harsh encounters are no fun, but at least my way of life doesn’t ride on me persuading others to hear, understand, or accept me.

I think it’s important to sit with the hard conversations where I feel attacked and misunderstood, if only for this pragmatic reason: oftentimes I don’t truly understand a minority person’s lived experience unless they are speaking without any limitations or fear of repercussions at all — especially the limitation of civility or the fear of being “not nice.”

In my ongoing journey of becoming a foster parent, I joined a Facebook group that sought to give adoptive parents and hopeful adoptive parents the honest-to-God truth about adoption from adoptees’ perspectives. One of their rules was absolutely zero tone policing of adoptees. None. There were no protections for adoptive parents or hopeful adoptive parents. Adoptees could say exactly how they felt in whatever way they felt like it.

It was a brutal experience. Unsuspecting new members left in droves, unable to withstand the cursing out, the taking to task, and the rude, unsympathetic treatment of their questions or experiences. I almost left myself. Like I said, I value civility and nuance, and I didn’t feel like that this group provided that. I felt unsafe. I struggled to learn. I didn’t experience any grace. I was afraid to ask questions or say anything for fear of evisceration.

But I hung in there, and finally, slowly began to understand this group’s perspective — and even value the space’s no tone policing rule as critical to my learning process. Adoptees cannot share their honest opinions about adoption or their adoptive families because they’re out on the street (emotionally or literally) if they can’t figure out how to appease their adoptive families and fit in. Plus, there is such an entrenched narrative about how amazing adoption is and how lucky adoptees are, such a strong parent-centric focus, that any dissenting voices in the conversation get brushed away. There are so few places for adoptees to speak candidly about their experience that nobody is listening. Nobody is sitting with their full experience — especially not their pain, anger, and powerlessness.

As a person privileged enough to be unattached to adoption issues, I am not going to have a chance at understanding their life experience if I want to deal with only the civilized, sanitized version — a version they didn’t experience.

It’s a frustrating reality for everyone on all sides of conversations where disadvantage and privilege exist: it’s difficult to learn about another person’s pain when it’s coming at you no holds barred — and it’s difficult to learn about another person’s pain when it’s presented tactfully, civilly, and graciously. It’s difficult to be humble and compassionate towards someone when she’s lambasting you for a microaggression — but it’s difficult to be humble and compassionate enough to recognize just how much of a negative impact your well-meaning action had when someone calmly explains your mistake.

If I’m remembering this anecdote correctly, Ta-Nehisi Coates heard a white student share about experiencing prejudice on an historically black campus — something along the lines of others openly looking at him as if he didn’t belong and wasn’t welcome. Coates commented (paraphrased), “It wasn’t right, but it was good.” It wasn’t right that the student experienced such a shunning and an unwelcoming, but it was good for him to understand that this is the black experience in predominantly white America. Perhaps that was the only way he could understand.

It’s never right to treat another human unkindly, and it’s not right to codify unkindness as a communication method. We all carry our pain that deserves sensitivity; we all deserve dignity and respect, regardless of what privileges or disadvantages we posses. (And we all are a mosaic of privileges and disadvantages.)

But there are many not right things in this world, so many that it would require an impossible measure of strength from people who are already laid flat to accurately but civilly convey their experience to people who mean well but don’t get it. Since there are so many flaws both in delivery and reception of hard-to-fathom experiences between the privileged and the under-privileged, it is always good to listen and learn from all people — even the ones uncivilly screaming in your face. Everyone matters, but when we triage for justice, we must prioritize those facing oppression, discrimination, and prejudice over our own hurt feelings.

(P.S. I’m extremely bad at this.)

The Importance of Blast-Ended Skrewts and Other Harmful, Useless, and Annoying Creatures

Via Pottermore

One of the things I love about J. K. Rowling’s Wizarding World is the presence of all kinds of humans, magical creatures, and different mixes and sub-categories of the two. There are quite literally different kinds of beings — house elves, centaurs, giants, blast-ended skrewts. They all operate under their own laws, in their own communities, in their own ways. And a good many sub-plots deal with the inter-mingling of these different kinds of creatures — particularly, how to treat them as equals without necessarily treating them as human (as if humanness were the ultimate standard of being, as the centaurs scoff in The Order of the Phoenix).

