The Interview

- Aug. 23, 2025 (NYTimes.com)
What happens when you reach middle age and the very things that sustained you, that gave you structure and identity — that made you you — are gone?
Jen Hatmaker went through a drastic middle-age crisis like that. Twice. Hatmaker, who is 51, had built a career as a Christian women’s influencer, best-selling author and TV personality — all along modeling a lighthearted, relatable yet enviable family lifestyle for evangelical women. Then, about a decade ago, she went through a public shift away from some of her most conservative stances on things like gay marriage. That shift alienated a big part of her fan base and turned her from popular to pariah in the evangelical community. It also forced her to find a new audience and a new relationship with her faith — and develop some seriously thick skin.
Then, in 2020, Hatmaker discovered that her husband of 26 years was cheating on her. They divorced soon after that, and for a second time, she had to pick up the broken pieces of her past life and start over in a myriad of ways: as a professional, as a public figure and as an independent person. Her upcoming book, “Awake: A Memoir,” which will be published on Sept. 23, marks the first time she has gone into detail publicly about that painful, heartbreaking, but ultimately hopeful, process.
On your website, you say, “I used to be a darling of the evangelical women’s subculture, but now I am a bit of a problem child.” How did you become a darling? I grew up in a really traditional, regimented Christian environment, the Southern Baptist world. I had always been good at being good, so that was a great environment for me to succeed in because it’s rules based: This is what we do, this is what we don’t do, this is what we believe, this what we don’t believe. I went to a Baptist college, and I married a ministry major. We immediately went into full-time ministry. But the way that it works in church is a two-for-one approach: His job was my second job. I was a teacher, but I was at every single church thing that existed. Then when I was 29, I wrote my first book. Miraculously it got published, it became a five-book contract, and thus began my ascent into evangelical lady subculture.
How do you understand the influence that you had within that subculture? It dovetailed with the rise of social media. So I had twin paths: a traditional publishing path in that I was writing books, and they were going on shelves, and then this larger world that existed on the internet. I hit a moment in that space where it was growing as fast as I could keep up with it. I think what people were drawn to is that I held to most, if not all, of the traditional doctrines, the theology, the talking points, the party lines. At the same time, I was funny and had a shiny personality. I was entertaining and just spicy enough, but without threatening the story. That was the magic formula.
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And why are you now a problem child? When I started picking up the mantle of antiracism — that did not go well. Then we hit 2016. There were two huge things that year. The first was being anti-Trump. I did not feel like I was abandoning my faith to be anti-Trump; it was my faith that compelled me. So that was absolutely going terribly. I was losing a thousand followers a day. Then there was the slower burn that had been going on for a couple of years: I was internally going through a doctrinal reversal on what I had always been taught about the L.G.B.T.Q.I.A. community. Maybe 10 days before the 2016 election, I gave an interview to the Religious News Service in which I said, I’ve changed my mind on this, and I’m in full affirmation of the L.G.B.T.Q.I.A. community. That was it. My books were pulled off shelves the next day. My most successful book was put out of print. All my speaking engagements were canceled. My publisher put out a press release the next day against me. I thought my career was over, but then to my surprise, my community began backfilling with hundreds of thousands of primarily women who were in a similar seat as me going, This is what we were raised in, this is what we were taught, but this is no longer holding. That began a whole new period of my life.
“Awake” is centered on the dissolution of your marriage. You start the book with this dramatic scene of realizing that your husband is being unfaithful. Can you tell me about the initial feelings of realizing that your husband was cheating on you? That was the singular most shocking thing that has ever happened to me. We were pastors. We had started a church in Austin. We had been married for 26 years. We’d followed the rules. So there was this initial period of just grief and trauma as the story unfolded. But as I started to work through that, I had to finally begin admitting this marriage was in trouble. For a while my preferred story was everything was great, he’s a terrible person, he ruined our family, he broke us apart, he betrayed me. That is to some degree true, but what is untrue is that everything was going great until it wasn’t.
The way you found out about your ex-husband’s infidelity was you two were in bed in the middle of the night, and you overheard him sending a voice text to his girlfriend. Do you think he wanted to get caught on some level? That seems bonkers. It’s bonkers.
I don’t mean to be glib. No, no. It’s bonkers. There was a lot of alcohol involved. That was another contributing factor to the complete disintegration, not just of our marriage but of him at the time. There was my life before that moment at 2:30 a.m., and then there’s my life after.
Your divorce became news in the evangelical world, but only after someone started digging around into public records and then wrote an article revealing that it had happened. What was that experience like of being made to publicly acknowledge this thing that you probably weren’t ready to publicly acknowledge? We had filed, and we tried to keep that file private with initials instead of our full names. My attorney had done the best she could do, but a journalist — and I’m using that term loosely; her whole deal is raising the alarm on Christian leaders in Christian spaces — she said, I’ve got ahold of this public filing. These people are getting divorced. It was so interesting because the response to her exposé was to come for me, that this was my fault, that my walking away from the evangelical community four years earlier was a signal.
