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As a psychology major at Reed College, I was most drawn to social psychology, which entails understanding the root causes of patterns of behavior among social groups and how they can translate into societal trends and systemic issues. In many of my courses, we explored research on racism and privilege in America. We read studies on topics such as such as implicit association tests that reveal unconscious racial biases, the impact of stereotype threat on people of color and women in classrooms and workplaces, the fallibility of memory in criminal justice proceedings that lead to wrongful convictions, unconscious biases in employers’ review of names on resumes, and how “colorblindness” is linked with not perceiving racism and inadvertently perpetrating it. The more I studied, the more I became aware of my own unconscious racial biases and how they had affected my behavior toward people of color in the past.

Confessions of Unwitting Racial Bias

We often assume that only horrible or ignorant people are racist. However, racism is often perpetuated through many small or unconscious acts based on our racial biases and by our compliance with systems that privilege some while disadvantaging others.  Despite our best efforts to be #woke, we are still affected by the pervasiveness of racial biases, which we can learn or pick up without realizing it. I was raised in a household that embraced acceptance and diversity, yet I was still affected on multiple levels by the racist ideas and beliefs that are perpetuated in society.

Despite our best efforts to be #woke, we are still affected by the pervasiveness of racial biases, which we can learn or pick up without realizing it.

In 9th grade physical education class, the girls split ourselves into two teams for basketball; most of the black girls were on one team, and most of the white girls were on the other. After I blocked a pass from one of the black girls on the other team, she called me “frog legs,” and we began arguing. At some point in the conversation, I started using pretentious vocabulary and said something about her being “loquacious.” She said she didn’t know what that meant, and I responded, “I didn’t think so.” She was hurt and angry, and only later did I realize what I implied by my comment: I assumed she was less intelligent than me, even though I didn’t really know her.

In 12th grade, among my friends in the scholarship program I mentioned in part one, I was the only white person. We made jokes about how some of them would likely get “my” spot at University of California schools because of their race and affirmative action admission policies. Subconsciously, I held a belief that I, as a white person, was more entitled to attend certain schools than they were because I had a higher GPA than most of them, failing to acknowledge the unearned advantages I may have had that allowed me to perform better academically.

Even after several years of academic study and diversity training, unconscious racial biases still made their way into my interactions. While working as an intern in my college’s admission office, I was reviewing promotional materials in a folder with a black female prospective student. As I was going over the syllabus for the humanities course that all first-year students take (an extensive curriculum comprised of Greek and Roman classics), I explained casually to the student, “Don’t worry, we don’t read every page of these texts, just parts of them.”

Though the student may not have perceived it, I realized moments later that I had “dumbed down” the curriculum. Unlike with previous encounters, I had enough self-awareness to recognize the unwitting racism I had exhibited almost immediately after it happened, and I felt awful. I went to one of my best friends (who is black) to admit this unconsciously racist interaction. However, in doing so, I was unfairly looking to him for an absolution he couldn’t give; it was not his responsibility to validate me and eradicate my sense of white guilt (an experience of individual or collective guilt for the mistreatment of racial minorities by white people). I needed to take responsibility for myself, acknowledge the sin of racism that I had fallen into, and turn to the One who alone can offer me absolution.

How My Faith Affects the Way I Understand Racism and Privilege

The more I examine my conscience and educate myself about systems of privilege and oppression, the more I recognize the ways I personally have acted on unconscious stereotypes and racial biases. In doing so, I not only fell short of Christ’s example, but I also caused harm to my brothers and sisters in Christ and created distance between myself and God. As a Catholic, I am called to repentance.

As a Catholic, I am called to repentance.

For people of color on the receiving end of unrecognized, undeserved, and unacknowledged discrimination — over several years — knowing that yours is one small part of a collective experience is a painful burden. It’s only human to react to that kind of pain with anger, sadness, and frustration at feeling powerless. Sometimes, it can even lead to globalized resentment toward all people with white privilege. As a white person, I strive to be patient and compassionate if I encounter this resentment, knowing that it’s not about me personally but about the unearned privilege my race confers on me and the harm that it has caused people of color both historically and generationally.

Our U.S. bishops implore us to reflect on racism not just individually but as a whole Church: “To our shame, Christians have been part of the problem. So, as Christians, we need to be part of the solution” (USCCB, Responding to the Sin of Racism). Part of how white Catholics can begin to take responsibility for the sin of racism is by being able to recognize our differences:

Racism rejects what God has done by refusing to acknowledge the image of God in the other, the stranger and the one who is different. The fact that we were created in the image of God should remind us that each person is a living expression of God that must be respected and preserved and never dishonored (USCCB).

As Catholics, we are called to examine our consciences and have compassion for the lived experiences of people on the receiving end of any injustice, including racism. We are called to humility, and for Catholics with white privilege, humility includes listening to the experiences of people of color and doing our part to ensure that all people have a seat at the table.

As Catholics, we are called to have compassion for the lived experiences of people on the receiving end of any injustice.

Our sins are not only in what we do but also in what we fail to do. We must seek to be welcoming and attentive to others’ struggles and hurts. We must also be willing to acknowledge our faults and to use our advantages, blessings, and privileges to empower others who may not have them.

We have already considered the necessity of prayer for cultivating a relationship with God, not so we can ask Him to make our lives easier or better but so we can receive the gift of Himself. Now, we’ll hear advice from the women of the FemCatholic Forum on how we can incorporate prayer into our increasingly hectic lives. When asked, “What does prayer look like in your life?”, they shared the following:

Some women pray conversationally throughout the day.

"Prayer is simply a part of life, all day, every day, a running conversation in my head."

"If I tell someone I’ll pray for them, I often take a quick moment to do it right then."

"If something good happens, I try to remember to quickly thank God."

"I spend a lot of my day immersed in prayer, but it took me until my 40s to get to this point. I’d like to go back and tell my anxious 15-year-old self to just chill out about the whole thing."

Some women add prayer to daily routine.

"I have a couple of favorite short prayers that I read mindfully while my coffee brews in the morning."

"I pray every time I wash dishes. It's a simple reminder that my daily service to my family is a prayer in and of itself."

"On my lunch break, I set a timer for about 15 to 20 minutes and sit in front of the Divine Mercy image. Sometimes, I read a short passage or two from Scripture or a spiritual reading. Other times, I journal."

"If I see an ambulance or fire truck, I say a quick prayer."

"I’m a student, so I offer my classes for a particular intention or in thanksgiving. This keeps me plugged in with God, but also keeps me accountable to pay attention in class and get my work done."

Some women pray on their commute.

"Taking advantage of downtime in the subway has been a huge help. I'll think to myself, 'I have 10 minutes before my stop. I'll pray the Divine Mercy Chaplet.'"

"At one point, I felt God’s presence with me out of the blue while driving down the road. It was so comforting. I started formulating my concerns and questions for God in my head and feeling His care in return as I was driving to work."

"I take the subway to work every morning and, since I don't get much signal on the train, I load the Blessed is She readings and devotional before I get on the train."

"I find it helpful to say a Morning Offering, which I do in the car with my kids on the way to school."

"When I started a new job with a long, regular commute 5 years ago, I listened to a Scriptural rosary podcast one of the first times that I made the drive. To my surprise, I loved how it helped focus my mental prayer."

Some women crave silence and solitude.

"I sense that the Church needs more listening and contemplative prayer. Keep in mind, my kids are older (17, 19 and 21), so it's easier for me to say that! I could hardly breathe when they were little."

"Creating a sacred space where you can go to pray is helpful."

"I plan silent retreats twice a year. Most retreat centers have silent retreats or allow you to make your own and offer spiritual direction if you want it. Some of mine have been group retreats and some have been private."

"Combining movement and prayer is meaningful, especially in nature."

"I know I need more silence in my life. Sometimes, I just sit, let my mind spin, and try to be aware of God's presence."

Some women visit their parish chapels to pray.

"When I first became Catholic, I loved the Mass for prayer. I would go to Mass on weekdays as much as my schedule reasonably allowed. Focusing on the Liturgy and praying during and after Communion nourished me."

"I visit our perpetual Adoration chapel when I'm coming or going from church or school, even if it's just for a few minutes."