It’s a big but sometimes subtle theme running through the series: peace between different worlds, communities, and kinds of creatures requires an appreciation of individuals and kinds for who they are. Hagrid admires and cares for the worst of the magical creatures, finding joy in dangerous and ugly things that aren’t tamed or meant for human companionship or service. Mr. Weasley, despite being a pure-blood wizard, is fascinated with the Muggles and their way of life, not only protecting Muggles from regurgitating toilets and biting doorknobs but allowing Muggle influence into his own life (like trying out medical stitches as an alternative treatment). And in Hogwarts itself, Dumbledore shelters, employs, and trusts a whole host of characters who are incompetent, useless, and sometimes evil — the emotionally abusive Snape, all the Slytherins with Death Eater ties, phony Professor Trelawney, crotchety Filch whose idea of justice is stringing up students who track mud through his halls, and the mischievous Peeves who exists solely to wreak havoc in the castle.

We learn throughout the series of these characters’ hurts, back stories, and vulnerabilities. While Dumbledore is aware of these shortcomings and their effects on pupils, he extends patience, respect, and understanding to them, and expects students to do the same. They are inconvenient, annoying, and even harmful, but that, it seems, isn’t the litmus test for acceptance in the Hogwarts community.

This is what fascinates me about Dumbledore’s accepting community: He includes people we in the Muggle world are busy trying to oust from our communities. Only when people arise with the true power to harm students through taking away their agency (Professor Umbrage, ahem) or destroying who they are altogether (Voldemort) does he oppose and remove them from Hogwarts. The racist Slytherins remain at Hogwarts, but the racist Umbrage is removed from control of the community. The authoritarian Filch remains, but Dumbledore never allows him to act out his authoritarian wishes. Flawed — even horrible — people remain in the community as long as they cooperate with or are able to be kept in check by Dumbledore’s restrictions.

Otherwise, the message is clear: Since you’ve got the freedom to be who you are, stand up for yourself, switch classes, and appeal to sympathetic authorities, you’re expected to live at peace with everyone.

(This, I think, is where the Christian message of love and grace breaks down: too often Christians teach a radical personal love without trying to set up a community or a concept of self that protects everyone. All churches, countries, families, marriages, and other relationships must ensure the above freedoms and agencies, or people will not be safe enough or empowered enough to love their enemies or their obnoxious neighbors.)

Everybody in the series has their own struggles with this expectation. For instance, Hagrid’s love and respect of all creatures leads him to try to capture, tame, or interact with dangerous creatures best left at a distance. (See the disastrous blast-ended skrewt lesson pictured above.) Hermione tries to figure out how to respect the house elves’ dignity on their own terms while challenging their unfair treatment. And then there’s the obvious problem of racist pure-blood wizards who harm or look down upon Squibs, Muggles, and Muggle-born wizards — or otherwise good-hearted people with prejudice, like Sirius, who treats Snape and Kreacher in horrible ways for understandable, if close-minded, reasons.

I’ve been thinking about how badly we in the Muggle world need to understand these things: There are truly different kinds of people and different kinds of communities who thrive best when allowed to live according to their own internal standards. Often when we do see different kinds of humans, we categorize them wrongly — either along the wrong differences (race, ethnicity, sex) or in the wrong way (through power hierarchies or through division, separation, and restriction). We judge and value different kinds of people by how similar or how innocuous or how useful they are to our ways of being human.

In my marriage, in my raising of kids, and in my interactions with other people, I’ve become aware of just how different my husband and my son and other individuals are. They are interested in different things. They prioritize different things. They struggle with different things. And it’s tempting to try to shape them into ways of being that minimize all annoyance, inconvenience, and hurt for me.