That the divorce was almost a divine punishment? That’s right. I had obviously done something wrong, and this was my fault. My husband was completely omitted from the reckoning.

In the book, you write about the purity culture that you were raised in. You were married at 19. So what did you understand about marriage at that time? What were you taught about what marriage meant? We were taught there’s zero sex before marriage. Our dads would give us what were called purity rings. They went on our left hands and that was the placeholder for our purity until some man put a wedding ring on it. We all went through this curriculum called True Love Waits. It was abstinence-only, and that instruction was baked in with fear and shame. It was scary to imagine getting on not just the wrong side of our parents, of our faith communities, but on the wrong side of God. Holy [expletive], we were scared to death. A whole generation of us came into marriage absolutely freaked out around sex. We had no idea what the hell we were doing, or what we were supposed to be doing once we could finally have it. There was this narrative, particularly for women, which was, Don’t be slutty and have sex before marriage, but the day you get married, girl, you better turn into a vixen in that bedroom and give it up any old time. You’re supposed to be amazing, and it’s up to you to keep that bedroom spicy and keep that husband happy and coming home to you and you only. What could go wrong?
The image you were portraying in your earlier books — I wouldn’t say it was feminist, but it was feminist adjacent: You wrote about empowerment and encouraging women to adopt some nontraditional roles and duties within the family. That feels opposed to ideas that seem ascendant in the Christian women’s influencer world now: tradwives who give this image of a perfect traditional family. What might explain the shift toward more rigid gender hierarchies? Why has that become more popular? I don’t know how pervasive it actually is. There’s the internet world, and there is the real world. In my real world, I don’t know anybody like that.
I’ve seen people argue that tradwife content is actually consumed more by men than by women. You don’t say. It’s interesting to me to notice that if we come up to the political sphere and take a peek at what the far right is banging the drum for in terms of gender roles, maybe it’s not such a surprise that this tradwife narrative is really having a moment.
One other hypothesis for explaining the appeal of tradition broadly is that the world has been so defined by upheaval and change and instability that people find tradition and hierarchy comforting. And I can understand that as somebody who was raised in a traditional space and for a long time found a great deal of comfort in it. I get the appeal. It worked for me, too, until it didn’t.
How do you reconcile the fact that people you love and care about and think are good people are still part of the community that you’ve so aggressively rejected? Some of that is just a complete [expletive] show. I am working that out on a daily basis and deciding: Where is my line? Is there a line where I just go, the chasm is too big? Like, we are now debating people’s dignity or their humanity or their right to get married or their autonomy over their body? These are consequential, enormous ideas. I have two Black kids. I have a gay kid. I have a Black boyfriend. I am a woman with a body. I have two daughters. So we are tiptoeing through this in factions of our family, like a lot of American families are.
Is there ever any part of you that wonders if in embracing more progressive ideas, or what your critics would call wokeism, you’ve just swapped one set of beliefs for another? There is that possibility. When I think back to Jen Hatmaker of 2016, 2017, 2018, I was still an evangelist. I was just an evangelist for different ideas. I fought with everybody. I fought on Twitter. I could not let anything lie. So, yeah, you can take your extreme ideology and just locate it in a different ZIP code. I don’t know. Again, David, this goes back to my childhood because we were taught in my church culture that we were responsible for people’s eternity. If we did not evangelize, if we didn’t tell people about God in the right way and if they went to hell, that’s on us. That is a heavy responsibility to put on the head of an 8-year-old. That took a long time to purge: I am not responsible for everybody’s worldview, for their choices, for their actions, for what they think.

You no longer go to church, right? For now. I’m a complicated person because I’m still a big fan of Jesus, but I guess I don’t like many of his folks. I lost my marriage in July of 2020, so at the beginning of the pandemic, which meant there was no church to go to for a while. I didn’t have to make that hard choice back then because I had nowhere to go. By the time church started meeting again, and I went back to my own church that I had helped found, I could not shoulder everybody’s shock and pain and pity. I couldn’t handle it. So I stayed home, and I haven’t gone back. That’s not to say that I won’t ever. I don’t really know. But the organized-religion part of faith is not serving me right now.
It’s interesting for me to hear you say that in the context of criticism that has been leveled at you from the evangelical influencer Allie Beth Stuckey. Her argument is that you have a salad-bar approach to faith: You pick and choose what you like and discard what you don’t, and also you let your positions be defined by feelings rather than Scripture. Is there something that that line of criticism is missing about you and Christianity? I don’t listen to that, I don’t care about that, and that doesn’t bother me.
Why do you think it’s wrong? My faith is still what anchors me, what leads me, what compels me, what sustains me. I had always deeply succeeded in the two institutions that kept me credible: church and marriage. Having lost one and disconnected myself from the other, I’ve discovered a faith that exists beautifully outside of all of that.
