Awake

“The kids are upstairs asleep, unaware that their story has just split in half. They went to bed in the hazy, lazy days of summer polluted by a four-month-old COVID outbreak but otherwise sleeping the comfortable sleep of kids whose parents will always be just downstairs; family disruption might come from outside but never from within. Not ours anyway. I keep thinking: ‘They don’t know. I don’t want to know. I want to go upstairs with them and not know.’”

Hatmaker thematically highlights The Chaotic Process of Navigating Emotional Devastation as she expresses her desire to protect herself and her children from the emotional pain of separation and divorce. The author uses foreshadowing, conveying how the emotional violence of family rupture would soon disrupt her children’s innocent oblivion. The increasing repetition of the idea of being peacefully unaware underscores a futile urge to return to the safe space of ignorance.

“We are frozen in our metal folding chairs. I have barely even kissed a boy. I feel wildly embarrassed but can’t figure out why. All of a sudden, I am hyperaware of my body and burning with shame; did that first kiss with Gary Whipple in seventh grade cost me a petal?? I glance nervously at the other girls, wondering if they knew we were such a problem. This was news to me. I can’t look at the boys. I think maybe my Forenza shirt is too tight? It felt fine ten minutes ago. My cheeks are flushed with humiliation.”

In this scene, Hatmaker captures the moment that the purity culture of the conservative Baptist Church was seared into her consciousness as a girl. Her sudden self-consciousness as she worried that her shirt was “too tight” and avoided eye contact with the boys illustrates the internalization of shame about her body and sexuality. Through this vivid recollection, Hatmaker thematically exposes The Systemic Shaping of Identity through evangelical teachings.

“Church people are urged to trust only God, and according to the lying-heart narrative, he wants whatever the opposite of our desires suggests.”

Hatmaker’s observation critiques a strain of evangelical teaching that equates human desires with moral deception and sin. The author suggests that the “lying-heart narrative” encourages believers to distrust their bodily instincts and instead cultivate joyless self-denial. The sharp irony in her phrasing underscores her resentment of the many years this doctrine shaped her thoughts and behavior.

“I personally love hidden corners. They are perfect places to tuck hard things away from scrutiny, away from requiring any attention at all. Hidden corners offered me a mechanism to lie to my own self, because I didn’t want the whole truth. I didn’t want it. I wanted what I wanted, what I’d hoped, what I’d crafted. I wanted the story of our marriage, not our actual marriage.”

This reflection on “hidden corners” reveals self-deception as both a coping mechanism and a barrier to truth. Her repetition of “I wanted” underscores the tension between her idealized narrative of her marriage and the lived reality. The passage captures the allure of the stories one tells oneself and how the desire to preserve an image can obscure truth and self-knowledge.

“I’ve lost my institutional memory partner, and that loss cannot be quantified. No one else will ever remember the fake pothole. They weren’t there.”

Hatmaker mourns the erasure of shared memory that accompanied the end of her marriage. The “fake pothole” alludes to an improbable excuse their son concocted that led to a moment of shared hilarity—an example of the small, idiosyncratic details that bind two lives together. Her insistence that “no one else will ever remember” underscores the isolating grief of relational loss.

“He asks the most basic questions. I can answer none of them. Genuinely, none. I am shocked and ashamed at my ignorance. What the hell have I been doing all this time? How could a forty-six-year-old with a big career be this irresponsible? This is humiliating, especially for someone who teaches independence and autonomy to women. The numbers tell a very true, very alarming story about my life, and I never even bothered to look.”

Hatmaker’s confrontation with her financial naivete when she met with a financial advisor was a moment of reckoning, exposing the gap between her public persona and private reality. Her admission of her shortcomings and self-reproachful tone typify the author’s unflinching self-analysis throughout the memoir. Brandon’s complete control of the family finances demonstrated how even accomplished women can fall into stereotypical gender roles within a marriage.

“I married a person who was not easy. He wasn’t bad, just hard. From the time we started dating and every year since, I managed people’s difficult experience of him, including the kids. If he was mean to someone, I’d do a cheerful tap dance to lighten the atmosphere, then make excuses, explanations, and amends behind closed doors. I tried to rearrange the molecules so people wouldn’t experience what they were experiencing. I gave it the old razzle-dazzle.”

In this passage, theatrical imagery, such as “tap dance” and “razzle-dazzle,” illustrates the performative role she assumed in her marriage. Hatmaker’s impulse to “rearrange the molecules” reveals both the futility and self-erasure inherent in managing another’s volatility, casting her as both a caretaker and an illusionist. The contrast between the author’s bright, performative language and her evident underlying pain exposes how humor can become a survival strategy, masking marital dysfunction.