Of course, where people have true power to harm others or to restrict their being in Umbrage-like fashion, they must be opposed, and they must change. Where people aren’t growing well in the ways of their own kind, or in ways that aren’t conducive to peace, I must support them in changing and growing (if they’re willing) and/or set appropriate boundaries (if they’re unwilling). But where there are simply inter-species, inter-house, inter-kind differences, it’s my job to love them, appreciate them, and encourage them to be as they are — just as I want them to love, appreciate, and encourage me to be as I am.

This doesn’t mean ignoring my limitations and weaknesses or their potential to harm me. In fact, it’s imperative that I understand my vulnerabilities, their triggers (which are often their own vulnerabilities too), and what happens when you mix the two. We instinctively understand this when we humans interact with animals (or magical creatures). We keep our distance, or wear protective gear, or move more slowly, or interact in ways the animal recognizes as peaceable — bowing to the hippogriff, as it were, instead of looking it in the eye and basically asking for it to strike. We understand that hippogriffs aren’t dangerous unless blatantly provoked, that peaceable encounters between kinds rely a lot on education and respect.

I’m learning to do the same with the people I love…and the people who annoy me to no end, or even harm me in some ways. The Gottman Institute reports that 69% of marital conflicts are unsolvable — resolutely and immovably rooted in fundamental differences. The difference between happy and unhappy couples is not fewer differences or more compatibility in a sameness sort of way; it’s the ability to reframe, respect, and work around those issues.

It’s the same sort of situation (if not more so) with our children, or with our co-workers or with our fellow parishioners and countrymen or our enemies — with people we didn’t choose to spend a good amount of time and energy on.

It all comes back to this basic understanding of others’ inherent dignity and our duty by them: People exist to be respected and appreciated and living the lives God created them to live — not bent to my will, convenience, or way of life. They are important not because of what they can do for me or to me but simply because they are.

The world may not need all kinds in a way that makes sense to us, but the world involves all kinds — squibs and wizards, centaurs and humans, Slytherins and Gryffindors, and yes, even blast-ended skrewts, obnoxious ghosts, vindictive caretakers, children of Death Eaters and real world people with problems and prejudice. And since they exist, and they exist differently from us, and we’ve got to get along under a roof or a church or a school or a country, we must love, respect, and understand them as we want to be loved, respected, and understood.

But do stay away from their blasting-end.

You Aren’t Wrong Just Because Someone Else Is Upset


I’m indebted to Robin Einzig’s (above) and Harriet Lerner’s wisdom on this subject.

As a highly sensitive person, as a devoted wife, mother, daughter, sister, and friend, and as a woman conditioned to care far more deeply about others’ feelings than her own, I find it difficult to say no, to disagree, to disappoint, or to be in conflict with others.

It comes out in different ways with different relationships. With anyone else besides my husband or son, I feel intense anxiety and sometimes terror about conflict, even on the most innocent of subjects, like personal preferences. I tend to clam up and nod along. If they find out my hatred of sausage pizza, our friendship is done for. 

With my husband, this discomfort with conflict comes out in, ironically, angry fights, criticism, and arguments. I’m not comfortable with actual differences between us, not okay with holding to an opinion that he doesn’t completely support too, certainly not able to take a stand that evokes a strong negative reaction in him. Since I have no faith in my own opinions, I have to be right — unequivocally, universally right. My opinion being not mine but God’s own truth, I must therefore argue my husband into submission.

Funny, isn’t it? Argumentative people are so crazy insecure about being wrong that they have to be right, especially when they’re not sure they are.

With my son, my anxiety over our differences in opinion (I want to make breakfast right after I take a quick bathroom break, he wants breakfast NOW) manifests in indecision, guilt, and, eventually, irritability.

I point out these different manifestations because I think both dogmatic, critical people and insecure, guilt-ridden people are just two sides of the same coin: uncomfortable with making decisions that others disagree with; uncomfortable with sitting with someone else’s loud, conflicting emotions; unable to see the difference between causing disagreement and causing harm. And as a result, we lose sight of our own agency and responsibility, as Einzig’s quote above demonstrates.