I don’t mean this insensitively or skeptically, but the story you tell in your book fits very cleanly within the common tropes of divorce memoirs. There’s the initial conflict, then grief and then self-actualization. I suspect that things aren’t always so clean. Are there any aspects of your divorce that didn’t fit in with the story you were trying to tell in the book? Well, I hope what readers will see pretty immediately is that I included every scrap of sorrow in this story. I hope that they’ll also see that there is a high degree of self-awareness. I really examine my own complicity. I examine my patterns. I talk about my failures. So it’s not a shiny story. But maybe it fits into the arc because that’s how that arc works, which is that women are truly, genuinely capable of recovery and rebuilding.
You describe yourself in “Awake” as being codependent. How did codependency show up in your marriage? First of all, I didn’t even know what that word meant until I got divorced. I thought it meant needy or fragile or something. But I learned that codependency is essentially feeling and trying to become responsible for other people’s choices, feelings and life, and then allowing however they’re living their life to affect you. I came to understand that I had spent my entire marriage as a codependent, trying to manage my husband’s behavior. How he was, how he acted, how he talked. Purging myself of codependency has been one of the biggest and the heaviest lifts of the last five years. Anyway, I’m doing terrible at it.
Have there been moments since you were divorced that made you feel like, yes, I am on my way to being a functional independent adult? As mentioned, I was a teenage child bride and had never spent one minute of adulthood in independence. Not one. I’d never been to a movie by myself. I had handed over all financial labor to my ex-husband. I didn’t know what our bank accounts were. I did not know how much money I made. I had never filed taxes. So some of it was just by necessity; I had to build my own independent life because there was no one else to do it for me. Then I discovered I’m good at this. It’s like I woke up halfway through my life.
I’ve been reading your books, and I was struck by how in “Fierce, Free, and Full of Fire,” which was published in 2020 and which is a lot about honoring truthfulness and being the most truthful version of yourself, you have a bit in there about the importance of realness with you and your husband. This was being written at the same time that your marriage was falling apart. Did you feel as if it was too risky from a business perspective to talk about what your real troubles were back then? Help me through my skepticism. I wrote that book in 2018. In 2018, we were not at the apex of our crisis. A keen eye would have noticed in “Fierce,” where I did talk about my marriage, one of the long sections was about our communication struggles. We were circling the drain around the same repeated patterns neither one of us could ever seem to break. But I have always said, David, that there is a difference between secrecy, which is generally marked by shame, and privacy, which is marked by discretion. Even the most public person deserves some privacy inside her marriage. So I understand your skepticism, and I will say I certainly did not know in 2018 what I knew two years later.

An underdiscussed subject related to divorce is the way that people in a marriage can take on a sexual identity, and then when that relationship ends, it can be necessary — but also hard — for people to forge a new sexual identity. Have your own ideas about sex and sexuality changed since your marriage ended? The short answer is yes. Until 2020, I hadn’t had sex with a different person since 1992, and that was a young kid with some weird, malformed ideas about sexual health and possibility and connection and my own body, my own preferences. I’m grown now, and I’m in much better control of my own self-awareness in every possible way, including a sexual ethic. There’s a trope that women around my age get divorced and just go absolutely bananas. I’m not judgmental of it, but that was never going to be my way. I spent exactly 12 hours on a dating app before bursting into tears, pulling my sweatshirt over my face and deleting the app. So that’s how well that went. But it is interesting to have grown up, to have become mature, to develop the capacity for critical thinking and to examine the systems, the rules, the limitations that I was handed as an 18-year-old and go, All right, where are we at now? It’s an interesting time to have a sexual renaissance, if I am allowed to say that. This is a better version of me in every way.
We talked about a common divorce narrative: They start in a rough place and end in an unambiguously better place. My parents divorced when I was very young, and it was 100 percent the right decision. But the experience affected my parents and my brother and I in ways that still have ripples all these years later. Some things got broken and were put together, but they weren’t brand new again. So are there things with your divorce that you haven’t been able to integrate? Or that don’t fit into the “everything is better now” story? Of course, and I don’t think I ever said everything is better now. I didn’t write that story because I’ve not lived that story. My oldest son, Gavin, and his sweet young wife are about to have their first baby. We always dreamed about those kids bringing home that baby to our house, and we would rock them on the porch for all their days. Nobody dreams about bringing their new baby to two different houses, to two different families. There are cracks and missing pieces, and some of that will just always be true. When it comes to my kids’ story, that is certainly true. There’s a before and an after for them, and to some degree, the after will always be a little sad, and it will be for me too. But I do stand by this: I see that there is a common experience where women have lost a marriage, in often devastating, soul-crushing ways, and they don’t just recover, they rebuild, and they ultimately flourish.
This interview has been edited and condensed from two conversations. Listen to and follow “The Interview” on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, YouTube, iHeartRadio, Amazon Music or the New York Times Audio app.
Director of photography (video): Justin Schaefers
David Marchese is a writer and co-host of The Interview, a regular series featuring influential people across culture, politics, business, sports and beyond.
(Contributed by Michael Kelly, H.W.)












