A week before the temple trip, I sat through the uncomfortable interview, calm, maintaining eye contact with a priest as he asked me a variety of questions about my faith. I lied, proclaiming that I believed in the Book of Mormon and that I felt I was worthy to enter the temple. Even though it was deceptive, I didn't really feel guilty. My life was inseparable from the Mormon church. To publicly forsake it would mean losing all of my friends, not to mention the problems it would create at home. At that time, being honest wasn't worth all of the fights and difficult conversations that my parents and I would have to have. So I smiled serenely and thanked the priest as we shook hands. I spent the entire week dreading the temple trip. All too soon, I found myself in the parking lot where we congregated to carpool. I quite enjoyed the car rides to the temple. I got to be with my friends. I basked in the chatter and laughter, pretending that we were going somewhere else, somewhere normal. That illusion crumpled as I saw the white behemoth in the distance. The golden angel Moroni stood at the peak of a steeple, blowing his trumpet, mocking me. Objectively, Mormon temples are beautiful. Each one is unique, and ours in Atlanta had an art-deco sensibility with angular edges and symmetrical designs. Even the outdoor space had immaculately kept grass and decorative plants. But, even though they look so nice, they possess an oppressive stillness. Temple grounds are too perfect. The humid summer air swam around me as I stepped out of the van and made my way to the side entrance. The front glass doors, which I hoped to never walk through, were reserved for adults with full-memberships who were performing more sacred and mysterious ordinances. As a temple worker scanned my recommend, I felt like I was sneaking across some country border with a forged document. In the next room, old women handed out the clothing we were to be baptized in. I blushed when she handed me a size small sports bra in front of the men in my group. The purpose of our trip, “baptism for the dead”, sounds quite creepy, but it essentially means that we would act as proxies for people who were waiting to be baptized in the afterlife. We remained exuberant and continued to talk about whatever menial things we had discussed in the car as we changed. After we put on the clothing, my best friend and I looked in the mirrors and did silly poses. I thought we looked like prisoners in heaven wearing the white zip-up jumpsuits. They were always unflattering and uncomfortable, made with a stiff cloth that creased in awkward angles when I sat down. Everything we wore for baptism had to be white, down to the hair ties. We shuffled out into the baptismal font and fell silent. The room commanded reverence among my peers. The circular pool was a white stone of some sort with ornately carved oxen supporting it and a high domed ceiling stretched above. I sat down on the bench to wait my turn, trying to appreciate the architectural splendor to distract from my mounting anxiety. I felt out of place, fidgeting while everyone else sat peacefully, supposedly filled with the spirit. Eventually, it was my turn. My stomach dropped as I made my way into the pool. Lukewarm water slowly surrounded me as I climbed down the steps. My friend's older brother was performing the baptism, and I felt a twinge of awkwardness as he touched my back and held my hand. He recited a prayer and I took a deep breath before he dunked me underwater. I resurfaced, looking to the two men who were watching me for confirmation that I had been fully submerged. They nodded and we then moved on to the next person, the baptizer reciting the same prayer but with a different name. I kept my eyes closed as chlorinated water dripped down my face. I felt as though a dead version of myself was being baptized. As if the “I” that had been killed off so long ago was resurrected and doing this baptism with naïve, shining eyes and a faithful heart. Still, my current, alive brain was still there, thinking: this the most cult-ish Mormonism has ever felt. If I ever needed confirmation that my religion was untrue, it was found in these moments. After a few more names it ended, mercifully. I climbed out and walked to the changing rooms, the heavy fabric of the jumpsuit weighed down even further by the water. The outside air was cold, and it felt like every eye was on my soaking wet, dripping form as I walked. I wanted to evaporate. The heavy door of the shower room closed behind me, and I felt at peace for the first time that day. Taking off the cumbersome garments felt like shedding a skin, and I stood naked, back to my true self as I turned on the water to the hottest setting possible. It burned me red but I needed to get that disgusting, blessed water out of my skin and hair. I stood there as long as I was permitted, enjoying a sort of baptism of my own.