“Blessings, blessings, blessings, they keep coming. Somehow they keep coming. One at a time, just on time, they keep coming, sunlight making it to the forest floor.”

Hatmaker describes the kind gestures and gifts she received from friends after her marriage ended. The repetition of “blessings” and “keep coming” conveys a sense of abundance and her gratitude. The metaphor of “sunlight making it to the forest floor” evokes a sense of quiet renewal, conveying how these gestures spiritually sustained her during her crisis.

“I reject the patriarchal narrative that says this is how men should be, this is how women should be, and this is how power dynamics should be. I condemn it everywhere it reigns. It does not harm just the women but also the boys. It is the ruination of freedom. It robs us of autonomy and forces us into caricatures.”

This passage issues a direct feminist critique of patriarchal ideology, framing it as a system that dehumanizes both women and men by reducing them to rigid roles. Her use of words associated with violence, such as “ruination,” “robs,” and “forces,” conveys the harmful nature of these imposed identities.

“I haven’t told the internet yet. It knows something is wrong, but if ever my little family craved privacy, it is surely now. Having a mom strangers love/hate/idealize/criticize pretty much sucks for the kids on the best of days, much less the worst, and we are certainly in the worst. The last thing they want is middle-aged women flooding their DMs trying to figure-out-what-happened-disguised-as-a-prayer.”

Thematically exploring The Politics of Public Persona and Confession, Hatmaker describes how she avoided social media in the aftermath of her marriage breakup. The phrase “I [hadn’t] told the internet yet” conveys the public expectation that every aspect of her private life should be accessible. Furthermore, the ironic reference to obtrusive curiosity “disguised-as-a-prayer” highlights the performative piety that can characterize religious communities. By contrasting her family’s need for privacy with the internet’s voyeurism, Hatmaker underscores the tension between authenticity and exposure inherent to living a faith-driven life under public observation.

“Organized religion was my perfect drug. Now, not ‘belief in mystery’ or ‘connection to the divine’ or any of those softer woo-woo versions, but rather church hierarchies, clear rules with clear consequences, reliable groupthink, outward criterion. This is what we believe: simple. This is what we do: simple. This is what we don’t do: simple. This is what’s true: simple.”

The metaphor of organized religion as a “perfect drug” underscores its seductive appeal as a system promising certainty and moral clarity. This phrase echoes Karl Marx’s description of religion as “the opium of the people,” while “groupthink” alludes to George Orwell’s dystopian novel 1984. The ironic repetition of “simple” highlights how the author increasingly believed that the evangelical church’s doctrine was insufficiently nuanced to address complex social issues adequately. Intertextual allusions reinforce Hatmaker’s argument that institutional faith represses autonomy and freedom of thought.

“Like pulling a stray thread of a poorly made sweater, once I tugged at the first strand, the whole damn thing started unraveling.”

Hatmaker’s unraveling sweater simile conveys the inexorable process of deconstructing her faith. Once she scrutinized one aspect of evangelicalism that conflicted with her conscience, she identified many more problematic areas. The colloquial phrasing of “the whole damn thing” conveys both frustration and liberation, reflecting the destabilizing impact of casting off an inherited belief system.

“I am on the gurney. I am underground. I am pushing toward the light. I am developing roots no one can see. I am waiting on spring shoots. I am still in winter.”

This sequence of metaphors conveys the nature of Hatmaker’s recovery process. The image of being “on the gurney” suggests she had just emerged from surgery and had barely begun the process of healing and renewal—an idea that the statement “I am still in winter” reaffirms. However, her assertion that she was “developing roots” uses plant symbolism to evoke barely perceptible growth. The repetition of “I am” conveys her determination to persevere in this slow journey of healing.

“I guess some things are forever outside of marriage. I see my forever people. I see my forever community.”

Hatmaker reflects on adjusting to a different future than she anticipated while celebrating the stability and permanence of her friendships. The author’s repetition of “forever” highlights her establishment of enduring bonds outside the confines of marriage and traditional religious institutions.

“She sees me whole. This assessment alters something in my soul. I didn’t know I was. I thought my husband’s desertion stole precious pieces of me, that I was fragile and incomplete. I assumed I would never be the same, that everyone’s experience of me would never be the same; a bottle of wine left uncorked too long, once lovely but disappointingly soured.”

Hatmaker’s reflection juxtaposes her friend’s perception of her as whole and essentially unchanged with her fractured self-perception since her marriage ended. The metaphor of the “uncorked” wine, suggesting spoilage, conveys the shame that people often attach to divorce and abandonment. Through this moment of unexpected affirmation, Hatmaker reveals how compassion from others can counter internalized narratives of inadequacy.