"Our moms’ group at church hosts the Divine Mercy Chaplet every day at 3:00pm, right before 3:15pm pickup, so I try to arrive a few minutes early for that."

Some women journal their prayers.

"I jot down loose prayers in a journal. I meditate on the previous day and ask God to reveal any wrongdoings. I write my sins in the journal and ask for His forgiveness. Then, I make a list of blessings in my life and thank God for them. Finally, I write down my petitions for others and myself."

"I read Scripture and then journal my thoughts, pausing as I write to listen to the Holy Spirit's inspiration."

Some women pray the Liturgy of the Hours (the universal, daily prayers of the Church).

"Morning and evening prayer bookend my day, and I find that the days I start with morning prayer are especially productive."

"I use the Give Us This Day books for morning prayer, evening prayer, and to read the daily Mass readings."

"My family likes to end the day by praying night prayer together."

"I love prayer apps! Once I admitted I needed help with structure, my prayer life exploded. I use the Magnificat app as the backbone of my current prayer life, modeled on the Divine Office."

Each response shared in the Forum reflected what the Catechism tells us: "There are as many paths of prayer as there are persons who pray" (CCC 2672). And as St. Edith Stein tells us, "[T]he life of an authentic Catholic woman is also a liturgical life ... her whole life must be formed by this life of prayer" (Essays on Woman 57).

The life of an authentic Catholic woman is also a liturgical life.

I knew that I was called to be a mother long before I felt any nudges of a particular career path. During interviews, when asked the inevitable, “Where do you hope to be in five years?” question, my gut reaction was to respond with, “Being a wife and a mother.”

Fast forward more than a decade — through a few relationships, breakups, and years of single life — and I am now mother to a newborn. Although months of pregnancy allowed for much preparation for our son’s arrival, I quickly discovered that my best efforts fell short in trulymaking me ready to receive this new babe. I knew that motherhood would be hard, but I did not expect it to be this hard. Through the disorienting stage of caring for a newborn, God gave me new perspectives on some of our core Catholic beliefs.

My Body, for You

A common item found on hospital bag packing lists is a photograph or object that can serve as a focal point during labor. I was grateful that the Catholic hospital where I delivered took care of this for me: Every room had a crucifix opposite the bed. During the strenuous parts of labor and pushing, I fought to look at the crucifix. Then, as I looked upon my son in the NICU with his feeding tube, CPAP mask, and numerous wires, there was a crucifix on the wall. In failed napping attempts and through many emotional breakdowns, I looked at the crucifix, for I did not have the words to pray.

In failed napping attempts and through many emotional breakdowns, I looked at the crucifix, for I did not have the words to pray.

Weeks later, I came across a passage from Scott Hahn’s First Comes Love that was shared in a Facebook group for Catholic cesarean section moms. Reflecting on witnessing his wife’s C-section and the birth of his son, Hahn writes:

When we arrived at the operating room, the nurses moved Kimberly again, now to a table, where they strapped her down and sedated her. She was freezing cold, shivering, and afraid. I stood beside my wife, her body spread out and strapped cruciform to the table, cut open in order to bring new life to the world ... it was Kimberly’s body that became something more than beautiful for me. Bloody and scarred and swollen with pain, it became something sacred, a holy sanctuary, and an altar of life-giving sacrifice. The life she gave to our world — this life we had made with God — I could now look upon and touch with my hands. (First Comes Love 12-13).

Reading this beautiful reflection helped me to connect the image of the crucifix with the truth of the Paschal Mystery: Death always precedes new life. Through Christ’s death and resurrection, we are promised new life. Although we may not know how or when new life will come about, we know that it will; this is God’s promise to us.

Suddenly, all of the sleepless nights, painful engorgement, hundreds of failed latches, getting covered in breastmilk and spit-up, diastasis recti and holding onto that pregnancy weight, stretch marks and a burning C-section incision, and trying unsuccessfully to soothe a crying baby, took on new meaning. My body, for you. All of these deaths were connected intimately to the new life that was literally right before my eyes. I began to see and love my child anew.

Recovery From Childbirth Is More Than Physical

I left our childbirth class feeling empowered. Learning about the stages of labor and delivery lessened my fear surrounding childbirth and even made me excited about the process. Then, after hours of active labor (and pushing), my son had to be born via C-section. It was a decision that my doctor ultimately allowed me to make, although it is a necessity for many women if the baby’s or mother’s health is threatened during the stress of labor.

In the weeks that followed, I experienced significant shame and guilt over not being able to give birth vaginally, and these feelings likely intensified symptoms of postpartum depression. My body — created to bear life and, in some sense, give birth — had somehow failed me. There was (and still is) grief in that realization.

In much the same way that new mothers reach out to other new mothers, I was surprised that friends who also had C-sections reached out to me to check in and hear my birth story. They seemed to share my initial feeling of shame, and hearing these women’s stories of finding peace began the process of my own healing.

Author Brené Brown is well-known for her research on shame, vulnerability, and the power of storytelling. She writes, “When we deny our stories, they define us. When we own our stories, we get to write a brave new ending.”

This insight complements what we as Catholics believe about the way Christ heals us: Only when we bring our wounds to light is Christ able to heal them. Although it is uncomfortable and, at times, painful, sitting with our brokenness and allowing Christ’s love to touch our wounds is the first step toward resurrection.

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Sitting with our brokenness and allowing Christ’s love to touch our wounds is the first step toward resurrection.

Initially, it was difficult to bring these symptoms to light. Yet admitting them to myself enabled me to share them with my doctor and, ultimately, receive the treatment and counseling I needed in order to experience new life. There is still work to be done in fully recovering from postpartum depression, but the new ending has already begun.

Learning to Love

Perhaps the most surprising aspect of becoming a mother was the lack of immediate connection I felt to my son. As a young, single woman, holding an infant (any infant) had brought a sense of peace and awe at the wonder of God who is Creator. At social gatherings where babies were present, I was always the woman holding them. I anticipated that these warm, fuzzy feelings and ponderings of the magnificence of God’s Creation would only multiply if I were to hold my own child one day.

Nine and a half hours after he was born, I held my son for the first time in the NICU, and he felt like a stranger. We had already been together for nine months. I had seen his face during an ultrasound with 3D imaging, and I could not wait to meet him. Yet, while holding him for the first time and several times after that, I did not experience the immediate awe that I previously experienced when holding babies. Instead, the emotional connection to him came slowly, over the course of days and weeks and months. Every day, I find myself feeling more connected to him, savoring the moments when I snuggle him close, nurse him, or watch him smile at me. Most days, I think to myself, “I cannot possibly love you more than I do right now.” And the following day, that love somehow grows.

Our Faith tells us that “to love is to will the good of another” (CCC 1766). It is not a feeling, although the warm feeling of being “in love” and the profound experiences of consolation certainly flow from love. Love is hard work. Love demands that we set aside our own desires and comfort for the sake of another. Waking up to feed a crying baby every few hours is neither fun nor pleasant, but I stumble out of bed and pick him up because I love him. He relies solely upon others to have his basic needs met. This recognition pulls me out of my own frustration and selfishness and, over time, has brought deep joy and an intimate bond with my son.

Waking up to feed a crying baby every few hours is neither fun nor pleasant, but I stumble out of bed and pick him up because I love him.

Making the Village

I am forever grateful to an acquaintance whom I met days after birth for encouraging me to attend a postpartum support group. Led by a local doula, the group is comprised of women who delivered babies within a similar time span. This community has become a lifeline for me, a safe space to ask questions and receive words of encouragement when I most need them. It is striking that we all come from different backgrounds and religious traditions, yet we understand each other so well because we share something in common: learning how to be mothers.

Created in the image and likeness of God — who is relationship — we are made for community. As a new mom, I felt this need deeply as my life’s focus shifted to a human being who depends on me for everything, but cannot offer me anything in return. In order to give of ourselves, we must be filled. I often wrestle with the implications of the idea that “it takes a village” to raise a child. How can we better support mothers with no villages? How can we help new mothers make that village?

