“If you resist leaning into the discomfort of whatever you’re feeling when someone shares something that you don’t agree with, don’t have a lot of experience with, don’t know much about and so on….. ask yourself am I in emotional childhood or adulthood?
Without this awareness we will not truly be able minister to one another. A person in need who is sharing their heart does not need to pay the price of your discomfort; and that ‘price’ can be high.”
-Meagan Skidmore, Episode #78 Halloween Scaries: Cleaning the skeletons out of the closet. In October, I’m talking about some of the “scary stuff” that comes as part of a faith journey. What else do you find “scary” or uncomfortable as part of your faith journey?
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The Beyond the Shadow of Doubt™ podcast is a proud member of the Dialogue Podcast Network found at DialogueJournal.com/podcasts. Part of the Dialogue Journal, the Dialogue Podcast Network was founded by Eugene England, a Mormon writer, teacher and scholar. “My faith encourages my curiosity and awe,” Gene wrote in the very first issue of the journal. “It thrusts me out into relationship with all creation” and “encourages me to enter into dialogue.” My hope is that this podcast is an extension of his vision.
Hopeful Spaces is a Dallas Hope Charities component of Hopeful Discussions, which is sponsored by Mercedes-Benz Financial Services USA. Hopeful Spaces is a monthly parent support group facilitated by Meagan Skidmore Coaching. To join Hopeful Spaces OR the November book club, send an email to chc@dallashopecharities.org.
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Hey y’all — I love Halloween, so I decided to do a fun podcast series.
Welcome to Halloween Scaries.
To be “inside the closet” is a euphemism for staying hidden.
But why hide? Why stay hidden?
There are lots of reasons—many of them having to do with safety: mental, emotional, physical, and even spiritual safety.
For this episode, I’m going to step into the closet and bring out something that’s been hidden for me.
And that’s the hurt I feel over some messages I’ve heard from the pulpit—from leaders of, I’ll say, the LDS Church—though I want to acknowledge there are other faiths that also send harmful messages.
If we’re unwilling to examine and talk about, in a neutral way, the things that don’t sit right with us—or cause active pain—whether or not they apply to us personally…
are we pretending to be someone we’re not?
I don’t know that I have the answer yet.
But I do know this—it’s a little scary to get this real on a podcast episode.
When it comes to things that mean the most to me—family, God, faith—I’m willing to go into the closet with a broom, a dust cloth, and a mop in hand. I’ll grab an empty box labeled Salvation Army and start cleaning: the cobwebs, the dust bunnies, the dead bugs, and yes—the skeletons.
Metaphorically speaking, of course.
After listening to the most recent General Conference—full disclosure, I couldn’t listen to all of it—certain messages hurt my heart so much they caused physical and emotional pain. My stomach churned and tightened. My heart didn’t feel any love from certain talks.
So here’s my question:
What is so wrong about having an experience that causes pain—and then, as a result, feeling hurt?
Why is there this unspoken rule or expectation that experiencing anything outside a narrow parameter somehow reflects on our goodness, worth, integrity, or faithfulness?
It’s like an invisible current flowing through the veins of a faith community.
I want to be able to say, “That message hurt,” and not be gaslighted or discredited—as a believer, as a spiritual being, as a human being.
Since when did all our experiences need to be Xerox copies of each other?
General Conference is something I’ve upheld my entire life—well, except when I was five and couldn’t sit still that long. But generally, it’s something I’ve always looked forward to.
And yet… I should be able to say when something hurts.
Actually, let me rephrase that—in an ideal world, I want to be able to openly share that with those I love, those I worship with, those I share a witness of Christ with—without fear of rejection, criticism, or shame.
I want to normalize listening, even when what you’re hearing makes you uncomfortable.
Listening with curiosity.
Listening to learn from another’s experience—and loving them through it.
Those who are in pain want to be heard. That’s the first step to truly ministering: listening.
If we’re listening only to offer a rebuttal or to correct someone, we’re not really listening.
And here’s the thing: when you’re the listener—the one ministering—it’s your responsibility to navigate your discomfort. That’s not the burden of the person sharing their pain.
In life coaching, we talk about emotional childhood versus emotional adulthood.
Brooke Castillo, my mentor and founder of The Life Coach School, teaches that in emotional childhood, we live on autopilot. We act from the programming of our upbringing—often without ever questioning it.
If you constantly try to control others, define yourself by what others say (or what you think they say), or blame your outcomes on external circumstances, you’re living in emotional childhood.
Brooke explains it this way:
“Once we’ve reached adulthood, our brains are developed enough to understand what we’re thinking. We can reflect on our thoughts—and decide what to think, no matter what anyone else does.”
As children, we’re taught that others cause our feelings:
“Did it hurt your feelings when that boy said those mean words?”
“Go say sorry, you hurt her feelings.”
These messages teach us that other people are responsible for how we feel—and that belief sticks with us.
But emotional adulthood is different.
It means taking full responsibility for our pain and our joy.
It means not expecting others to make us happy, feel secure, or fix what we feel.
So when someone shares something that challenges your beliefs, makes you uncomfortable, or touches a topic you don’t understand—ask yourself:
Am I operating from emotional childhood or emotional adulthood?
Because without that awareness, we can’t truly minister to one another.
And when we don’t manage our discomfort, the person sharing their pain ends up paying the price for it.
If you ignore the cobwebs, dust bunnies, and skeletons in your closet, they don’t disappear. They pile up.
If you have something to share—something that’s been hidden—I see you.
It’s not easy to open your heart, not knowing what’s on the other side.
You might find a listening ear.
You might find someone willing to learn and love.
Or you might be shut down, told you’re wrong, or even rejected.
But your story still matters.
As a trauma-informed coach, I provide a safe space—both confidential and emotionally secure—for my clients to talk about the scary things.
When you’re not used to opening up, especially about the tough and sticky stuff, it can feel paralyzing.
I listen as my clients share their truths, and I guide them to listen to their own intuition—to decide if and when they’re ready to share with others: family, friends, or faith communities.
In that process, we do identity work—examining the stories you’ve written about yourself, your life, your family, your faith, and your community. The stories are there—in your self-talk.
We also uncover your top 3–5 core values.
Knowing your core values helps you find your footing again. It helps you make decisions—from a place of alignment: mind, body, and soul.
From a place of authenticity that is you.
My signature program is called Life Outside the Binary—for those who’ve experienced an awakening and realized that the world isn’t just black and white.
It’s about choosing which long-held stories still align with your truth—and learning to live outside the ones that don’t.
As your coach, my role is to invite, guide, and curate a 1:1 experience designed for you.
Together, we build your home base—your safe place—to take leaps of faith, trust yourself deeply, and live in alignment with your Inner Wisdom.
It’s empowering work.
And you set the pace.
So, what are the skeletons in your faith-journey closet?
Send me an email—or set up a complimentary discovery coaching call to chat about it.
You’ll find the links in the show notes.
Thanks for being here, friends.