The Bucket on My Head

When Shame Told Me to Hide and Love Opened the Closet Door

When I was in third grade, my teacher had a rule: if you got caught chewing gum in class, you had to stick it on your nose.

One day at recess, my best friend and I put a giant piece of pink bubble gum in our mouths. We spent the entire recess blowing bubbles and laughing. We were having so much fun that we completely forgot to spit it out when the bell rang.

Within moments of returning to class, our teacher noticed.
"Put the gum on your noses," she said.

That large piece of sticky pink gum covered a good portion of my nose and even blocked part of my vision. I glanced over at my friend. She wore hers almost like a badge of honor.
I, on the other hand, felt something very different.

I felt shame.

No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't stop the tears from coming.

It was probably only a few minutes before the teacher let us throw the gum away, but to me it felt much longer. My dad was the assistant principal, and I was convinced the teacher would tell him what I had done. I just knew I was going to be in trouble.

The shame followed me for the rest of the school day.

By the time I got home, it had grown so large in my mind that I went upstairs, grabbed a bucket, climbed into my closet, shut the door, put the bucket on my head, and cried.

Looking back, it's a little funny. But at the time, it felt devastating.

It wasn't long before my mom found me.

I can still picture what she saw when she opened the closet door: her daughter sitting in the dark with a bucket on her head, convinced she had done something terrible.

To her credit, she somehow managed not to laugh.

Instead, she sat beside me and listened while I poured out the whole story.

Then she did something beautiful.

She comforted me.

She wasn't worried about the mistake. She was worried about her daughter.

She explained that chewing gum in class wasn't the end of the world. Everyone makes mistakes. Everything would be okay. Most importantly, she reminded me that I was still loved.

Later, when my dad came home, we told him what had happened. I expected disappointment.
Instead, he was more concerned that I had been publicly embarrassed. He reassured me. He loved me.

There was no shame coming from either of my parents.

I've thought about that experience many times over the years.

What stands out to me now is that the shame I felt that day didn't come from my parents. It didn't come from my teacher either and honestly, it didn't really come from the gum.
It came from the story I started believing about myself.
Somewhere between wearing that gum on my nose and putting a bucket on my head, I stopped thinking, I made a mistake, and started believing, I am the mistake.

Now, when thoughts like that creep in, I've learned to ask myself a simple question.
Who told me that?

Because that certainly wasn't my Heavenly Father.

The Holy Ghost lovingly helps us recognize when we need to repent or change. The Spirit teaches, guides, and invites us to become better.

But shame speaks differently. Shame convinces us that because we made a mistake, we are the mistake.

It tells us to hide.

I've come to believe that's one of Satan's greatest lies, that after we've made a mistake, we should hide from the very person who can heal us.

When Adam and Eve partook of the fruit, they hid. I've always found that interesting.
It wasn't Heavenly Father who hid from them.
They hid from Him and then Heavenly Father did something beautiful.

He came looking for them.

I think that's still what He does.

When we're carrying embarrassment, regret, or shame, He doesn't wait for us to become perfect before coming closer.

He comes looking for us.

One of my favorite parts of this story is imagining my mom opening that closet door.
The older I get, the more I think that's what Heavenly Father's love looks like.

He doesn't shame us into coming back.
He opens the door.
He sits beside us.
He reminds us we are still loved.

Sometimes I wonder how many of us are still sitting in metaphorical closets wearing buckets on our heads.
Maybe it's because of something that happened last week.
Maybe it's because of something that happened years ago.
Maybe we've listened to the voice of shame for so long that we've forgotten what our Father's voice sounds like.

If that's you, can I ask you a question?
Who told you that?

Because I don't think it was Heavenly Father.

Sometimes I think about that little third-grade girl sitting alone in her closet with a bucket on her head. If I could sit beside her today, I'd put my arm around her and ask:

"Sweet girl... who told you that?"

Because it wasn't her mom.
It wasn't her dad.
And it certainly wasn't her Heavenly Father.

He's not standing outside the closet waiting to remind her of her mistake.
He's the One opening the door.
He's the One sitting beside her.
He's the One reminding her she is still loved.
Maybe that's the question we all need to ask when shame starts telling us who we are:
Who told you that?

My amazing parents

XOXO

Tiffanee

Keep Walking Through the Fog

Sometimes clarity doesn’t come when we stop and wait.  It comes as we keep going.

