Read: 2026-01-23
Recommend: 10/10
I’m glad she broke free from her toxic mother and is now healing. She also warns about the dangers of social media, where the constant pursuit of validation can be harmful to both children and adults. This book reminds me of Tara Westover’s Educated and Jennette McCurdy’s I’m Glad My Mom Died.
Here are some text that I highlighted in the book:
For her, playing wasn’t about fun—it was about excelling, and when she fell short of perfection, it left a dent in her ego that no amount of practice seemed to fill.
Perhaps that’s why she wanted so many children. A set of Russian nesting dolls, each one a slightly smaller version of the last, to absorb the tsunami of her raging emotions. For what better way to fill the gaping void within than to surround yourself with adoring little mini-mes? Interesting, though, how someone who cried so much herself seemed entirely immune to the tears of others, including mine.
In the realm of family vlogging, it so happens that rawness and vulnerability are the lifeblood that keeps subscribers engaged and channels thriving. But the line between authenticity and exploitation becomes dangerously blurred when children are involved.
What might be the emotional repercussions of her snowballing online success? Yes, Ruby’s drive was bringing in money for her family and validation for her ego. But none of those superficial rewards could fix what was broken inside her. Instead, they seemed to fuel a vicious cycle, pushing her to seek more validation, more views, more content—often at the expense of her family. The most problematic element in our family dynamic—Ruby’s relentless ambition, fueled by a potent mixture of unresolved pain and narcissism—had become the driving force of our existence. It was as if we had taken the most poisonous plant in our garden and, instead of uprooting it, made it the centerpiece of our lives.
Ruby’s laugh was harsh, devoid of humor. “Shari, we’re not normal. We’re public figures. Every move we make, every word we say, directly impacts our income. Can you try to wrap your head around it?” As she continued her tirade about the brand and the channel “that puts food on the table,” I noticed that not once did Ruby say she was worried for my safety. It was about control. About maintaining the perfect image for her precious audience.
As soon as I got home, I turned on my computer and typed “scrupulosity” into the search bar. There it was, in black and white: the relentless cycle of guilt and self-flagellation that had become my constant companion. The endless loop of worry about every moral misstep, no matter how minor. The hypervigilance that turned every thought into a potential sin, the exhausting mental gymnastics of trying to be perfect, the crushing weight of guilt that seemed to follow me everywhere. Great, I thought. Not only am I depressed—now I’m suffering with religious OCD, too? Why am I so broken?
I eyed the wax strips suspiciously. I couldn’t help but wonder: was this a moment of possible mother-daughter bonding, or just another scene in our never-ending family sitcom? The line between genuine interaction and performance had blurred so completely that sometimes, I wasn’t sure any of us could tell the difference anymore.
Financial concerns, once the cornerstone of our family’s decision-making, now seemed secondary. It was as if Jodi’s approval had become the only currency that mattered. In my mind, Ruby wasn’t just brainwashed; she had become a devoted daughter to a mother figure who seemed to demand nothing less than total obedience.
Part of me was glad others finally saw what I’d known for years. But I also worried if the public shaming would only make Ruby double down on her strict methods. Would the very attention meant to help us end up making things worse? As the backlash intensified, Ruby’s rage burned brighter, fueled by a mix of self-righteousness and victimhood. In her mind, she wasn’t a controversial figure being held accountable; she was a martyr, crucified for her unwavering dedication to tough love.
Visions of Glory, published in 2012. The book, not endorsed by the mainstream LDS church, was a wild ride of near-death experiences, apocalyptic visions, and doomsday prophecies. It became the basis for many LDS prepper fantasies, feeding into their fears and justifying their extreme preparations.
“Uh, I can’t make it, unfortunately, Mom. Thank you for the invitation.” I could almost see the gears turning in Ruby’s head, as she processed the fact that her eldest daughter was defying her. Error 404, obedient daughter not found.
“Your poor future husband, Shari. I feel sorry for him. Good luck finding a man who wants a selfish wife like you.” There she was again, wielding my apparent unmarriageability like a weapon. Any aesthetic misstep, any hint of individuality, any flicker of rebellion was so often met with the same crushing refrain: How would any man want to marry a girl like you?