“Church right now feels like my best friends, my porch swing, my children and parents and siblings. It feels like meditation and all these leaves on my twelve pecan trees. It feels like Ben Rector on repeat. It feels like my kitchen, and my table, and my cozy reading nook. It feels like Jesus who never asked me to meet him anywhere but in my heart.”

Hatmaker portrays rebuilding her spiritual autonomy as she redefined “church” through intimate, sensory images of home, nature, and music. Her observation that Jesus “never asked me to meet him anywhere but in my heart” clarifies her distinction between God, whom she came to perceive as patriarchal and judgmental, and Christ, whom she considers inclusive and accepting. The passage illustrates a personal spirituality that transcends organized religion, grounding faith in authenticity rather than authority.

“At twilight, my favorite time of day, I walk outside alone and run my hands over the custom-built table. I imagine the memories we will make there. One person gone does not beget an empty life. I think about the people I love and the guests I will invite and the holidays we will celebrate and the dinner parties I will host, the part of me I miss that shrunk this year. My people are still here. I am still here.”

Hatmaker’s outdoor table symbolizes the transformation of loss into connection. A vision of expansive community replaces images of the author’s absent husband, as she envisions the dinner parties she will host for the many people she loves. Her repetition of “I am still here” is a celebratory declaration of resilience and endurance.

“We are walking around in a homing device, a lie detector, a lookout on the highest point of the ship. When my brain interferes with its conditioned impulse to defend abusive systems, my body overrides her immediately. She knows. She tells me the truth. She always tells me the truth.”

Here, Hatmaker personifies the body as an instinctive moral compass that perceives truth beyond the rational mind’s conditioned defenses. Her contrast between the deceived brain and the knowing body critiques how religious systems can train believers to distrust their own intuition. The repetition of “tells me the truth” positions Hatmaker’s renewed trust in her body’s signals as a vital step in her recovery.

“I’m not a teenager trying to appease my sex-averse God anymore. I am a grown woman embracing all the ways I experience hunger.”

Hatmaker contrasts the shame-based purity culture she internalized in her youth with her mature celebration of desire as an independent woman. By presenting desire as a form of “hunger,” the author frames it as a normal and natural human imperative. Her defiant tone signals liberation from limiting and reductive patriarchal values.

“The path to healing is circuitous and difficult to discern. Because loss can reach from behind and grab me by the neck on an unsuspecting Thursday afternoon, it is challenging to chart the mending.”

Thematically highlighting The Chaotic Process of Navigating Emotional Devastation, Hatmaker describes the nonlinear nature of healing. The image of loss grabbing her “by the neck” conveys the sudden, violent power of grief to disrupt everyday life. Emphasizing the emotional complexity of heartache, the author presents healing as an ongoing, unpredictable process shaped by the lingering presence of pain.

“I currently find myself unable to attend church and unable to reject it, and I worry about this unresolved leadership, and then I remember, dear reader, that I am not your leader; I am your sister, and this is not a handbook. You are a grown-up and make your own choices. You get to look for the Spirit however you want, and you will find her. I bless the search for divine love, a journey with a million routes. That leaves me in charge of me only, like Jesus and my mom and Melody Beattie have been trying to tell me. Worry about yourself and all that. I am still finding God. Just not where I used to think he lived.”

This confession captures a liminal stage in the author’s life as she was torn between the comfort the evangelical church once embodied and her inability to accept many of its values. Her direct address to readers, stating, “I am not your leader […] and this is not a handbook,” clarifies that she doesn’t intend her memoir as a spiritual blueprint for others to follow. The declaration that she is “in charge of me only” emphasizes enlightenment as an individual journey, divesting her of her former role as a spiritual leader.

“Keep going, darlings. Wherever you are—in some ending, in the slow messy middle, starting to see the sun rise. You are worth the work. Your life is worth it. Go get it.”

The memoir takes on an inspirational tone as the author issues a supportive rallying cry to those in the midst of recovery from loss or trauma. Hatmaker’s inclusive and affectionate directive, “Keep going, darlings,” creates intimacy and transforms her story of personal resilience into a broader narrative of communal recovery.

“As she sings over me, brushing off the emotional debris, the burial shroud slowly becomes swaddling. I transition from panic to comfort. I’m not trapped in death; I am wrapped and held and loved and safe. I return to myself in full control of my breath, my heartbeat.”

Hatmaker’s description of the “Closing the Bones” ceremony illustrates the connection between physical ritual and inner renewal. The author suggests that her figurative “death” is followed by rebirth, as the blankets metamorphose from a “burial shroud” into “swaddling.” Hatmaker’s return to awareness of her steady breath and heartbeat conveys the reclamation of her body, emotions, and spirit.