Last fall, my son came to visit for his birthday. He had two things he really wanted to do: go to a couple of Mariners games and make the drive to Mount Rainier to complete a pretty challenging hike.

We left early that morning, hopeful but a little unsure. The weather wasn’t great. It was raining, and the fog was so thick we could barely see anything around us. As we drove higher and higher, the fog only grew denser. It felt like we were just driving deeper into it, not out of it.

At one point, we started to question it.
Should we keep going? Is this even worth it? Are we going to get all the way up there and not see anything?

There was a real pull to just turn around and go home.

But then, almost instantly, everything changed.

We turned a corner, and there it was....Mount Rainier, clear and breathtaking, sitting under a bright blue sky, with sunlight breaking through in a way we hadn’t seen all morning. It honestly felt like someone flipped a switch. One moment we were surrounded by heaviness and uncertainty, and the next we were standing in light and clarity.

As we hiked that day and climbed higher, one of the most striking things was looking out and seeing that same thick fog and cloud layer sitting below us. Everything that had felt so heavy earlier was still there, but now we were above it.

I’ve thought about that experience so many times since.

Because honestly, life can feel a lot like that drive.

There are times when we feel surrounded by fog, spiritually and emotionally.  We feel unsure, discouraged, or just not feeling the clarity we’re hoping for. Sometimes we’re doing all the “right” things, and still, we just can’t see very far ahead.

In those moments, it’s easy to start questioning:
Is this working? Should I keep going? Why can’t I feel what I used to feel?

That fog narrows our view until all we see is what’s right in front of us.

But just like that experience on the mountain, the fog is not the whole story.

Christ is.

He is the source of light and clarity we’re searching for. Often, instead of removing the fog immediately, He invites us to keep moving forward, walking with Him.

That idea of continuing forward feels so real to me. It doesn’t mean everything is clear. It doesn’t mean it’s easy. It simply means choosing not to turn back.

I’ve found that turning to Christ in those foggy moments takes intention. It often looks simple:

• A quiet, honest prayer when words feel hard to find
• Opening the scriptures, even when it feels routine
• Choosing to believe He is there, even when we can’t feel Him clearly
• Slowing down long enough to notice small reminders of His love

Sometimes it’s less about doing something big and more about not turning back.

Because that’s the temptation. When we’re in the fog, we want to retreat. We want clarity before we continue because it feels uncertain, even scary.

But what if, like that drive, the clarity comes because we continue?

That day on Mount Rainier became a gentle reminder to me that the fog can feel overwhelming, but it is not permanent and it is never greater than Christ.

As we press forward with Him, little by little, He lifts us and gently helps us see.

And often, we come to realize that the light was always there.
We just needed His help to rise above what was blocking our view.

 I’m so grateful that He never asks us to find our way through the fog alone and that He walks with us every step of the way.

It was a tough hike that day, but I am thankful for that time I had with my son and the memories and lessons learned.

XOXO

Tiffanee

The Unintentional Climb That Changed My View

While staying with my son recently, I headed out early one morning for a training run. I didn’t map a route. I just started running. Since he lives only a few blocks from the temple, I decided to make that my first destination.

What I didn’t realize was how steep those blocks really were. Not a gentle incline. Not a slow rise. This was the kind of uphill where I found myself zigzagging across the streets just to catch my breath. As I got closer, I had to slow down and even walk at times, just to keep moving upward. Still, I kept going, excited to reach the temple and eventually, I did.

Even sweaty and out of breath, I felt the peace there almost immediately.

A quiet thought came to me:
"Maybe the view would be even better if I went a little higher."

So I kept climbing.

The pavement turned to dirt. Sagebrush surrounded me, and the trail became uneven. At one point, I startled a group of quail, though honestly, they startled me more. The higher I climbed, the smaller the temple began to look and the farther away I got, the more uneasy I started to feel.

Somewhere along that dusty trail, my favorite scripture came to mind:

“Look unto me in every thought; doubt not, fear not.” (Doctrine & Covenants 6:36)

I stopped and looked back. The temple hadn’t moved, but it looked smaller because I had moved farther away from it.

That’s when it really sank in.

It’s so easy for Christ to slip out of our main view, not because He moves, but because we do. We get busy. Distracted. Pulled in different directions and little by little, without even noticing, He becomes less central in our thoughts.