To my surprise, one woman has perpetually offered me her comfort and support. Despite living most of my life as a Catholic, it took pregnancy and motherhood for me to really understand the powerful intercession that Mary offers us. During the last trimester of pregnancy, I prayed the rosary whenever I began to feel anxious about the ways life would change with a child. In all of the moments since my son was born that I have found myself mentally exhausted, anxious, or simply doubting my ability to care for an infant, I think of Mary. As a new mother to Jesus, she likely experienced much (if not all) of the same exhaustion, frustration, and emotional lows. She probably had sleepless nights, got covered in breastmilk and spit-up, and struggled to soothe a fussy baby. And yet she lived to raise the Savior of the world, bearing God’s love to us all.

Mary probably had sleepless nights, got covered in breastmilk and spit-up, and struggled to soothe a fussy baby. And yet she lived to raise the Savior of the world, bearing God’s love to us all.

“Please pray for my parents, my job, my daughter, my husband, my car, my mind…”

How often I’ve entrusted the concerns of my heart to our parish’s sagacious women prayer warriors!

I'm grateful for their intercession, because my own life — with a husband, five kids, two work schedules, three school schedules, extracurricular activities, and volunteer obligations — is much too busy for me to move mountains with prayer. (And why bother if someone else can do it for me?)

If prayer is the intense workout classes that meet at my local park, then I’m the well-intentioned member who signs a commitment pledge, shows up every day for a week, sporadically misses class for months — and then possibly, eventually, and unintentionally never shows up again. And I don’t think I’m alone in this.

Much like exercise, prayer just isn’t as effective when it’s skipped and outsourced.

What do you mean it’s not effective? I asked the church ladies to pray for my job, and I got a promotion. Prayer works!

If prayer is just a spiritual tool to fix unfortunate life circumstances, then yes, it’s great when “it works.” Why bother to pray regularly if prayer is largely irrelevant when life is good and can be outsourced — to mom, grandma, or the parish email ministry — when life sucks?

Like the woman Jesus meets drawing water at the well, it’s easy to use God as a gimmick to make our lives easier: “Sir, give me this water, so that I may not be thirsty or have to keep coming here to draw water” (Jn 4:15). Or, more often, as in my own words: “Lord, give me this thing! Take away this problem! Fix this person! Make this happen!”

In prayer, we often ask for gifts that will make life increasingly happier and easier until we reach nirvana. However, prayer is much more than a divine life hack to make things go our way. As the Catechism tells us, “The wonder of prayer is revealed beside the well where we come seeking water: there, Christ comes to meet every human being” (CCC 2560).

Prayer is much more than a divine life hack to make things go our way.

When we pray, God doesn’t give arbitrary gifts to make our lives happier or easier in any given moment; God gives us Himself.

This is why the Catechism describes prayer as an immersion in love: It “draws everything into the love by which we are loved in Christ” (CCC 2658). Jesus didn’t give the woman at the well magic water in order to rid her of the daily chore of drawing water. He gave her Himself, a constant presence of love and source of peace.

St. Teresa Benedicta of the Cross, commonly known as Edith Stein, describes prayer as a necessary source of inner peace and joy for overwhelmed women. Recognizing “the participation of women in the most diverse professional disciplines” as “a blessing for the entire society, private or public,” Edith describes a life of prayer as the solution for women who are overwhelmed by “family duties and professional life” (Essays on Woman 50-57).

We might feel compelled to respond, “It's a nice idea, Edith, but seriously, look at my life. Every hour is scheduled. Someone needs me every second, even overnight. I haven’t slept more than four hours a night in years. Please don’t force me to sign up for yet another obligation, even a spiritual one!”

But what if prayer isn’t an obligatory task that requires us to wake up at 4:00 a.m. or choose between eating lunch and saying a rosary? What if prayer is a practical tool that blends easily into whatever life we’re currently living and will make us better at whatever work we’re supposed to be doing? Why is it surprising to so many of us that this is actually what the Catholic Church believes and teaches a formed life of prayer can be?

If we wait to pray until we have put on our composed church faces, then we’re missing the entire point. The Catechism reassures us that, in true prayer, “[W]e let our masks fall and turn our hearts back to the Lord who loves us” (CCC 2711). For anyone searching for an honest connection to God, prayer is everything. It is always possible (CCC 2743), vitally necessary (CCC 2744), and an inseparable part of the Christian life (CCC 2745).

If we wait to pray until we have put on our composed church faces, then we’re missing the entire point.

Asking myself when there is time to pray in such a chaotic life, I turned to the women of the FemCatholic Forum for advice. It’s a diverse membership with a variety of ages, life seasons, vocations, and occupations. In other words, it’s a great place to crowdsource advice. In part two, I’ll share their words of practical and prayerful wisdom.

St. Thérèse is one of the most well-known saints in the Catholic Church. She’s famous for her “little way” of holiness, her childlike trust in God, and (of course) her roses.

It seems like most Catholics fall into one of two categories: those who find her talk of flowers and sentimentality off-putting and those who once found her off-putting but are now passionately devoted to her. The latter group will tell you (as I am about to) that, for a long time, they didn’t really get St. Thérèse, but after [insert miraculous story], she is now their favorite saint, best friend, and the namesake of their child.

It seems like most Catholics fall into one of two categories: those who find her talk of flowers and sentimentality off-putting and those who once found her off-putting but are now passionately devoted to her.

Naturally, there was a part of me that wanted to jump on the St. Thérèse bandwagon. When I learned that she also suffered from scrupulosity, I saw a divinely ordained friendship in the making. I wanted to learn all I could about her and read her autobiography, The Story of a Soul.

And I really struggled with it. I found almost nothing relatable in her story as she told it, and I even began to resent her. She mentions struggles, but all I saw were (at worst) inconveniences, and I started to believe that she had no experience of real pain and suffering. She calls herself the greatest of sinners and simultaneously confesses agonizing over things that aren’t even sinful. For someone who was trying to overcome her own scrupulous habits, this was confusing, disheartening, and embittering.

The most difficult part of her story for me was reading her constant praise and gratitude, woven through each sentence. “Everything is grace,” she says, as she seems to gild her most difficult moments in the emotional and sappy language of God’s goodness. While I see now that there is a deeper truth in this language, at the time, it felt like she minimized suffering, as though I had to be emotionally OK with whatever suffering I went through.

For these reasons and more, even thinking about St. Thérèse filled me with bitterness and resentment. She was supposed to be my patron in the fight against scrupulosity. She was supposed to teach me to trust God’s mercy, even in the midst of my fears and terror of God’s justice. I felt disappointment and betrayal as her writing taunted me with the emotional and spiritual perfection that I grasped at, but could never attain.

Two biographies later, I’m finally starting to know Thérèse as I realize that my initial perspective and interpretation of her were incorrect. The fact is, the way she tells her story needs context. These biographies radically changed how I see her, how I relate to her, and how I know her.

The first, Thérèse by Dorothy Day, is a beautiful, simple, and thoughtful book. I learned more about Thérèse's family (including its joys and difficulties) and more about Thérèse herself, all told through the earnest, questioning, and humble voice of Dorothy Day.

The second, The Context of Holiness by Marc Foley, is a spiritual and psychological biography of St. Thérèse of Lisieux, and it’s the biography I want to focus on here. In it, Fr. Marc Foley discusses the mental, spiritual, and physical trials Thérèse suffered throughout her life and interprets them through the lenses of various psychological theories. His point is neither to diminish the spiritual significance of her experiences, nor to explain away her difficulties, but to offer a clear perspective on her manifold struggles. She didn’t become a saint by overcoming all of her trials (mental illness and childhood trauma included). Thérèse’s profound struggles were the context in which she grew in holiness.

She didn’t become a saint by overcoming all of her trials. Thérèse’s profound struggles were the context in which she grew in holiness.

She learned to trust God as a good Father in the context of the overwhelming mental anguish that threatened her throughout her life. She learned her Little Way in the context of the scrupulosity, insecurities, social isolation, and separation anxiety that plagued her from infancy onward.

The Little Way is often described as “doing small things with great love.” While that's certainly part of it, the description is incomplete. Thérèse's Little Way is not primarily about doing things at all. Rather, it is about trust: a radical trust in God, our loving and merciful Father who delights in His children. It’s about trusting that God’s love and faithfulness remain, even when we feel surrounded and filled with darkness.

