This American Life. I’m Ira Glass. Each week on our program, we choose a theme and bring you different kinds of stories on that theme. Today’s show: stories of regret. We’ve arrived at Act Two of our show, titled “This is Just as Hard for Me as It Is for You.” One of the most fundamental aspects of parenting is navigating a myriad of choices to determine what will best serve one’s children, encompassing everything from dietary needs to optimal living situations for educational opportunities. This narrative delves into the story of a father grappling with these decisions, ultimately facing profound regrets over the outcomes. His name is Will Ream, and the choices he’s had to make have been extraordinarily dramatic. To weave this tale, we’ve embarked on an unprecedented collaboration with a distinguished songwriter, Stephin Merritt of The Magnetic Fields. While Merritt has largely composed the musical underscore for our narration, he has also crafted several songs featuring verbatim lyrics from Will Ream, offering a uniquely intimate perspective on his experiences.
A Life Defined by Strictures
Miki Meek, one of our producers, first encountered Will Ream at a pivotal moment: his departure from everything he had ever known. Ream’s upbringing was rooted in the extreme isolation of Colorado City, a community nestled in the deserts of northern Arizona. He was raised within a fundamentalist religious group, a sect that had diverged from the mainstream Mormon church over a century prior. This community, deeply entrenched in its desert enclave, shaped Ream’s formative years.
When Meek met Ream in 2012, he was residing in a dilapidated house on the outskirts of Salt Lake City. His life was in disarray, sleeping on a mattress on the floor, and struggling to rebuild. He felt adrift, uncertain how he had arrived at this juncture. Just three years earlier, he had been a married man in Colorado City, a devoted husband to his wife and a father to four daughters and a young son. Their lives were enveloped by family and the familiar faces of his lifelong church community. He described himself as happy.
However, a shift began to occur within the church. Leadership adopted a paranoid outlook, perceiving external threats from all directions. Consequently, they started issuing directives to Will and other men that were unprecedented. The church leadership aimed to intimidate former members and individuals who voiced dissent. Will and other congregants were dispatched on clandestine missions in the dead of night to vandalize property—sabotaging farm equipment and altering gate locks. A critical aspect of these assignments was the injunction of secrecy from their wives.
Ream recalled his internal conflict: “My gut reaction was if I am married to her, then we are supposed to be as one. So why am I supposed to keep secrets from her? Because it seems to me like that would be detrimental to our relationship.” However, he felt he could not voice these concerns. “That wasn’t something we did.”
Despite his perception of a strong marital bond, Ream found himself engaged in secretive nocturnal activities, offering no explanation to his wife. Church leaders instructed him that he owed her no explanation, suggesting that if she sought answers, she should intensify her prayers. This clandestine existence continued for nearly a year, causing his wife immense distress. “She would say, like, what were you guys doing last night? And I would say, I can’t tell you. Or, a man doesn’t need to tell his wife everything,” Ream recounted, admitting the profound pain these words now caused him. “She would go into the bathroom, into the shower, and just weep it out. And I would turn my back on her. And force myself to not feel.” He expressed deep remorse, stating, “If there was anything I could ever do to take that back, I would have. But I drove her to a place where she was very depressed, and very hurt, because she loved me with all her heart.”
The Breaking Point and a Leap of Faith
One day, Will returned home from work to find his wife gone, leaving only a note stating her need for space. For eighteen months, he attempted reconciliation, during which she briefly returned home. Ultimately, she severed ties with her former life, renouncing her roles as a wife and mother, and effectively abandoning Will and their five children. She declined to be interviewed for this story. Ream noted that they had married when she was fifteen, and by the time she left, she was in her early twenties, having had no exposure to life outside the church. Her subsequent experiences involved relationships with other men and alcohol consumption.
Will was devastated and harbored resentment towards the church for the dissolution of his marriage. Simultaneously, church activities became increasingly erratic. The specific branch of fundamentalist Mormonism Will belonged to was led by Prophet Warren Jeffs, a figure who faced investigations for sexual assault and marrying underage girls, resulting in a life sentence. Followers were informed that sufficient faith could lead to Jeffs’ release from prison. To further test their devotion, stringent new rules were implemented, including prohibitions on sugar consumption and mandates for exclusively homemade clothing, with red being a forbidden color.
