Finalist, “Road Not Taken” Contest
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It is a truth universally acknowledged that an unmarried Latter-day Saint woman becomes an old maid at twenty-five and therefore must be in desperate want of a husband. At least that’s how the stereotype goes. And I hate to admit that I wasn’t above it.
On my quarter-life birthday, four years after I’d graduated from university (where most of my peers had met their spouses), I began to worry about my single status. But the romantic in me was set on a meet-cute, and the introverted side balked at the idea of downloading a dating app.
Two years later, I felt much like Charlotte Lucas from the 2005 Pride & Prejudice film, when she cries, “I’m twenty-seven years old, I’ve no money and no prospects. I’m already a burden to my parents and I’m frightened.” I was truly living the meme.
I felt much like Charlotte Lucas from the 2005 Pride & Prejudice film, when she cries, “I’m twenty-seven years old, I’ve no money and no prospects. I’m already a burden to my parents and I’m frightened.” I was truly living the meme.
So, I swallowed my pride and downloaded the app I’d been avoiding throughout my twenties. I went on a few harmlessly dull dates, my discouragement growing with each one. Was there really not one man in my area who lived up to my standards of intelligence, humor, kindness, and spirituality? And the even more harrowing question — would I be alone forever, undesired and forgotten?
Then, at twenty-eight, I found him. Or at least I thought I did. On a fair Saturday afternoon, I met the man with whom I would have my first real relationship. We had hot dogs and played disc golf at a park in town. I’ve never been athletic, but I was charmed by his patience, his comfort in tossing out whatever question came to mind, and his clear love for his parents. Three dates in, and I was convinced that he was the one, that my twenty-eight years of waiting had all led up to meeting this person, and it was more than worth it.
Much like Korihor in the Book of Mormon, I’ve always been a sign-seeker, and I pounced on every sign I saw. We both valued the multiculturalism of our respective families and wished to maintain it with our children. On a date to the art museum, I learned that his favorite painting was my favorite, too, a beautiful piece depicting the creation of Adam. Like me, he also loved the Church but had concerns about the culture, women’s place in it, and the way LGBTQ+ members were treated.
From where I stood, our minds couldn’t have been more aligned — even if, subconsciously, I bent my standards every so often to maintain that alignment.
When we decided to date exclusively, I thought I was living my fairytale dreams. But despite all my years of reading romance novels and watching rom-coms, I didn’t yet understand the dangers of chasing someone who didn’t actually want to be caught.
* * *
Two months into our relationship, and three months before I turned twenty-nine, I learned the true depth of heartbreak songs.
“I’m still in love with my ex-girlfriend,” he told me as we sat on a metal bench beneath a park pavilion. The bright bubbling of children floated over from the playground nearby. A spider crawled slowly across the attached table, drawing closer. I kept my feet tucked under my legs, so my black flats wouldn’t leave a weird tan line.
“I understand,” I told him in a voice far calmer than I felt. Even as the loss twined quietly around my brain, I wanted to present myself with dignity and grace. If this truly was the last time we saw each other, I wanted him to remember me with just a hint of remorse. “I’m sorry you’re still hurting,” I said.
“I wanted to fall in love with you,” he replied, “but I just don’t feel it, and I know you’d resent me for it if we got married.” Then, almost like a cruel joke, he added, “You deserve someone who’s excited to be with you, who lights up at the sight of you.”
I would remember those words the next day as I sat on the side of a hiking trail with my best friend and sobbed in her arms. I’d remember them again as I lay in bed, wondering how many pills of ibuprofen it’d take to wash everything away. I didn’t care how stupid or naive it was to consider dying over a man. I just wanted the hurt to end.
It should be noted that my mental health had been gradually fracturing over the years, so slowly as to be nearly imperceptible and easily overlooked. First heartbreak was just the thing to push my mind over the edge. I was aware, of course, that I was too old to be so shaken by a breakup; yet I also felt too inexperienced to know how to handle the emotions crowding my chest.
In my desperation to overcome my grief, I decided to change everything — where I lived, what hobbies I pursued, and even what congregation I attended on Sundays. I became a “ward hopper” as I visited a different congregation each week, searching for a place where I could feel real, divine peace.
* * *
It felt strange starting fresh in a Young Single Adult ward, where 80% of the congregation were college students nearly a decade younger than me. But the age gap didn’t seem to matter as much when I sat in the chapel of a random ward on a Sunday morning in July. The leadership was transitioning, and the new bishopric and their wives gave brief, moving talks. I could sense the bittersweetness that hung over the pews. It was a relief, for once, to not be the one grieving.
After the first hour, we separated into Relief Society and Elders Quorum classes. The sisters, sitting in a large circle that kissed the walls of the room, passed around a basket filled with beautifully designed blank cards.
“Here’s the honey roast,” explained the president of the Relief Society. “You can write a kind note, anonymously or not, to any girl in the class. If you don’t know someone’s name, just write a physical description of them on the card.”
I didn’t know anyone in the group, as I was just visiting, so I passed the basket on when it reached my hands. The lesson was about ministering to each other, simple and sweet. The minutes flew by as woman after woman participated in the discussion. For the first time in a long time, I felt warm and safe, despite being a stowaway among strangers.