I stood there, caught between laughter and tears. The absurdity of it all—my mother playing the victim card while holding all the cards. As she always had.
As the eldest sister, every fiber of my being screamed to protect my siblings. But standing there, dwarfed by Jodi and Ruby’s united front of adult authority, I felt microscopic. Impotent. Useless.
As they wordlessly gathered the debris, Jodi launched into a sermon, her face glowing with self-satisfaction. “Children are not entitled to a magical childhood,” she cooed, each word dripping with poisonous sweetness. “You can’t just expect love and presents. Many have nothing at all.” White-hot rage boiled within me, searching desperately for an outlet. How had I let it come to this? I was supposed to be their guardian angel, their rock. Instead, I was a silent bystander—no better than my mute, nodding father.
He kept pushing, kept taking things further and further over the line. I didn’t have those kinds of feelings for him, I wasn’t attracted to him and didn’t want him like that. But I was too addicted to the scraps of validation he gave me, the morsels of support he’d toss my way when it came to my family. He was the only one who knew how messed up it all was, the only one telling me I wasn’t crazy, wasn’t making it all up in my head. I needed that lifeline, that hint of warmth in a world that felt hard and unforgiving.
I hit send and immediately felt like I had just signed my own death warrant. What have I done? I thought, my stomach twisting into knots as I anticipated Ruby’s response. She never responded kindly to demands for affection. Affection had to be earned, and it was always on her terms. She took her time getting back to me. It was torture. For twenty-four hours, I lay in bed, my body paralyzed, every ping of my phone sending jolts of fear through my veins. The next day, Ruby decided to grace me with a response.
What irony—while all his was happening, I was studying “abuse of power” in my college classes. Learning about the dynamics of coercion, about the ways in which abusers groom and manipulate their victims. But even as I intellectualized these concepts, even as I wrote papers and participated in discussions about the insidious nature of abuse, I was unable to apply that knowledge to my own life. My brain wouldn’t let me go there. But deep down, I think I knew what Derek was. He was just another one of them. Just like Ruby and Jodi—he was yet another one of the poisonous adults in my life, sucking the very marrow from my bones.
I could sense Dana’s skepticism, the unspoken questions hanging in the air between us. But to her credit, she didn’t push. Instead, she steered our conversation back to familiar territory—strategies for coping with my mother’s behavior and the ongoing family drama. As the session wound down and I prepared to leave the sanctuary of Dana’s office, I felt a mixture of relief and guilt. Relief that I had managed to keep my secret, and guilt that I wasn’t being entirely honest with the one person who was trying to help me.
these kinds of sexual accusations were Jodi’s go-to tactics, her nuclear option in the game of psychological warfare. She had used it time and time again to tear families apart, planting seeds of doubt and spinning false narratives of incestuous thoughts, infidelity, or porn addiction.
“You don’t want to be a burden. They’re nice people, but everyone has their limits.” His words lingered in my mind, poisonous and persistent. Suddenly, every kind gesture from the Haymonds felt tainted. Were their smiles strained? Were their welcomes fully sincere? Did they think I was a parasite, feeding off their generosity? I found myself analyzing every interaction, searching for signs of resentment or fatigue. The warmth of their home felt precarious, like a fragile bubble that could burst at any moment.
I couldn’t bring myself to confront him or ask him to stop. Instead, I’d simply respond with noncommittal agreement, swallowing my frustration. It seemed easier, safer, to let him have his say than to disagree and risk provoking his anger.
I was excommunicated. Disowned. It was a pain beyond words, a loss so profound that it felt like a physical amputation, like a part of my very soul had been ripped away. Mrs. Haymond’s hand found mine across the center console, warm and reassuring. She didn’t try to fill the silence with platitudes or empty reassurances. Didn’t try to minimize the enormity of what had just happened. She just held my hand, a silent promise that she would be there, her fingers wound tight around mine.
Sometimes, family isn’t just what you’re born into—it’s also what you build in the aftermath of loss.