A particularly impactful directive concerned the children: “They talked about how the kids weren’t supposed to play. I think that was probably one of the biggest things for me, was they weren’t supposed to play just to have fun anymore. They were asking the people to get rid of their children’s toys, and to not allow them to ride their bicycles.” Ream felt this was a call to “sacrifice everything that meant anything to us. Everything from our desires to our physical belongings to our homes to our families to everything. We needed to be willing to sacrifice everything for the good of the prophet.” The weight of this realization left him questioning his path: “Is this really what I want? Is this really what I want for my kids?”
Desperate, Will sought guidance from his bishop, expressing his distress: “I told him, I says, I need some help here. I’m losing it.” The bishop’s response was dismissive: “you need to pray more. You need to get over it.” This response deeply troubled Ream, highlighting a perceived hypocrisy. “You’re turning into what I used– or you’re giving me what I used to give my wife,” he reflected. Overwhelmed, he spent his nights wandering, seeking clarity.
Stephin Merritt’s song poignantly captures this despair: “(SINGING) I had this big blank sheet of paper, where I was going to write my reasons to live. Or why not end it all today? And kids was the only reason I could give. I felt betrayed by my religion, and by the only person I had ever loved, and opened up to. You bet I felt betrayed. They all said pray. Yeah, well, I prayed. I’ve had the knife sitting in front of me. I’ve had the pills sitting in front of me. And I’ve been sitting right up on the cliff’s edge, with one foot dangling off the ledge. And kids was the only reason I could give. They all said pray. Yeah, well, I prayed.”
A New Beginning and Unforeseen Challenges
The church’s prohibition on children’s play served as the final catalyst for Will. Having already lost his wife, his sole focus became ensuring his children’s well-being. A radical idea emerged: escaping their current life and starting anew. On his 33rd birthday, Will gathered his children and embarked on a journey north. Approximately twenty miles from their home, he stopped and explained their new path. “I says, we’re going to go and make a life for ourselves somewhere else. I asked them how they felt about that. And they all said that they wanted to come and build a new life,” he recalled.
Despite the hope fueling this decision, fear and self-doubt lingered. “I wondered if we were all going to be destroyed tomorrow, and I screwed up. Maybe a week from now,” Ream admitted. Yet, a genuine sense of hope, a feeling he hadn’t experienced in a long time, emerged. “It was like taking a breath of air after you’ve had your head under water,” he described.
Their journey led them to Ogden, Utah, where they settled among ordinary people for the first time. They experienced simple pleasures, such as attending a movie theater. “We went and saw Despicable Me, and it was in 3D. And it was the first movie they’d ever seen in their life,” Ream shared. Witnessing their uninhibited joy, he felt a profound sense of fulfillment: “And I watched them more than I watched the movie. And I got to see them be genuinely happy, and not get put in check. And to just be a child. And it was amazing.”
The girls embraced their newfound freedom, cutting their hair, painting their nails, and getting their ears pierced—activities previously forbidden. They interacted with children outside their fundamentalist community, who were labeled as “Gentiles” or “apostates.” Ream recounted an instance at a park where his daughter remarked on the kindness of “wicked people.” When the other mother glared, Ream struggled to explain, eventually telling her, “these people aren’t wicked. They’re just like us.” The children themselves grappled with their new understanding, questioning if their experiences in Ogden made them “apostates” or “Gentiles.”
Stephin Merritt’s song reflects on these stark contrasts: “(SINGING) Back in Colorado City, we did not associate with colored people. But in Ogden, it’s OK. These two kids who spoke Swahilli– we all had this barbecue, and my girls loved them. It was just like night and day, seeing my kids play… But in Ogden, we had parties. And the older kids went on roller coasters. And they went and got their hair done.”