We are ultimately responsible for our own choices. We are responsible for believing what we believe and acting on what we believe in accordance with our conscience. For those of us with a neurotic need to be right (and thus safe from harming others or eternal judgment or loss of love or whatever it is we fear most), the scary reality is that we are sometimes wrong…or that there are several reasonable choices available to us, and we’ve got to pick one if we want to live a life. We’ve got to risk being wrong.

Other people’s opinions and reactions make that difficult. Of course, it’s good to consider people’s reactions to our choices, as those reactions indicate the effects of our choices on others. Making responsible, ethical choices for ourselves ought to factor in the impact of our lives on others. A good number of people ought to pay more attention to other people’s reactions, frankly.

And then there are people like me, who swing wildly between crying, “Hang it all, I’ll do what I want!” and cowering in the same spot, petrified of any negative reaction. More scary realities: there are many reasons why someone, somewhere would have a strong negative reaction to our choices — whether that’s our husbands or toddlers or the world wide web. We sensitive people must never construe the presence of a negative reaction to be a surefire indicator that our decision is wrong, selfish, or harmful. We must separate our agency from other people’s feelings.

We lose our agency, our responsibility, and thus our own selves when we cannot separate a decision and our ability to make a decision from someone else’s feelings. Just as Einzig points out, in our discomfort with others’ negative reactions, we start shifting the blame of our indecision or our own feelings onto others: “He won’t let me. I can’t do it.” Eventually we feel trapped. And this entrapment shrivels our souls and boils up into angry conflict with those we love.

There will always be consequences to our choices, for sure. It may be true that you can’t go to the bathroom without your toddler melting down, or that you can’t say no to sex without your husband stonewalling you. But that doesn’t take away your choice. It doesn’t take away your responsibility to make the best decision you see fit. Their reaction is only one piece to puzzle of decision making.

Often it comes down to choosing your consequences: Do you want to sit on the toilet while your toddler screams and bangs on the door, or do you want to take a pee while your toddler destroys your under-sink storage? Do you want to stand your ground and experience your husband’s bitter disappointment, or do you want to have a tiring, empty sexual experience that leaves you resentful?

There aren’t universally right or wrong answers. And to be clear, others’ emotions aren’t right or wrong either. Your toddler is entitled to feel unhappy and disappointed by your decision. Your husband is entitled to feel unhappy and disappointed by your decision. It’s unfair to expect that their emotions should align with yours, and it’s not okay to invalidate their feelings just because they make you uncomfortable. BUT. That doesn’t make your decision wrong. That doesn’t make your feelings invalid. And that doesn’t take away your ability and responsibility to make choices in line with what you think is best.

True boundaries allow you to sit with your own emotions and acknowledge that your feelings don’t take away someone else’s right to feel his own feelings. True boundaries allow you to sit with another person’s emotions and recognize that their emotions don’t take away your agency or responsibility.

It’s a scary but liberating reality.

Can Abstinence Be Sex-Positive?


Abstinence before marriage is decidedly unpopular these days. It’s not sex positive, people say — that is, it perpetuates negative views about sex and human sexual desire. On the flipside, just having sex is seen as sex positive because, well, it doesn’t require you to withhold your sexual desires and it allows you to express your sexuality however you want.

I think neither approaches are inherently sex positive. We’ve focused so much on can you or can’t you, should you or shouldn’t you, that we’re ignoring the real reasons people have sex and all the different parts that make sex either great or traumatic. A just-have-sex ethic fuels rape culture and exploitation of women and minors because it views the act of sex as good regardless of the different components of that sexual encounter. A just-don’t-have-sex-until-marriage ethic ignores the good things of expressing sexuality in beneficial ways even outside of marriage.

Bottom line: marriage isn’t a magical key to great, safe, consensual, meaningful sex, and merely teaching abstinence before marriage is a shell of a sexual ethic — just like having sex isn’t the magical key to great, safe, consensual, meaningful sex, and merely teaching “it’s okay to have sex” is a shell of a sexual ethic.