Reading The Context of Holiness taught me that:

1. Therese was never fully healed.

Contrary to the impression I had gleaned from reading her autobiography, she struggled emotionally, mentally, and spiritually (not to mention physically) up until her death. Her famous “Christmas conversion” was one of many graces she received, but it didn’t mark the end of her sufferings.

2. What a person says out loud (or writes down for posterity) isn’t the whole picture.

I had often judged Thérèse based on a shallow understanding of her writing and on my own wounds and biases. With the context of her family background, details about childhood events, and people she encountered in her lifetime, I have a fuller perspective on her life and what her holiness really consisted of.

3. Therese was not immune to the cultural climate of her day.

A century before Thérèse's lifetime, France underwent a bloody revolution and a major cultural, religious, and philosophical shift as a nation. In Thérèse's day, there were two opposing extremes of thought: You could reject monarchism, reject God entirely, and give in to despair, skepticism, and atheism; or you could accept the Catholic faith (often poisoned by Jansenist influences), accept the monarchy, and abandon all questions and doubts pertaining to either. Thérèse was a faithful Catholic who struggled with doubts and despair (as do all human beings). This meant that she didn’t fit easily into either the secular or the Catholic realm of her time.

4. God’s mercy sometimes does permit illness and spectacular failure and doesn’t permit us to overcome our struggles in this life.

Holiness is found not necessarily in achieving perfect virtue but in our attempts to keep going, to keep trying, and to hold onto Jesus.

I share all of these thoughts in the hope that they bring you hope. If you, like St. Thérèse, experience deep suffering (be it mental, emotional, physical, or spiritual), know that you are not alone and that there are resources to help you. Those wounds and challenges are not an obstacle to your holiness: They are where God wants to meet you and make you a saint.

Thérèse didn’t find complete healing in this life — at least not permanently, and not for all of her struggles. As the saying goes, nevertheless, she persisted. Even when she felt despair and darkness, she chose to believe that God is greater.

Holiness is found not necessarily in achieving perfect virtue but in our attempts to keep going, to keep trying, and to hold onto Jesus.

I was walking back to our apartment from the communal mailboxes on a particularly sunny day and I just felt good. I felt so good, in fact, that when I passed by the pool and saw a woman my age who was thin, tan, and sporting a bikini, I thought, “I would look amazing in a bikini right now.”

However, I was pregnant — and that gave me pause.

During my first pregnancy, I never did end up buying or wearing a bikini. It was mostly a practical decision; I already had a bathing suit that fit, and I didn’t need another one. This summer, however, I once again found myself pregnant, now with two small children who love water and the outdoors. And, I was in need of a bathing suit.

I generally don’t have hang-ups about being pregnant. Pregnancy and motherhood have made me more able. I am more creative and write more now than I have in years. I can better see the heart of matters and deal with what is necessary rather than wasting time on unimportant things. I take better care of myself and my family, knowing that we all need certain things to be holistically healthy. I have more fortitude, and I don’t give up as easily on issues or projects, no matter how frustrating they are. All in all, I am a better person because of pregnancy and motherhood.

All in all, I am a better person because of pregnancy and motherhood.

Pregnancy is often viewed as a time in life that we just deal with or trudge through. However, I believe it to be a wholly transformative act. It is not passive but, rather, supremely active. “May it be done to me according to your word,” Mary said to the angel Gabriel (Lk 1:38), deciding that she would allow herself to become pregnant with the Son of God.

My body is no longer what it was during that first pregnancy, but I still find that pregnancy fosters confidence. So much of pregnancy involves putting yourself out there, subjecting yourself to public opinion, and realizing that your body is no longer yours alone. Strangers want to touch my belly (and often do so without asking), and a child kicks me from within.

Pregnancy fosters confidence.

Beyond the physicality of pregnancy, even my intelligence is up for public commentary. It takes me more time to write and speak, because my thoughts derail without my permission. I can’t remember words from one second to the next, and aphasia is just a drag. Due to this, I am often perceived as flighty, forgetful, and even an airhead. Especially as a writer, I want people to take me seriously, and that can be difficult with “mommy brain.”

In the midst of pregnancy, I look to Mary. She allowed people to think the worst of her as she embraced the call to nurture the Son of God, bringing His human body into the physical realm. Though the others’ perceptions may have hurt her (and St. Joseph, who stood by her), she knew she was participating in something vastly more important. This past summer, it was time to shed my fears and embrace the humility my situation afforded me: it was time to wear a bikini to the pool.

Why a bikini? Why not?! It is freedom from the unnecessary burdens of life and delight in the way we are made. Besides that, it’s much easier to wear a bikini than a one-piece. Chasing kids is easier, staying cool is easier, and going to the bathroom is easier (no small matter for a pregnant woman).

The pregnant body, though large and round, exposes persons and bodies as they truly are: wonderfully, complexly, and beautifully made. It says what we so often try to hide: that there is more to us than meets the eye — and that new life is a miracle.

The pregnant body says what we so often try to hide: that there is more to us than meets the eye — and that new life is a miracle.

St. Felicity reminds us that the sacrifices of motherhood are gifts that make us stronger and ready to face anything, and they prepare us to be united fully with Christ. Before she and her companions were taken to be executed, she prayed that she would give birth to her baby, as it was unlawful to kill a pregnant woman, and she didn’t want to be left behind. Her prayer was answered.

This summer, I received an email invitation to a back-to-school bash hosted by the parents of my daughter’s classmate. This party was water-centric, so my children put on their rash guards and swim bottoms, and I donned a two-piece swimsuit with my 25-week pregnant belly on full display.

By the time we arrived, most of the other kids and moms were already there. Though no other adult wore swim attire (causing me to be immediately on edge), I was greeted with a chorus of, “Your belly is so perfect!”, “You look great!”, and, “Pregnancy looks so good on you!” Those phrases were the only mentions of my appearance the entire party.

These women looked at me like we should all look at each other: with dignity, love, and admiration. That’s an authentic Catholic view of the person. That’s authentic Catholic community. And that’s exactly what this world, so obsessed with appearance, needs.

Please note that this post contains mature content.

This article was originally going to be about “Five Questions to Ask Before Marriage,” but I think it’s a mistake to think of marriage preparation as something you finish before you get married. “Marriage prep” should be a period of intense discernment and, if you do get married, the beginning of a continuous process of formation and sanctification. You might discover that you shouldn't get married (or not yet, at least), but these questions are meant to be a starting point for a long series of conversations, not a litmus test. With one major exception, these questions aren’t about giving the correct answers. They are about whether the two of you can talk to each other honestly and respectfully — and what you learn about each other and your relationship when you do.

1. What’s in your past?

What experience does each of you bring into marriage, and how do you think it will affect your sexual relationship? This includes past sexual relationships: How will you both feel if one spouse has more knowledge about sexual technique or already has a clear idea of their preferences? Does one of you worry that you’ll be compared to a past partner or that you’ll resent your spouse for not waiting until marriage? If you and your fiancé have already been intimate with each other, how has that experience affected your expectations for marriage, and how do you think intimacy within marriage will be different?

If either of you is a survivor of assault, how can you make your sexual relationship healing and not re-traumatizing? Does the survivor feel safe talking about potential triggers and asking for whatever space and support they need? And is their fiancé(e) secure enough to be there for them without taking anything personally?

You should also discuss your exposure to and/or use of pornography, as well as the ideas and attitudes toward sex you were taught by your families.

2. What are you expecting in the future?

What role do you imagine sex will play in your marriage? Do you plan to try to have a baby right away or wait? How often do you think you’ll want to have sex, and how often do you think you “should” have sex?

You can’t predict the answers to these questions perfectly (and they will almost certainly change over the course of your lives), but it’s good to start marriage on the same page or at least having had an open conversation. For example, if one of you is already more physically affectionate, it’s worth looking at how you handle it in your relationship now. Does one of you feel unloved if the other doesn’t want to cuddle as much? Does one of you feel nagged or chased by the other’s stronger desire for physical touch? Those feelings will probably grow stronger once sex is in the picture.

To a large extent, you don't know what to expect — and that’s OK. The fact that sex is reserved for marriage means that you can’t really know what it’s going to be like until you’re married. Talk to each other about your expectations, and be ready to let go of them once you’re actually married. You’re probably both nervous, and that’s OK, too. You can be nervous together!

To a large extent, you don't know what to expect — and that’s OK.