When Christ isn’t at the center, everything else starts to feel different. Fear quietly slips in. Doubt grows louder. The path feels less clear, and the peace we once felt becomes harder to hold on to.  To be honest life begins to feel like my climb uneasy and a little overwhelming at times.

Life is already an uphill climb. But when we keep our focus on Him, when we intentionally look unto Christ there’s a steadiness that comes, even in the effort. The direction is clearer. The purpose feels stronger.

The temple helps remind us where to look. It points us back to Him, but it isn’t just about a place, it’s about keeping Christ in the center of our lives, no matter where we are.

Because when He stays in our view, even the hard stretches feel different. We may still be climbing. Still breathing hard. Still stretching beyond what’s comfortable, but we’re no longer wondering where we’re going.

We know.

As I carefully made my way back down, the temple slowly came back into full view. The dirt turned to pavement. My footing steadied and with every step, that feeling of peace began to return, not all at once, but quietly, little by little.

It felt less like arriving somewhere new and more like returning home.

The temple didn’t move. Christ didn’t move.

I did.

As I finished my run, that thought stayed with me not as something discouraging, but as something hopeful.

Because if I moved away, I can also turn back.

It doesn’t take anything big or dramatic. Just a small shift. A quiet refocusing. A simple decision to look to Him again.

Little by little, I learn to bring Him back into my view
and remember He’s been there all along.

XOXO

Tiffanee

A Dark Closet Kind of Faith

Learning to wait, trust, and believe the light will come

The other day, I was on FaceTime with my grandkids. Somehow, even through a screen, we’ve learned how to play together. One of their favorite games is hide-and-seek, and I’m often recruited as a silent partner, brought along, by whoever is hiding.

On this particular day, my three-year-old granddaughter chose a dark closet as her hiding spot. She pulled me in with her, the screen wobbling slightly as she settled into the shadows.

“Be quiet,” she whispered, her voice full of excitement.

We whispered back and forth, stifling giggles, sharing that secret joy that only hide-and-seek can bring. Time passed slowly in that dim little space, the light completely shut out. After a while, I told her she must have found an excellent place to hide since it was taking so long to be found. The waiting felt long.

Eventually, I wondered out loud, “Are you sure someone is still looking for us? Maybe you should go check. Maybe go find them?”

She didn’t hesitate.

With calm certainty, she reassured me every time: it was okay. They were still looking. We were doing exactly what we were supposed to be doing. From my perspective, the waiting felt uncomfortable. The darkness made doubt creep in. The silence made me restless.

But not her.

She trusted the moment. She stayed still. She didn’t feel the need to rush the door open or prove anything. She simply believed, quietly and completely.

Then, just like she said it would, the closet door opened.

The light returned.  

The waiting ended.

The moment made sense.

Long after the game ended, the lesson stayed with me.

Because faith can feel a lot like sitting in a dark closet.

We don’t move. We don’t see much. Time stretches longer than we expected. Questions whisper in our minds. We wonder how long it’s supposed to take. We wonder if we’re doing something wrong. We wonder if the door will ever open.

I’m reminded of the counsel given to the Israelites when they stood trapped between the Red Sea and an approaching army:
“Fear ye not, stand still, and see the salvation of the Lord.” (Exodus 14:13)

Faith isn’t always bold.

It isn’t always confident or clear.

Sometimes it’s quiet.

Sometimes it’s simply choosing not to leave.

A dark-closet kind of faith.

Maybe faith really does look more like a three-year-old in a dark closet than we realize.

Trusting she’s seen, even when she cannot see.

Knowing she is not alone, even when it feels so dark. 

Waiting without fear.

Resting in the certainty that the one who loves her is near even though not physically present but fully aware, present, and attentive.

She didn’t panic in the waiting.
She didn’t push the door open.
She didn’t abandon the moment when it took longer than expected.

She held on.

And when the door finally opened, the light filled the very space that had once felt small and uncertain.

I want that kind of faith.

The kind that doesn’t rush the moment.

The kind that stays rooted when silence stretches on.

The kind that knows that even in the dark, we are not alone, because Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ are there, watching, seeing, and staying.

The kind that believes light will come, even when it hasn’t yet (especially then).

Because maybe faith, in its simplest form, is staying still long enough to let the door open and maybe faith is simply staying still in the darkness, trusting the light knows exactly when to come.