Instead of teaching either abstinence or participation, full stop, we need to teach sexual integrity — sexual wholeness — sexual regulation. Sexual integrity welcomes our sexuality even before marriage and understands its affects, good and bad, on both ourselves and our partners. Our sexual ethic needs to move seamlessly from before marriage into the marriage bed.

Abstinence education is notoriously incomplete. It’s goal is getting people to not have sex until marriage, and it doesn’t really care how that objective is achieved. It withholds information, spreads misinformation, and catastrophizes sex before marriage. As a result, lots of shame, ignorance, and abuse build up.

Sex before and within marriage is more complicated than that. There are many, many different components of sexual integrity, and when to have sex is only one of them. Those different components shape sexual experiences positively or negatively. They create radically different experiences.

Abstinence is incomplete when it lists “marriage” as the major component to safe, good, and holy sex. Marriage is the ideal, in my mind, but marriage ought to mean a set of specific things: a loving, committed, mutual relationship with the safeguards of supportive community pressure. Marriage at its best is the most committed, intimate, and loving of relationships, providing stability for children, individual personhood, and intimacy.

Not all marriages are like this. In fact, marriage often shelters some of the worst sexual ethics violations. Rape and consent violations occur in marriage. Domestic violence is a huge problem. Unwanted pregnancies can happen.

And conversely, committed, consensual sex can occur outside of marriage. A loving, committed couple having sex before their marriage or a lifelong cohabiting couple are radically different experiences than teens getting it on in the back seat for a one night stand.

Abstaining from what and for what? The answer to that is the answer to whether abstinence is sex positive or not. Abstaining from sex is not sex positive in and of itself, no. But abstaining from sexual relationships or experiences that compromise sexual integrity — whether that’s commitment, love, consent, health, or parental preparedness — that’s sex positive.

The problem is that many of us growing up in the sexual purity movement thought we had a sex positive understanding of abstinence. We were waiting for God’s glorious and good gift of marital sex! How much more sex positive can you get? But we didn’t know anything about sexual integrity or wholeness — about consent and our own sexual natures and truly giving a whole person instead of a girl desperate for male attention and favor. We only knew the goodness of sex in terms of “premarital sex = immoral” and “marital sex = moral.”

Without a concept of sexual integrity and wholeness, we brought a ton of brokenness into married sex — misinformation, shame, ignorance, trauma — and experience a ton of brokenness with married sex — rape, consent violations, manipulative arguments about whether to have sex that night. Shout out to everyone who’s had to Google “how to actually have sex” on their wedding night or shelled out hundreds of dollars for sex therapy or got blamed for their husband’s affair.

This is what happens when we teach abstinence from sex instead of abstinence from an unregulated sexuality.

People have sex for a host of reasons, ranging from really good, healthy ones like “I love and am committed to this person” to “I like sex” to “I only feel worth something with male sexual favor” to “I want to dominate someone.” Sexual integrity and wholeness teach us to be aware of the many reasons we desire sex and sex with this particular person and to regulate those desires in accordance with healthy, safe, loving, committed, consensual, beneficial sexuality. This could look like abstinence from sex or certain sexual acts or going for sex or certain sexual acts, depending on how the different factors line up.

It should be the same for both within and without married sex: considering the desires and needs of both parties, honoring those desires and needs, and using wisdom, love, and grace in responding to them. An unmarried couple deciding whether or not to kiss before marriage should be, in my mind, making the same sort of decision with the same sort of sexual ethic as a wife contemplating turning down her husband for sex that night or debating whether to allow porn in the relationship.

Sex is profound. It affects us and our partners deeply, both positively and negatively. It reveals much about our needs and desires, the good, the bad, and the ugly. Being a sexual person is a normal, good thing. Not all the ways we express our sexuality are normal, good things either for us or for our partners. Saying no or yes to sex is a good thing only in accordance with sexual integrity and wholeness.