3. Do you (or are you willing to) understand the science of sexual desire ...

You don’t need to be sex experts before marriage, but your beloved should be just as invested in your pleasure as he is in his own, and that requires a certain level of understanding beyond the basics of sexual anatomy and mechanics. NFP instructors will usually tell you that you’re more likely to desire and enjoy sex when you’re fertile, and they usually have advice for how to deal with that desire when you're abstaining, but they’re often not focused on what you need to know when you are having sex.

Married people should understand the science of sexual desire and how it’s affected by other aspects of their life and their relationship. They should also have a sense of what women and men generally need for a healthy and satisfying sexual partnership. I recommend the book Come As You Are by Emily Nagoski; it’s written from a secular perspective, but you should be able to easily sift out what isn’t applicable.

To be clear, the most important part of this education is the “hands-on learning” you do after marriage, because that’s when you learn about each other in particular. Learning about the unique person that you’re married to matters more than anything you can learn from a book about how “women in general” or “men on average” experience sex. Cultivating your sexual relationship in marriage will be easier if you both go in with some background information and the expectation that it will take more than just intercourse and affection.

Learning about the unique person that you’re married to matters more than anything you can learn from a book.

4. … and do you know why it matters?

I have written before about the theological importance of sexual pleasure, and I want to emphasize again that we should include this topic in pre-marital formation. God wants married couples to have good sex! Do you know that? Does your fiancé? Do you both really believe it? Do you think you’ll be able to talk about what you want and enjoy, or do you feel like that would be dirty or otherwise off-limits?

It’s normal if you feel embarrassed talking about sex a lot before marriage, and I am not advising you to speculate immodestly or to start experimenting early. But how comfortable are you now talking about kissing, for example? Do you feel like you can ask your fiancé to kiss you more or less or differently, or does that feel selfish? Are you too anxious about hurting the other’s feelings to be honest? Are you not careful enough about hurting the other’s feelings? Does one of you feel steamrolled?

If thinking about these questions reveals some issue that makes this topic especially difficult for either of you (such as hang-ups from purity culture), you may want to go to counseling, pray together, or invest in some deeper discussions to help you heal and learn to talk to each other openly. And be ready to continue those discussions into marriage!

5. What's your understanding of “marital debt”?

What should happen if one spouse wants to have sex and the other doesn’t? Is it selfish to say no without a good reason, and what is a “good reason,” anyway? Sexual intimacy is a gift, and it should be unselfish, but does that mean it’s reasonable for someone to expect their spouse to agree to have sex if they don’t feel like it? If they’re upset or angry with them? How do you understand Paul’s admonition, “Do not deprive each other, except perhaps by mutual consent for a time” (1 Cor 7:5)? If one person wants to have sex and the other doesn’t, when is it selfish to try to convince them?

More specifically, when does convincing becoming pressuring? Does your fiancé think the wedding vows constitute blanket consent to sexual activity within marriage? The Church doesn’t. Here’s that exception I mentioned: If your fiancé thinks it’s acceptable to coerce or force someone to have sex, it should be a dealbreaker. It shows a grave misunderstanding of the nature and purpose of sexual intimacy. Someone who believes that is not ready to be married, and you deserve better.

If your fiancé thinks it’s acceptable to coerce or force someone to have sex, it should be a dealbreaker.

Now: Talk amongst yourselves!

Recently, I have been meditating on Christ's outrage at the moneylenders in the Temple (Matthew 21:12-17). It's a scene that’s both comforting and unsettling, depending on your perspective. I've never understood the violence in Jesus' reaction — until now. The house of His Father was meant to be a refuge and holy space for worship, a place to rest in the knowledge that the God of Israel was near. Yet God's own people turned the house of the Father into a common market. They preferred mercenary transactions to Love Himself.

The revelations of horrific scandal in the Church cannot be understood or explained through a single passage from Scripture. I struggle to put into words exactly what has changed for me and why this passage seems so relevant.

Ultimately, it comes down to anger at the manipulation and exploitation of God's beloved people, at how some people in the Church have justified, ignored, and hidden abuse. Most of all, I grieve for survivors, I am angry that justice is so slow in coming, and I am so angry that people in the Church exploited the beauty and truth of God's love in order to abuse His people.

Like many Catholics, I feel helpless in the face of such systemic and grave evil in our Church. I write this letter to articulate the emotional fog that each new revelation leaves and to provide what I hope is a helpful perspective.

Feed My Sheep: An Appeal to Priests and Bishops

I was recently reminded of what a beautiful blessing the priesthood is for the Church. We often take for granted the most precious of God’s blessings because, being so generous, He bestows them every day, everywhere, and in spite of our continued failings. I am grateful to Jesus for leaving Himself for us in your hands.

Please remember that you are, first and foremost, our spiritual fathers. You are shepherds, called by God to feed His sheep. You are called by Jesus Christ to protect His Beloved; to care for her as He does; and, if necessary, to disregard convention, comfort, and the instincts of self-preservation to do so. Do not abandon us.

Members of our Church are starving for Truth. I ache for truth when I see yet another story of cover-up, another defensive statement from a diocese, or another shallow attempt to convince the world of what we know to be false: that the Church is not, in fact, bleeding and broken.

Members of our Church are starving for Truth.

The Church does not need your business acumen, your PR strategies, your marketing or media savvy. The Church needs your faithfulness. We need you to believe that God, not you, will save His Church. If that means losing priests, losing bishops, civil and criminal prosecution, even persecution, so be it.

When I speak of members of the Church, I am speaking of each soul in your parish, of each person who has been injured and terrorized by the sins of the clergy, and of each person whose trust — if not in God, then in His ordained ministers — has been shaken. I am speaking of laity, clergy, and religious. We are the Church, and we need you to be courageously faithful.

His Mercy Endures Forever: An Appeal to Complicit Bishops

I want to speak especially to bishops who have knowingly participated in abuse or cover-ups of abuse. You may (I hope) regret the decisions you made in hiding the ugly truth of sexual abuse. I cannot know what led you to betray the Church. I can judge your actions, but not you. There, but for the grace of God, go I.

Do not dig yourself deeper. Look to Peter, not Judas, and do not despair of God’s mercy. Please be courageous enough to expose the whole, ugly truth, so that our Church can be healed. Feed your sheep, not with good intentions, diplomatic apologies, or five-year plans but with repentance. Act with the heroic virtue of Peter, who was not ashamed to throw himself on the mercy of His Lord, no matter the gravity of his sin.

If you must publicly admit your sins in order to share the truth, even if your actions will condemn you in the eyes of the Church and the world for the rest of your life, then do so. The belief that coming clean will be a blow to God’s kingdom is a lie from Satan. Repent, and believe in the Gospel.

Remember that Jesus promised you His love — and His cross. Perhaps a life of shame, quiet prayer, and penance will be your path to sainthood. You have harmed the Church gravely. May God give you the grace to participate in her healing by handing over your life completely to His loving and merciful will.

Remember that Jesus promised you His love — and His cross.

Remember that the ever-merciful Jesus entrusted our care to you. If you have done wrong before, do right now. If you failed to lead us before, lead us now.

Such a Time As This: An Appeal to Lay Catholics

“When Esther’s words were reported to Mordecai, he had this reply brought to her: ‘Do not imagine that you are safe in the king’s palace, you alone of all the Jews. Even if you now remain silent, relief and deliverance will come to the Jews from another source; but you and your father’s house will perish. Who knows—perhaps it was for a time like this that you became queen?’” (Esther 4:13-14)

I feel overwhelmed when I consider what my part in reforming the Church might be. How can I, who am not called to any ministerial office in the Church, offer anything but outrage and good intentions?

One piece of advice I recently received was that “the most effective way you can participate in the healing of the Church is to be a saint.” Theologically, I didn’t doubt it, but it seemed so impractical and removed from my daily life and the lives of people who are hurting now.

But as I was praying about this issue, God allowed me to see that, in each of my gifts, He gives me a way to serve — and in each of your gifts, He gives you a way to serve. If you feel overwhelmed by the scandal in the Church and unable to offer something of value, I encourage you to pray and consider where God is inviting you to bring His love.

Pray and consider where God is inviting you to bring His love.