XOXO

Tiffanee

You Belong

  Remembering What’s True When Doubt Speaks Quietly

A few weeks ago, I was out to dinner with my son and his family. It was one of those perfect evenings, good conversation, laughter, and kindness from the people working there. Nothing unusual. Nothing negative. Just a pleasant night together.

Then suddenly, my three-year-old granddaughter looked around and announced loudly,

“We don’t belong here. We need to leave.”

Everyone at the table paused.

We asked her why she felt that way. Without hesitation, she said very confidently,

“They don’t like us.”

What struck me was that there was absolutely no evidence of that. No unkind words. No looks. Nothing had happened that would make anyone feel unwelcome. But once that thought entered her mind, it felt completely true to her, and it changed how she felt about being there.

I couldn’t stop thinking about that moment, because I realized how familiar that experience can be.

 

Satan works the same way with us.

 

He doesn’t usually show up loudly or dramatically. Instead, he plants quiet thoughts that sound believable:

·         You don’t really belong here.

·         You’re not good enough to be here.

·         Everyone else has it together, but you don’t.

 

Once we believe those thoughts, they can affect how we show up, how confident we feel, how willing we are to participate, and how connected we feel to each other and to the Spirit.

One of his most effective tactics is convincing us that we are somehow on the outside looking in.

 

The gospel teaches something very different.

The Lord reminds us in Doctrine & Covenants 18:10 that “the worth of souls is great in the sight of God” Not the worth of perfect souls. Not the worth of people who never struggle or doubt.

 Just souls.

 

That includes each one of us.

 

I think sometimes we forget that the Savior’s invitation has always been “Come unto me.”
Not come when you feel like you belong.
Not come when you finally feel worthy.
Just come.

 

When feelings of self‑doubt or not belonging creep in, it can help to pause and ask:

·         Is this thought bringing me closer to Christ or pulling me away?

·         Is this coming from truth or from discouragement?

 

If it’s distancing us from confidence, connection, or the Spirit, then it’s not coming from God.

 

That evening, we reminded my granddaughter that she did belong there that she was safe, wanted, and loved and once she heard that reassurance, she was just fine. Nothing about the restaurant changed, but everything changed once the truth was spoken.

 

I think the same is true for us. When those quiet thoughts tell us we don’t belong, nothing around us may actually need to change. Sometimes we simply need to remember what’s already true.

 

We are children of God.
Our worth is great in His sight.

And no matter what Satan whispers, we belong.

The Savior has been trying to tell us that all along.

XOXO

Tiffanee

Pool Noodles Don’t Prepare You for Life’s Waves

Life’s waves don’t wait for you to be ready and pool noodles don't prepare you for those waves.

One of my favorite things to do in Hawaii is wave jumping. There’s something exhilarating that comes from spotting the perfect wave, timing the jump, and feeling the water lift you like you’re part of the ocean for just a second.

One afternoon, while I was lounging on the beach soaking up the sun, my sister convinced me to join her in the water. She swore the waves were perfect and assured that I wouldn’t lose my favorite sunglasses. I should have known better, considering the ocean had already claimed a few pairs.

Feeling confident, I waded in. Both boogie boards were already taken, so I improvised. I slipped a pool noodle around my waist (my version of “preparation”) and headed straight in the ocean. I spotted what seemed like a manageable wave forming. I braced myself and jumped....

Big mistake.

The wave hit with full force. It knocked me off my feet, spun me around a few times and left me clawing my way back to the surface as my brother later described me a “human sandcastle.” My sunglasses were gone, my hands were scraped, and I spent the next several days getting sand out of places sand should never be.

My nieces and nephew later told us that watching Aunt Tiff get taken out by a wave was the highlight of the day.

As I sat there afterward, dripping, sandy, and slightly bruised, I had a moment of clarity: "that did not go the way I planned". I walked into the ocean totally convinced I was ready for whatever came my way. Clearly, I had misjudged both the wave and my definition of preparation.

The more I thought about it, the more it stuck with me. How often do we step into challenges believing our small, makeshift version of preparation will be enough? Sometimes our “preparation” looks an awful lot like that pool noodle: helpful to a point, but nowhere near what’s needed for the wave that’s coming.

Life has a pretty impressive way of sending waves in our direction, sudden changes, unexpected responsibilities, hard seasons. They don’t show up politely or schedule themselves into our calendars. They just appear.

The question isn’t if the waves will come.

They will.

