Why I’m Joining a Worldwide Fast for Religious Liberty—And Why It’s Personal

Despite difficulties in religious settings and relationships, religious liberty is deeply meaningful to me.

As the United States marks 250 years since the Declaration of Independence, some are joining a worldwide fast to express gratitude for religious liberty and pray that it will be strengthened throughout the world.

Conversations surrounding religious liberty can get complicated fast. Some worry that freedom of conscience is eroding. Others think about how religious conviction can come into tension with other rights.

To many, these feel like opposing sides. For me, they feel deeply connected.

Both are part of my lived experience, which takes me back to something Dad used to say.

Dad’s Advice

Growing up, whenever my sister and I fought and things between us got especially bad, Dad would sit us down.

“You girls have to stop,” he’d say. “It’s like being forced to choose between my right arm and my left.”

The first time he said that, I smugly pointed out that most people would choose their right arm if they had to. Right arms were more useful and therefore more important. The left could go.

That’s when Dad reminded me that he was ambidextrous.

He valued both his right and left arms equally, so he could never choose.

Recent debates surrounding religious liberty versus other protections leave me with similar feelings. When it comes to freedom of thought, conscience, and belief—and protections against harm or discrimination—it can feel as though two parts of ourselves are fighting and we are being told to choose which one matters more.

At the 2022 Notre Dame Religious Liberty Summit in Vatican City, President Dallin H. Oaks of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints expressed a similar idea. While advocating for strong religious freedoms, he said:

“In a nation with citizens of many different religious beliefs or disbeliefs, government must sometimes limit the rights of some to act upon their beliefs when doing so is necessary to protect the health, safety and welfare of all.”

He later described what he called a “middle way”—not a doctrinal compromise, but cooperation in protecting freedom of conscience for everyone.

Here’s why I don’t see these ideas as being at odds, and why they matter so deeply to me.

What Diminished Religious Freedom Feels Like

When I was fifteen, I wanted to change my faith. It was a happy time for me, but for my parents it was painful. After navigating a lot of complicated feelings, we worked out a compromise: I could attend my new church as long as I continued attending theirs. Then I could make a final decision when I was older.

The opposition I faced at home was to be expected. What I did not anticipate was what I would end up facing in other places, including at school.

I soon encountered pressure and retaliation in various forms. At first it was embarrassing remarks, then shaming comments. Later, things escalated. I was called into private meetings and threatened I might not graduate. Then, just before graduation, I was locked out of my dorm at an overnight retreat. The combination of so many unexpected consequences left me alone, afraid, and confused.

It has been several decades now, but it is still difficult to describe what sustained retaliation for your religious convictions feels like. What I did not know at the time was how deeply the impact of those years would follow me into adulthood.

As a teen, I felt intense anxiety at school. I withdrew from peers and became sick with a stress-related illness. As an adult, I experienced confusing triggers in places that held even a slight connection to the past. Sometimes overwhelming emotions tried to make decisions for me. In certain settings, I became unusually conflict averse. There were reasons for that nuanced response—but for many years, even decades, I didn’t know why.

Why I Understand Concern About Religious Overreach

The thing that complicates my experience also explains why the later impact was so nuanced.

Years later, it was in religious settings where I experienced triggers, and in faith-based relationships where I was conflict averse. Eventually I understood why. The things I’ve described took place in a religious institution. At school, the closed-door meetings were with a clergy member in administration, and some of my religious educators made shaming remarks in front of my peers. At church, it was more of the same from youth leaders.

When I share my story, people usually don’t know   how to respond. Some take my experience as evidence that religion is harmful or dangerous. Others, having known mostly positive experiences, become uncomfortable or assume the adults involved were only trying to help.

Both responses miss something important.

While it’s true that I experienced harm in religious settings, it is also where I have experienced profound healing, goodness, and growth.

Making Sense of My Experiences While Holding Onto Faith

A few years ago, I came across a definition in a handbook for leaders in my faith community that described abuse as a form of mistreatment which “may deeply affect the mind and spirit... causing confusion, doubt, mistrust, guilt, and fear.”

That description helped me make sense of the impact of unhealthy tactics used to influence my faith.

That said, though coercion affected my developing sense of self, so did mercy.

While some misused religious authority, others used it to minister to me when I needed it most. On top of that, the foundation of faith laid in my childhood—in the same community where I experienced coercion—is how I knew I could turn to God for help.

Sometimes when situations became too stressful at school, I would excuse myself from class. In the privacy of a bathroom stall, I poured my heart out to God, and I felt my Savior near. That freedom—to pray and exercise my faith and belief—wasn’t just a nice idea. It was how I survived those years.

Years later, it was through my new faith community that I was connected with evidence-based therapy for trauma symptoms. That, along with positive experiences in my religious community, helped heal lasting impacts from my high school years.

My experiences have taught me that religious institutions, like others, are not immune to misuse of authority. They can also be places of profound good.

A Middle Way

History suggests that tension between civil law, religious conviction, and human dignity has been navigated before—imperfectly, but not impossibly.

Personally, I’ve seen this tension work out in smaller, more personal ways. Over time, my sister’s and my relationship changed. Differences that once divided us later widened our thinking. As adults, learning to see through another’s perspective helped us navigate life's challenges. It became valuable, and more important than winning an argument or needing to be right.

That doesn’t solve every public question. But it reminds me that mercy, truth, and conscience do not have to cancel each other out.

Why I’ll Be Fasting on July 5th

When I think about religious liberty, I don’t think first about legal arguments.

I think about a teenage girl in a bathroom stall, whispering prayers because it was the only place she felt safe.

I think about the stress of being shamed for my faith and beliefs, and the relief of being able to choose them anyway.

I think about the damage coercion can do.

And the healing faith can offer when chosen freely.

Protecting religious freedom doesn’t require denying harm. And protecting individuals from discrimination doesn’t require abandoning religious conviction. Together, these preserve dignity and freedom of conscience.

Both matter. Which would you have me (or society) lose?

On July 5th, I will fast in gratitude for the ability to believe, to question, to heal, and to follow my conscience. And I will pray for the same for others; even when we do not fully agree.

For more on creating healthy faith cultures, see Understanding Lisa Oakley's Spectrum of Behavior in Faith-Based Relationships.

For more on relief in Christ when faith feels heavy (or forced), see High Demand Church vs. Jesus' Easy Yoke.