As horrific and gut-wrenching as each new revelation of scandal is, it’s not a problem that can be fixed in isolation. It cries out for our daily re-conversion and dedication to pursuing holiness. Each of us, the Church and her leaders, are in desperate need of our Savior.

So, do you still want to have kids?”

This is probably the most common question that strangers ask me during “getting to know you” conversations. Whether I’m meeting someone new at church or hanging out in a bar, once someone learns that I am a single, childless 30-something who works professionally in maternity care, they have to know if someone who has seen the raw side of being a mother still wants to be one.

I have worked as a birth and postpartum doula for four years, and it’s true that I’ve seen a lot. Pregnancies can be hard and births difficult. “Good babies” can suddenly develop impossible sleep challenges. A family can weep with joy over their micro-preemie surviving against the odds, only to be thrown into crisis by the shock of a million-dollar NICU bill.

And then there are the challenges that a new baby brings to a relationship. A new baby affects all relationships, be it between spouses, relatives, friends, and - perhaps most dramatically - between a woman and her self-identity.

I have witnessed the total breakdown of marriages, trying to be supportive of each spouse while they tell me that the reality of their current life isn’t what they thought it would be. It’s a wonder that I still believe in the power of love and the idea of a Catholic vocation to marriage and motherhood, but I sincerely do. For all of the ugliness this vocation can involve, there are plenty of beautiful moments, such as when a birth becomes an opportunity for healing between a new mother and her own mother, or a new dad steps into his role despite not having had a father as a child.

While most of my clients don’t share my faith, I occasionally work with Catholic families, many of whom show me the power of God’s grace made present during birth and those vulnerable postpartum moments. Through my work with parents, families, and new babies, I’ve learned a lot about the vocation to family life, one that I believe is also my own vocation.

Here are a few key lessons my work has taught me about marriage and motherhood:

1. You Can’t Really Plan a Baby

These days, you can somewhat time a pregnancy and delivery, in terms of waiting for being in between work projects, after marriage, or once all of your debt is paid off. But the baby him/herself? You can’t plan that at all.

You can’t plan personality or sleep habits (because for every sleep training method, there is a percentage of children who will resist it). You can’t plan your body’s reaction to changing hormones or whether your partner will collapse in on himself because parenting a newborn can be just as overwhelming for men as it is for women.

I caution my clients against thinking about their children as “planned” or “unplanned,” because it can undermine the reality that you can never fully prepare for what you’re getting into as a new parent, regardless of how well you plan. Acceptance and surrender to the unknown is just as essential to parenting as it is to the rest of life.

Acceptance and surrender to the unknown is just as essential to parenting as it is to the rest of life.

2. The First Parenting Choice We Make Is the Choice of Our Children’s Other Parent.

I heard a childbirth educator say make this statement to a room full of parents, and my jaw almost dropped to the floor. Her point was to inspire trust in each partner. Giving birth requires a lot of trust, and so does parenting. Some parents tend to excessively criticize or undermine their partner’s parenting, especially early on. “He’s not doing it right!”, a mom will tell me. “She should do that differently!”, a dad will confide.

If you chose this person to be your child’s parent, why wouldn’t you trust them to discover their unique parenting style in their own way and in their own time? Trusting the choice you made in your specific partner — and, therefore, trusting your partner — can be the difference between a miserable or a positive transition into parenting.

3. Modern American Parenting Is Kind of a Scam

You don’t have to be Super Mom.

A client once asked whether she should buy a particularly well-reviewed toy from Baby Einstein. Baby Einstein makes cool products, but the more we talked, the more her anxiety increased about which exact toys to purchase. “I’m pretty sure Einstein himself didn’t have any Baby Einstein toys, and he turned out alright,” I told her.

I think this anecdote is a symptom of an American problem. American parenting is in a league of its own. Our individualistic society doesn’t prepare people to become parents. Our culture isn’t set up for extended parental leave. The American maternity care system’s support for mothers is severely lacking, compared to maternity care in the rest of the West. Most people have never held a newborn before holding their own.

Parents have to fill knowledge gaps with a mix of family advice, parenting books, Google, Perfect Social Media Mom, and the occasional postpartum professional. This reality is a stark contrast to other cultures, which are built around family in such a way that adults are learning to be parents from the time they’re young.

It is vital for parents, especially women, to be merciful with themselves while learning to navigate this new season of life.

It is vital for parents, especially women, to be merciful with themselves while learning to navigate this new season of life.

4. Your Husband and Your Village Is One of the Greatest Determinants of Your Motherhood Experience

This one is really directed at my fellow single women. Having a ring and a kid will not change someone. For your future spiritual and mental health, consider whether you would want to have a child with the man you are dating now. Those problems you have right now will only magnify after you get married.

In addition to your partner, you need friends: single friends, married friends, older friends, and all other kinds of friends. You need people who will build you up, be honest with you, provide a different perspective, and be a listening ear and prayer warrior. Whether you decide to work or stay at home, motherhood can be lonely at times, and it is so much better with a circle of trusted friends, however small that circle may be.

5. Family Is a Gift, and Each Member’s Needs Are Equally Important — and Prioritized at Different Times

As a teenager, I saw an episode of a talk show in which a mother proudly proclaimed that her kids weren’t the center of her life and that she prioritized her marriage first. This statement is part of an age-old debate that cycles through social media, causing Catholic wives and mothers to separate into two camps: husband first or kids first.

I understand the debate, but I reject the framework. One of the best parts of being Catholic is how well our faith endorses a both/and approach. Protecting the relationship between man and wife is important after having a baby. At the same time, I’ve seen how an inflexible hierarchy of needs inevitably overlooks some important needs for a healthy family. What about a mother’s needs? A middle child’s needs?

One of the best parts of being Catholic is how well our faith endorses a both/and approach.

Operating from the perspective that each family member has important needs that will be prioritized differently during seasons of life — sometimes kids, sometimes spouse, and even, sometimes, self — can help create a loving, domestic church that’s a place of comfort and support for everyone.

6. Many of Us Don’t Know Who We Are Before Having a Baby

Having served close to 100 clients across a spectrum of age, religion, educational level, and socioeconomic status, I’ve embraced the wisdom that I need to spend this current season as a single woman really getting to know myself. Pregnancy, postpartum, and the pains of motherhood are often catalysts for an identity crisis. Many of us just don’t know who we are before having a baby. We’ve been following a script, not necessarily engaging with ourselves or our Creator.

This lack of self-exploration is problematic because motherhood demands a new outpouring of energy from every part of you: mentally, physically, and spiritually. It takes a whole person to parent a whole person.

Pregnancy might be the first time someone reflects on trauma from early in her life. For many women, postpartum is the first time they seek mental health services or spiritual direction. Fear and shame are two of the biggest unresolved issues that I’ve seen surface during the journey of new parenthood.

Professional help is available, and it is always a good idea to seek it out, whether you feel like you “can handle it” or not. I encourage every person to invest in professional counseling, just to become a healthier adult but especially if he or she feels called to marriage and parenthood.

7. Parenthood Is a Crash Course in Spiritual Detachment

Our worth and value come from God alone. This statement easy to embrace as an inspirational Instagram caption, but it’s much more difficult when you haven’t slept for more than two hours at a time for six months.

Detachment is necessary in our lives but most especially during the parenting years. As author and mother Sarah Bessey wrote beautifully in My Practices of Mothering:

I believe I have these tinies on purpose. They have been given to me - on loan - to raise up to love God and love people. So clearly, I have some spiritual authority here and I am learning to walk that out - especially when that takes more faith than the other aforementioned rainbow-and-cupcake times.

I am their mother and therefore, the best mother for them. So I can turn to God to cry out for wisdom, for understanding, listening intently to my own instincts and honouring my gut feelings. I can go to my mum or other resources I respect for their wisdom and help. I can need a break and admit when I screwed up royally (because I do that too).

Our worth and value come from God alone.

This three-part article explores the topic of white privilege, how I came to acknowledge my privilege as a white woman, why this topic is relevant to Catholics, and how acknowledging my privilege affects and benefits my Catholic feminism.

“I don’t have white privilege,” I once shared in a large group discussion on race and privilege during a retreat put on by the multicultural affairs department of my small, private liberal arts college. It was my freshman year, and I was in for a rude awakening.