The real question is whether we’ve built the kind of preparation that actually holds when the water gets rough.

True preparation; emotional, spiritual, practical isn’t loud or dramatic. It grows quietly through the small things: nurturing faith, strengthening relationships, learning and stretching ourselves, taking care of our minds and bodies, building routines that keep us steady when life is anything but predictable.

None of those things stop the waves from coming. Hawaii made sure I understood that.

But preparation changes how hard the wave hits and how quickly we recover afterward. Looking back, the problem that day wasn’t the wave. Waves are just part of the ocean. The problem was thinking my neon pool noodle counted as real preparation.

Life is the same way. Challenges and responsibilities will show up whether we’re ready or not. Real preparation isn’t something you grab last minute. It’s something you build long before you need it.

And when the wave finally comes, you might still get knocked around. You might still get tossed and come up with seaweed in your hair. But with real preparation beneath you, you’ll find your footing faster and you’ll walk away with more clarity than chaos and a lot less sand in your ears (and everywhere else).

Real preparation isn’t a pool noodle you grab at the last minute. It’s the steady foundation you build long before life’s waves arrive.

XOXO

Tiffanee

Walk with Me

   

A few times each year, a friend and I sign up for local races. We always laugh because we “race together”… just not at the same speed. I run, she walks. I usually finish long before she does, and instead of waiting at the finish line, I turn around, jog back along the course and find her. Then we walk the last stretch together.

Over the years, those shared miles have become my favorite part of every race.

When I’m running, I’m focused on the finish line, on pace, time, and momentum. But when I slow down to walk with her, a different world opens up. I start noticing things I completely missed while running: wildflowers pushing up through the cracks in the road, little artistic murals on old buildings, small details that would have blurred by at a faster pace. We talk. We laugh. We process life and mile by mile, our friendship has deepened not in the running, but in the walking.

There’s something sacred about slowing down enough to see what’s been there all along.

It reminds me of a quiet but powerful moment in the book of Moses, when the Lord speaks to Enoch. Enoch feels painfully inadequate; too young, too shy, too weak, too overlooked. He describes himself as “slow of speech” and someone others don’t take seriously. In today’s language, he might have said, “Why me? I’m not qualified.”

But the Lord doesn’t give Enoch a pep talk or a list of reasons he’s secretly amazing.

He simply extends an invitation:

“Walk with me.”

Those three simple words change everything. 

The Lord doesn’t say, “Go do this alone,” “Be perfect first,” or “Figure it all out before you start.” He invites Enoch into companionship, into movement, into a journey taken together, step by step. 

As Enoch accepts that invitation, something transformative happens. His capacity expands. His confidence strengthens. His spiritual eyesight sharpens until he sees things “not visible to the natural eye.” But all of that begins not with running, not with sprinting, but with walking. 

It begins with a walk.

Walking is relational.
Walking requires presence.
Walking makes space for noticing, listening, and connecting.

It’s the same lesson I learn every time I circle back to walk with my friend: the most meaningful moments often unfold at a slower pace.

Scripture often highlights big miracles and dramatic moments, but so much of discipleship happens in the quiet, steady rhythm of daily living. Walking with God doesn’t require perfect performance or flawless faith.

It looks like:

• slowing down enough to feel a nudge of the Spirit,
• noticing beauty you might have overlooked,
• choosing kindness when you’re tempted to rush past someone,
• letting God into your thoughts, your conversations, your small decisions.

Walking with God means letting Him set the pace one that allows for peace, connection, and growth.

Enoch’s story and even my small race experience reminds us that God doesn’t need flawless people. He needs willing people. People who will keep moving forward with Him even when they feel overwhelmed, too slow, or not enough. 

People who trust that if they take a step, 
He will magnify the path beneath their feet. 

What Does “Walk With Me” Look Like for You?

Maybe walking with God today means slowing your own pace just a little.
Maybe it means noticing something beautiful you’ve been rushing past.
Maybe it’s being present with someone who needs companionship.

Maybe it’s trusting that your imperfect efforts are enough.

However it looks for you, the invitation is the same as it was for Enoch:

“Walk with me.”

Just like my race experience, when we turn around, slow our pace and walk with Him, he will show us things we never would have seen on our own.  He will deepen our connection to Him.  He will make more out of our steps, small as they may seem and know you got this because he's got you 

                    

xoxo

Tiffanee