The Weight of Responsibility and a Difficult Choice
The summer of freedom gave way to the reality of public school in the fall. Will, having only an eighth-grade education, pursued his GED and enrolled in college. The transition was arduous; he was solely responsible for five children, having lost the support system of his former community. For the first time, he lacked the familiar network of family and church members for assistance. His isolation was profound, a stark contrast to the interconnectedness of his previous life. One sister even severed contact, declaring she would never speak to him again.
Overwhelmed, Ream struggled to envision a sustainable future. His savings dwindled as he focused on education. He recalled a moment in class where he “just broke down. I started weeping, and I couldn’t stop. It was really hard, and incredibly lonely, when you’re 33 years old, to learn how to live again. To basically start from square one.”
Upon returning home, Will experienced a dissociative episode, standing listlessly in the kitchen for three hours as his children prepared and ate dinner. This event was deeply unsettling, highlighting his instability and potential danger to his young children. He recognized his own fragility: “I am not stable.”
Seeking help, Will confided in counselors who affirmed the gravity of his situation and the need for external support. Friends he had recently made agreed to temporarily care for his children. Explaining this to his kids was excruciating. His eleven-year-old daughter offered to help, a statement that further wounded him. “I says, you need to be a kid,” he told her, unable to provide a timeline for their return.
What was intended as a temporary arrangement extended to two years. During this period, Ream’s life remained precarious. He abandoned his studies for a construction job, but it proved insufficient. He spiraled into a depression, his days consumed by work and sleep. In a previous interview, he shared, “I’ll still have some pretty bad lows, some pretty bad days sometimes, where I need to just kind of disappear into the ether and think about things. And it’s really hard. Really hard for me to deal with. I feel like I’ve failed, kind of. Where I’m not taking care of my kids anymore, my family’s not together anymore, stuff like that. It feels like I’ve had to admit failure, which is hard. But I always identified myself as their dad. But hopefully, I can get into a place where– I’d really like to be dad again.”
His daughters, though nearby, experienced distress during his visits, always asking when they could return home. Will’s inability to provide an answer, coupled with the observation that his absence seemed to benefit their adjustment, led him to a heart-wrenching conclusion. He realized he needed to relinquish his parental rights to allow them to fully embrace their new lives without the perpetual question of return. After two years, he formally waived his rights, allowing their foster families to adopt them.
Meek noted, “Giving up your kids, you gave them a better life. But it didn’t necessarily do that exact thing for you.” Ream responded, “It didn’t do that exact thing for me. But that’s OK. I’m fine with that. Because they have what I wanted them to have now. They have what I couldn’t give them otherwise.”
Will had achieved his initial goal: providing his children with a better life. Their adoptive mother confirmed that his daughters now understand his intentions, though it took time to grasp. Visiting and video-calling his children has become easier. The photos he once kept boxed away are now displayed on his shelves. However, the distance between them—his son in southern Utah and his daughters in another state—presents ongoing challenges. He relocated to drive oil trucks in Texas and North Dakota for better pay.
At each critical juncture since leaving Colorado City, Will made decisions he believed were best for his family, yet these choices ultimately resulted in the dissolution of his family unit. “I miss them. All day, every day. They’ve never left my mind,” he confessed. He vividly remembers their laughter, their peculiar sayings, their gait as toddlers, and the intimate details of their births.
When asked if he would return to his past life if he could, Ream responded, “If I could go back and have everything that I’ve experienced been removed from my plate, and just dropped straight back into that, into the same mindset– I might. It was a good life. I refer to that point in my life as having everything, back when I had everything. And that was the pinnacle of my life. That was when everything made sense, and I had everything I ever wanted.”
Stephin Merritt’s closing song encapsulates Ream’s journey: “(SINGING) I’ve lost hope, and I lost my youth. Lost my church and my hold on truth. I lost my health. I can’t do nine to five. But I could still drive. I started life again at 33. I hauled my ass to Texas to be me. To save my sanity. I lost my family. All the doors slammed shut. I know who I am, but I’m not sure what. I did what I had to do to survive. I don’t sleep too well, but I can still drive.”