How I Discovered What “White Privilege” Is —  and That I Have It

I was born and raised in Santa Monica, California. Santa Monica is characterized by its scenic beach proximity and affluence, while simultaneously having a significant homeless population and a less-acknowledged low-income population. My family belonged to this lower income group. I grew up in a rent-controlled apartment that my parents moved into in the early 1990s under Section 8 housing. I went to public school, and I qualified for free lunch in the cafeteria. Most of my clothes came from sale racks and thrift stores; I was picked on for wearing off-brand clothing. We didn’t take trips to Europe or anywhere outside the country. Neither of my parents attended college. My parents had been on food stamps and welfare, and my dad left when I was in 10th grade and my younger sister was only about 9 years old. So, I didn’t see myself as “privileged.”

In high school, I was accepted into a scholarship program that serves low-income, high-achieving students and pairs them with college counselors who help them with the college application and financial aid processes. I was the only white student in the program. I was accepted to my first-choice school, Reed College, which seemed like a school for quirky intellectuals who marched to the beat of their own drum. As part of its scholarship program, the multicultural affairs office at Reed College flew me out to campus as part of its “spring multicultural fly-in” program. I became friends with a number of the other prospective students during the fly-in, and many of us decided to attend Reed that fall.

My freshman year at Reed, I became a part of the peer mentor program (PMP). The PMP pairs first-year students with upperclass students who are students of color, first-generation college students or part of other underrepresented groups. Mentors meet regularly with their mentees, and even receive funds from the PMP to go off campus for outings. I was excited to attend the PMP retreat during my freshman year to be reunited with the friends I’d made during the multicultural fly-in and to learn about each other’s experiences.

During one discussion on the retreat, on the topic of privilege, we had the opportunity to share our questions, thoughts and responses. As a woman, it was easy for me to accept the idea of “male privilege” and to recognize that I did not have it. Male privilege is a term that refers to the unearned advantages that men often have, simply because they are men. This isn’t to say that nothing a man does is worked hard for or earned; however, it does acknowledge that there are certain advantages that help men to advance that are not available to women. Conversely, it implies that there are many obstacles women face that men do not have to deal with. (For a list of examples, see Barry Deutsch’s “Male Privilege Checklist,” inspired by Peggy McIntosh’s “Unpacking The Invisible Knapsack”). I could think back on many experiences where I felt that I was underestimated or disrespected due to my sex, and I still held feelings of pain and anger from times when I felt disempowered, thought to be less capable, or objectified by men.

However, when we arrived at the term “white privilege,” I had no frame of reference, and I felt the need to speak up.

“I don’t have white privilege,” I began. I explained that I grew up without wealth, surrounded by many classmates who had more than I did, and that I lacked many of the economic benefits I attributed to the word “privilege.” Before I could elaborate, many voices (particularly belonging to people of color) in the circle reacted with strong disagreement, and even anger, toward my sentiments.

A couple of the staff members, who were both black women I respected tremendously, began to explain to me why I was wrong in front of the entire group. To be honest, I don’t remember much of what they said but, rather, how it made me feel in the moment. My cheeks turned red, my heart started beating quickly, and I was caught off guard and mortified.

In that moment, I felt attacked. I was being told I was wrong and corrected in front of a large group of my peers and college administrators, which made me feel alone and embarrassed. I had always tried to be a good person, actively Catholic and trying to imitate Christ’s loving example. Here, I felt like I was being accused of perpetrating racism. I felt my sense of acceptance and belonging being threatened and felt the shame of disappointing the mentors I looked up to.

Frankly, though, I needed this humbling wake-up call.

When we broke into small group discussions, a black woman who was a year ahead of me patiently encouraged me to ask follow up questions. She gently asked me questions, too: Have you ever been in a class where the teacher assumed you didn’t know the right answer or weren’t as smart, simply because of your skin color? Have you often felt like you were the only person who looked the way you did in most of your classes and schools and activities? Have you ever had to struggle to think of examples of people of your race in a profession you aspired to? As she asked more questions, she began to tell me how she personally encountered all of these experiences. This conversation was the beginning of my coming to understand what white privilege was — and that I, indeed, had it.

What White Privilege Is and What It Isn’t

White privilege, like male privilege, means having many advantages that are unearned, simply because you are white in America. Peggy McIntosh’s “White Privilege: Unpacking The Invisible Knapsack” contains many of the examples that my friend had shared with me. White privilege stems from racism in our country’s past, and unacknowledged white privilege plays a role in perpetuating racism today. While slavery and Jim Crow laws might have been overturned, people of color are still not on equal footing with white people. We cannot expect the effects of overturned racist laws to disappear altogether, and racial inequality still exists in a very real way today.

Racism is “individual- and group-level processes and structures that are implicated in the reproduction of racial inequality” (Clair and Denis, 2015).

Racial bias is a conscious or unconscious prejudice against an individual or group based on their race.

Systemic racism is racism enacted through powerful groups or organizations like government, businesses, schools and even churches. In the United States Conference of Catholic Bishops’ 2017 document “Responding to the Sin of Racism,” the USCCB identifies racism as a sin and calls all the people of God to repentance, quoting a 2011 meeting of Christian Churches Together in the USA:“We call ourselves, our institutions, and our members to repentance.  We make this confession before God and offer it to all who have endured racism and injustice both within the church and in society.”

The Bishops go on to say, “Racism is an attack on the image of God that has been given to every one of us by the Creator (Gen. 5:1-3).  Because each person has been created by God, we are all united together with the Lord and with each other.”

Racism is a sin, but like all sin, it’s been in the world since before you entered it, and it came into the world through no fault of your own. While I did not invent racism, I am called to choose how I respond to it and unwittingly perpetuate it. Notice that I said choose. The fact that I have a choice is a privilege. In recognizing my privilege to choose, I feel convicted to acknowledge the small ways I commit the sin of racism daily.

While I did not invent racism, I am called to take responsibility for how I respond to it and unwittingly perpetuate it.

Microaggressions are “the everyday verbal, nonverbal, and environmental slights, snubs, or insults, whether intentional or unintentional, which communicate hostile, derogatory, or negative messages to target persons based solely upon their marginalized group membership” (Psychology Today, 2010). Sometimes these comments might be benevolent or well-intended, but they ultimately may cause harm.

Examples of microaggressions include asking a person of color, “No, where are you really from?” or, “What are you?” or saying, “You’re pretty for a (insert race here) girl” or you don’t act like a (insert race here) person.” (This chart gives a helpful explanation of different forms of microaggression and the harmful implicit message of each.)

When I believed that I didn’t have white privilege, I was conflating it with socioeconomic status, one’s class or social standing based on income, level of education, or occupation. While we must reflect “on the persistence of racism in our country, and the role it has played in keeping many people in poverty” (USCCB, 2017), not all privileges are solely economic. In an article in US Catholic addressing Catholics’ need to own up to privilege, Kevin P. Considine, Ph.D., acknowledges that “power and privilege are not bad things in themselves. They are neutral, yet often infected by social and personal sin. Moreover, privilege cannot be fully renounced. It is conferred through an invisible social contract that is larger than my own ability to renounce, even though I desire to do so.”

In our small group,, my college friend continued to unpack more of her day-to-day experiences and how societal expectations, pressures and perceptions weighed on her own self-concept. If she didn’t perform academically as well as her classmates, she feared it reflected not just on herself but on their perception of her whole race. Most of her experiences did not involve the overt examples of racism that I had heard about in history classes and movies, but they were more subtle and pervasive. My feelings of self-concern and pride were replaced with feelings of compassion, empathy, and anger at the systems that unfairly privileged me and people of my race while hurting people of other races.

Sometimes, white people believe that “not seeing color” is a way to be helpful and eliminate racism. But our differences are part of our experience, identity, and story. By remaining blind to distinctions, we may be distancing ourselves from God, because we fail to see the God’s Image uniquely manifested in each person. Furthermore, “colorblindness,” as it’s called, is not the answer because when we ignore race, we also may ignore or miss racism.

By remaining blind to distinctions, we may be distancing ourselves from God, because we fail to see the God’s Image uniquely manifested in each person.