At the end of class, the presidency told us to stay in our seats as they handed out the honey roasts. A brunette with glasses and a kind smile approached me before I could slip out.
“Hi,” she said. “What’s your name?”
I responded, and she asked if I was a new member of the ward.
“I’m just visiting,” I said.
Her face shone with a loving warmth I rarely encountered in strangers. “You should move your records to this ward,” she said, gently touching my arm. “The people here are amazing.”
“I’m moving to Provo soon,” I told her, which was an entire town and several ward boundaries away.
She leaned in and murmured conspiratorially, “Half the people in this ward aren’t within the ward boundaries. They just love this ward so much.”
As I listened to her praise the women and men in the congregation, one of the presidency members stopped in front of me and handed me a blue, polka-dotted note. “I think this is for you,” she said.
In place of my name, the note was addressed to “rainbow-ish skirt, white shirt.” Inside was a brief, unsigned message: “Your skirt is so dang cute. I also love your smile so much.”
I was surprised, seeing as I was only a visitor. But the message moved me, made me feel loved, and I decided to return to that ward again.
* * *
A month later, I sat in the same Relief Society class, stunned, as the teacher said, “When you’re going through a breakup, remember that the Lord will deliver; He always does.”
She’d been speaking of mortal trials, not heartbreak, so the example felt strangely specific and out of place. “The Lord will deliver,” she repeated several times. I knew she was right — because I had believed that before. I’d had a testimony that God delivers His children from suffering, especially when they’re trying their best.
But during that period of my life, I was having a harder time believing that promise for myself. After church, I drove to the park where it’d all started and pulled my car into a shaded spot beneath a tree. I sobbed as I spoke to God out loud, my hands gripping the steering wheel tight enough to hurt.
“Please give me that faith,” I wept, remembering the spiritually confident woman I’d been just a year before. “I used to have it. I want it back.”
I pressed my forehead against the steering wheel and wailed through my half prayer, half complaint. I kept insisting that I couldn’t handle my despair anymore. At one point, I groaned through gritted teeth, “This year has been so hard.”
Maybe it was because I’d asked for the right thing. Maybe it was because I’d wanted, more than anything or anyone else, my faith back. Maybe it was simply because God loved me. But a sudden quiet enclosed the car, like a glass jar over a fretting flame. And in that quiet, words, not mine, entered my mind: “If anyone can handle this, it’s you. You have the faith to take this experience and survive it, even grow from it.”
I paused, my crying abruptly ended, and said, “You really think I can do this?”
The undeniable feeling of yes settled over me — and with it, peace at last.
Fine, I thought. I’ll do this. But it really, really sucks. It sucks, and I hate it. But I’ll do this.
I wiped the tears from my face and turned the ignition back on, the air conditioning already nearly evaporated. In the following weeks, I thought of Apostle Dieter F. Uchtdorf’s words from a youth fireside meeting: “I don’t believe there is only one right person for you. I think I fell in love with my wife, Harriet, from the first moment I saw her. Nevertheless . . . I don’t believe she was my one chance at happiness in this life, nor was I hers. . . .” (“The Reflection in the Water,” 2009).
There are no such things as soulmates, I told myself. The person you choose and who chooses you back will be a right choice.
But before I found that person, I realized I had to choose myself first. I had to take care of my physical and mental health. I had to seek support and refuge from loved ones. I had to feel confident and beautiful in my own skin. One thing that helped, surprisingly, was going to a salsa class one Thursday night with my sisters and a friend. Learning something new with people I was comfortable around made me see myself in a different way. As I danced in the dimly lit hall with friendly strangers, the warm Latin music nudging my body to move, I felt reborn. Though I made mistakes and struggled to decipher the types of dances for each song, I laughed it all away.
It had been so long since I’d felt that kind of pure joy. I held the warmth of that night like a precious candle in my hands, relying on its light each time I was tempted to give up on the person God wanted me to be — as well as the kind of person I wanted to find.
I discovered that it is not true that an unmarried Latter-day Saint woman becomes an old maid at twenty-five and therefore has no value without a husband. Because although I eventually fell in love again with a right man, I also fell in love, more importantly, with myself. The process of faith-infused healing allowed me to look back on my twenties, not with remorse toward my singleness, but pride that I’d lived despite — and perhaps because of — it. Pride that I’d gotten an education and taken on fulfilling work. Pride that I’d found friends I loved and who loved me back. Pride that I’d pursued my interests in writing and teaching and met people from all walks of life. Pride that I’d finally figured out how to prioritize my mental health and acknowledge my needs.
And yes, even pride that I’d given my heart openly and had it returned in shatters — all so I could learn to piece it back together with my own grit and God’s strengthening hand.
Tesia Tsai (she/her) is a writer and teacher living in Provo, Utah, with her husband, two cats, one dog, and four chickens (all adopted through marriage).

ARTIST STATEMENT
“Covenant Paths” by Julia Blake
Acrylic on canvas, 24 x 36 x 2 in.
Do we believe our own doctrine of eternal progression and infinite atonement? If so, then covenant paths will be personal and scenic. They are not likely to be a superhighway straight to the destination. They will be full of exciting and sometimes contradictory choices. This piece uses complimentary colors over a lot of gray area and depicts one of my favorite interchanges near the Charles River in Boston.
Julia Blake
juliablakeart.com
@juliablakeart