I lost all trust and faith. Not in God, but in these men who, when faced with a young woman’s pain, decided to brush it under the carpet and protect their friend. In the end, I decided to change my ward, to start fresh with a new bishop and a new community. It would mean worshipping with a different congregation, with strangers. But that was okay. My Heavenly Father knew the depths of my heart and the strength of my spirit. From now on, in Him alone would I place my trust. And no one else.
I had once believed that as soon as Ruby was out of my life, the negative voices in my head would eventually disappear. But they were still steering the ship. I was overwhelmed and unable to process what was happening. I would need to learn new tools to recognize and manage my intense emotions if I ever hoped to truly reclaim my narrative, and my life.
In a way, we represented the first true, damning proof of how badly things can go wrong in a social media–driven world where kids are content and content is king.
I hated 20/20’s approach. It didn’t feel emotionally sensitive, or appropriate in tone. I didn’t think they had any other motive rather than to make a popular documentary and capitalize on a shocking news story. I wondered how the public’s consumption of others’ pain and suffering cross the line from empathy to voyeurism? How quickly have we, as a society, become numb to the struggles of others, our capacity for compassion eroded by the sheer volume of human drama we’re exposed to daily? We were just characters in a soap opera now, except the drama was real and the consequences permanent. Our grief had been reduced to a mere commodity, packaged and sold, consumed and discarded. For content creators, news outlets, and true-crime documentarians alike, the rewards of this emotional economy can be seductive. And the digital and media landscape remains vast and full of promise—but it is also a wilderness, and I fear we have lost our way. I knew I had to make a stand, somehow. Part of that would be saying no to the world’s desire for me to talk about my siblings, anywhere. Even in the pages of my own book. It is up to my brothers and sisters if they wish to share their story one day. But I’d be no better than Ruby if I detailed their experiences without their consent. They deserve to be given back the choice that had been stolen from them for so long. I don’t want to be anything like her, I thought. I won’t exploit them the way she did.
True Narcissistic Personality Disorder (NPD) is a complex and serious condition that goes far beyond being self-centered or difficult. It’s a pervasive pattern of grandiosity, need for admiration, and lack of empathy that can cause significant problems in many areas of the disordered person’s life.
This isn’t just ego or self-centeredness. It’s a desperate, all-consuming need to maintain an image of perfection, both to the world and to oneself. Any crack in this facade isn’t just uncomfortable—it’s existentially threatening. Understanding this doesn’t excuse the behavior, but it does shed light on the profound suffering at its core. Extreme narcissistic behavior isn’t about asserting superiority; it’s about compensating for the fact that you feel fundamentally flawed and completely empty inside.
As for social media—for narcissists, it’s like throwing gasoline on an already raging fire. Every like, share, and comment becomes a hit of validation, a momentary salve for that deep-seated insecurity. It’s easy to see how it can become an all-consuming obsession, a digital stage for their never-ending performance of perfection.
Realizing your own mother was incapable of truly seeing you—of loving you for who you are rather than as an extension of herself—is a bitter pill to swallow. It’s the death of a fundamental childhood hope, the one where if you just try hard enough, Mommy will love you unconditionally. But in a strange way, this understanding has also been incredibly liberating. I now know that I could never have been “good” enough or “perfect” enough to make Ruby truly happy or proud. The insatiable void I was trying to fill wasn’t created by me, and it wasn’t mine to fix. That realization, as painful as it is, is the first step on the path to healing—for me, if not for her.
just because a church leader says something, doesn’t mean they’re right. Doesn’t mean it’s necessarily coming from God. With everything I’d gone through, I’d realized that what a human being says holds less value to me than my personal conversations with God. Those, now, are my North Star.
With the help of my community, endless therapy, and the healing power of mini corn dogs and powdered donettes, I’m slowly stitching my psyche back together, teaching my nervous system that it’s safe to feel again, safe to rest. I’m learning to honor the grief, the rage, the riotous joy of reclaiming the autonomy stolen from that little girl forced to smile emptily for a camera she never asked to be in front of.
My focus is now turned toward the future. A blank canvas waiting to be painted. But this, I know: I will break the cycle. I will trust the children. The child within me, and the children I will one day nurture.