Because white people in the U.S. don’t experience many of the disadvantages that people of color do, they can be oblivious to racism in daily life, find the status quo acceptable, and become complicit in enabling the systems of privilege to continue (Fryberg and Stephens, 2010). A “colorblind” white person might miss an opportunity to intervene when a person of color is experiencing an act of racism by another person or dismiss someone’s experiences rather than affirming them. As Catholics, we are called to be builders of the Kingdom of God, here and now. Accepting the status quo goes against our call as disciples.

As the love child of a French aristocrat and his girlfriend, it seems St. Louise de Marillac's failure to blend into mainstream Catholic culture started from her conception.

From there, each time Louise's life veered toward any kind of social normalcy, something would happen to block her, once again, from the comfort of fitting in. Perhaps Louise's parents would have married to provide more social stability for their unexpected daughter, but her mom died shortly after childbirth. And though Louise's father financed her education up until his own premature death, neither he nor his family ever recognized Louise as a legitimate child or legal heir.

Unlike the focused life trajectories of her successful Catholic peers, Louise was all over the place. Her stepmom kicked her out at age four so she could begin a new family without her. Louise's prestigious Catholic boarding school expelled her at age twelve when her dad died unexpectedly and his new wife stopped paying the tuition. Louise's childhood culminated as an orphan in a workhouse, doing chores in exchange for room and board.

In the 1600s, it must have seemed like she was on the loser track for women. Louise felt called to a religious vocation and longed to join the Capuchins, a local cloistered order. But the convent rejected her, likely because Louise's wealthy but estranged family refused to pay the dowry for her admittance. (At that time, religious vocations required dowries for admittance and were, therefore, limited primarily to women from noble or wealthy families.)

In many ways — an unstable home life, failure to complete a Catholic education, absence of extended family support, roadblocks and confusion in her vocation — Louise's early life lacked the basic hallmarks commonly ascribed to Catholic success. Yet, if she had achieved the comfortable status quo that kept evading her, Louise never could have accomplished the new, necessary, holy work ahead of her.

Louise's early life lacked the basic hallmarks commonly ascribed to Catholic success.

Instead of religious life, Louise's extended family arranged for her to marry the secretary to Queen Marie de Medici, a marriage that, by design, provided direct access to the French monarchy for Louise's political uncles. Despite being used, at least to some degree, as a political tool, Louise was fond of her husband. Their high-profile Catholic marriage soon produced a baby boy and the potential for a happy, stable life for Louise.

Unfortunately, Louise's husband fell ill while their son was young, so for most of their marriage, Louise cared for her husband, questioning if she had missed her true vocation to religious life. One Pentecost Sunday, she experienced a profound consolation: The Lord assured Louise that despite all the difficulties and confusion, she was right where she was supposed to be.

Some well-intentioned biographers splice out Louise's dysfunctional family problems, rejections and predicated social failures in an attempt to construct a sweeter, simpler saint story. But these revisions eliminate the integral details that testify to God's personal providence in Louise's life: We can trace each disappointment in her formative years to a strength in the ministry of her later years.

We can trace each disappointment in her formative years to a strength in the ministry of her later years.

When St. Louise de Marillac's legacy is viewed in tandem with her repeated disenfranchisement, her life becomes a revelation in how specifically God can use unwelcome circumstances in our lives to create a revolution of good in the world.

As Louise was recovering from the death of her husband, she met Monsieur Vincent — St. Vincent de Paul — who was struggling to teach society ladies how to serve the poor with dignity. Though Monsieur Vincent's volunteers had the hearts and financial means to help, they lacked tolerance for the smell, filth, and actual labor of charity work. When this holy priest discovered Louise's invaluable skill set, he gratefully invited her to join his work. Louise's unusual experience growing up among aristocracy while laboring among commoners uniquely prepared her to bridge the gap between St. Vincent de Paul's wealthy donors and the poor of their region.

Eventually, Louise opened orphanages and recruited wet nurses and foster families for abandoned newborns in France. No doubt the instability and family turmoil surrounding her own conception and birth spurred Louise's innovative care solutions for unwanted babies in France.

Louise founded a religious community that admitted many poor, common women with hearts willing to serve but no dowries. The perennial hurt caused by the Capuchins' early rejection of Louise proved formative in her new approach to women's religious vocations.

Louise established a new standard of dignified care for those who were sick and poor, and she attained a reputation for quality medical training in her religious community. Though caring for her chronically-ill husband may have seemed a long, tedious, thankless season and lost decade of her life, it instilled in Louise the qualities needed to reform French health care.

In 1960, despite Louise's unconventional Catholic life — or more accurately, as a direct result of Louise's unconventional Catholic life — Louise de Marillac was declared the patron saint of social workers for her transformative approach to serving those who are poor, sick, and disenfranchised.

Perhaps, like St. Louise de Marillac, the places in our lives where we most feel like failures will be the tools that God uses to accomplish prolific good in the world. In this, may we be blessed with discernment, grace, and courage to entrust to the Lord the unconventional circumstances of our lives.

May we be blessed with discernment, grace, and courage to entrust to the Lord the unconventional circumstances of our lives.

I have lived in Texas my entire life. It is something that I am proud of. When I wonder who I am, which is often, I always come back to the fact that I am a Texan and that gives me some sense of meaning, purpose and identity.

When I was about three years old or younger, my grandfather took me somewhere in his truck. I do not remember much about it except his face and him looking at me and saying “no matter what anyone ever tells you, you are Tejano, do not forget that.” Because he died shortly after that, I never did forget. But I did not really know what “Tejano” was. I asked people in my family but the answer was always different. As best as I could figure it was Texans who speak Spanish. We were often called Mexican but nobody in my family was from Mexico. My family had always lived in the land that is now Texas. The Mexican border crossed us but we never crossed it and my great grandparents were American Indian and Spanish, so technically they were Mexican citizens and then Tejanos and then Texans and then Americans. Without ever crossing a border. I have never stepped foot in Mexico in my entire life.

Growing up in Texas, I am considered “Mexican.”

That all being said, growing up in Texas, I am considered “Mexican.” When my mother was growing up there were signs outside of some stores and business that said “No Mexicans Allowed” and that meant my mother and her siblings even though they were grandchildren of people who were native to this land way before the United States even existed.

So while I have always lived in Texas and been proud of it, I have never felt as if this was one hundred percent my home. I have always felt that a part of me is not welcome. Like there are just some spaces that even without signs on them are “No Mexicans allowed” and that includes me. But even then, it was in the background. I had never lived in a time when stadiums filled with people chanting “send them back!” or when people drove ten hours in the middle of a hot Texas summer to El Paso to specifically target men, women and children who have the same skin color as I do. This is a new level of unwelcome for me.

Now as a mother and grandmother I see kids being traumatized because they are being separated from their parents. I see kids in detention centers and hear stories of them having to go before Immigration judges all alone to answer questions that adults have a hard time answering. These children look like my children and grandchildren. We share historical DNA and language. We come from the indigenous people who were colonized and have had border crossing us as we just try to do the best we can for our children whatever that looks like. My mother’s heart aches for these children.

These children look like my children and grandchildren.

I watched the testimony of a mother whose daughter fell ill while in detention and died a few months after being released. As a mother who has buried a child I cried for her. I was also so proud to share a heritage and history with her because we come from a long line of mothers who will always fight for the honor of our children. Our children are our pride and joy. Our motherhood makes us warriors. I see this being broken everyday when I see pictures of mothers who want a good life for their children being forced to face the trauma of losing them because our laws are inhumane.

In my culture there is no greater hero than the Blessed Mother. She is who my mother, grandmother and my Tias all looked up to. Pictures of her are everywhere in every house of every mother in my family. When our kids act up or are lost, we light candles praying that Mary may bring them back. When they die, we beg Our Lady to guide them to heaven. We are mothers who pray to the Mother of God every moment of every day. She is with us always.

These mothers who are having their children traumatized by raids, detentions, deportations and all the other ways that our immigration system is failing them - they all share this with every American Catholic mother: this maternal heart. This is where we meet in common - at the foot of the cross with The Blessed Virgin holding our hand. May she help us all to be the best mothers we can be and to guide us in how to support each other as mothers in these circumstances in the United States.

This is where we meet in common - at the foot of the cross with The Blessed Virgin holding our hand.

Our Lady, Pray for us.