CAROL LYNN PEARSON

Carol Lynn Pearson has always known she was here on assignment.

“I was born a very smart girl in a very extreme patriarchal situation,” she says, looking back on her life with a mix of clarity, reverence, and that fiery illumination that for so long has characterized her work. “If we did indeed have some sort of plan before we come to this earth, I may have said, ‘I want to go down there and do something really interesting, dramatic, big’.”

And big it has been.

At 85 years old, Carol Lynn Pearson laughs that she is “still functional”--still walking daily, still writing, still being asked to speak for organizations like Gather and Encircle. And she is still deeply committed to her lifelong assignment—as a poet, playwright, and truth-teller inside a church she both loves and prods toward compassion.

Born in Salt Lake City to two devout Mormon, as those in the faith were widely called for so many years (it’s still her preferred term), Carol Lynn was raised with the belief that the LDS Church was God’s true plan for the human family. “The air that I breathed was certainly Mormon air,” she recalls. “And I loved it.”

Even as a child performing as Raggedy Andy in a Primary musical, she saw the path ahead clearly. “As I looked around, I thought, ‘How come everything important seems to be done by the men’?” She figured, “I’m as good as any of these boys.” Yet she observed how all the people on the stand were men, the voices on the radio were male voices, the Bible stories all seemed to be stories about men. She quips, “I very quickly became an unconsciously devoted feminist.”

Her brilliance was evident from an early age. As a student at Brigham Young High School in Provo, Carol Lynn won speech competitions, represented Utah in a national contest in Washington D.C., and had her photo taken with President Eisenhower. Later at BYU, she majored in theater and won Best Actress twice, once for playing Job’s wife and once for portraying Joan of Arc. “I must have absorbed a lot of cellular energy from playing Joan,” she reflects. “Because I was able to look around at my own church and say, ‘This is not right’.”

After college, Carol Lynn taught at Snow College to save money and then traveled the world for a year—finding herself in Russia the day JFK was assassinated. When she returned to Utah, she worked as a screenwriter for BYU's Motion Picture Studio, including the beloved short film, Cipher in the Snow.

It was as a student at BYU that Carol Lynn met “a charming young man” named Gerald Pearson. He called her "Blossom" and insisted the world needed her poems. After marrying in the Salt Lake City temple, together they borrowed $2,000 to self-publish Beginnings, a small book of her poetry, packed with spiritual gems. It took off. BYU Bookstore and other Provo shops couldn’t keep it on the shelves. 20,000 copies sold, which was unheard of for a book with this kind of origin story. Her former English professor, Bruce B. Clark, was thrilled with the poems and wanted to reference the book in the Relief Society manual he was responsible for producing for the Church. Carol Lynn was on the map.

She went on to publish Daughters of Light, a groundbreaking book on early Mormon women and their expression of spiritual gifts. Her research and poetic insight earned her speaking invitations from general authorities and their wives at various events. Her reputation grew. Her next book, Flight of the Nest, about the early LDS women’s stronghold in politics, firmed her household name across Utah and beyond. “I became well known to the brethren in Salt Lake,” she recounts. “They were impressed by and fond of me.” (She also later penned the well-known stage play, My Turn on Earth, Primary children’s song, “I’ll Walk with You,” as well as numerous other books.)

Carol Lynn and Gerald had four children. But behind the scenes, their marriage carried a silent ache. Before they married, Gerald had told his wife he had had homosexual experiences in the past but that it was not who he was. He had repented, and “all would be well.” Years later, after their third child was born, he confessed that it wasn’t. Despite trying to make the marriage work, and experiencing what Carol Lynn calls a “good physical relationship together,” there was significant heartache because Gerald had acted on his attractions during their marriage.

They decided to move to California for a fresh start. Gerald, an artist and visionary, had gotten them into some financial troubles with his interest in developing Mormon art and investing in some products that didn’t sell. Having spent some time in Walnut Creek and loving it, Gerald convinced Carol Lynn that was a good location to begin again. They moved together, but ultimately, they determined the best thing was to end the marriage and choose to part as friends.

From that time on, Carol Lynn supported the family through her writing.

Four years after the move, Gerald contracted AIDS.

Carol Lynn brought him into the family home to care for him until he passed away.

“It never occurred to me that I’d write about it,” she says. “It was such a shameful thing at the time.” But something stirred. She had come to believe, “We have this whole thing wrong. I don’t know why people are gay, but I know they are children of God. We must figure out a better way to treat these people than we’ve done in the past.” As Carol Lynn witnessed families rejecting their gay children and churches offering no refuge, she knew: this story had to be told.

That story became Goodbye, I Love You, published by Random House in 1986. It was a national sensation, and Carol Lynn appeared as a guest on both the Oprah show and Good Morning America. The book was crafted to appeal to a mass audience, and she says, “Most active Mormon people also knew about this book.” Carol Lynn went on a 12-city tour and had to have a second phone line installed to handle the calls and outreach which came pouring in. She feels lucky her kids didn’t experience any nasty fallout from the book’s publication.

The book marked a watershed moment in how the LDS community began to view its LGBTQ+ members. Historians who’ve examined the plight of the LGBTQ+ community in the LDS faith have been very clear that the publishing of Goodbye, I Love You was the turning point for individuals and families, and ultimately for the church, in seeing their gay brothers and sisters in a different light. Carol Lynn became a voice not only for her late husband but for thousands of others.

Gerald, she believes, understood the divine timing, and in his own way likely influenced it from beyond. Carol Lynn recalls how once, “He told me, ‘Listen Blossom, I know before we came to this earth you and I agreed to do a project together. I’m so sorry this has been so painful for you, but we agreed’.”

Carol Lynn posits that without Gerald, there would be no Beginnings. And without him, no Goodbye, I Love You.

She has since continued the work. Her second LGBTQ+-centered book, No More Goodbyes, chronicled the hundreds of incoming letters she received, sharing stories with permission from families who had embraced their gay children, and those who hadn’t. “There were still too many suicides, too many alienations,” she says. “I had to do something more.”

And so she wrote the stage play Facing East, a haunting portrayal of a Mormon couple grieving their gay son’s suicide. In the play, the son’s lover unexpectedly appears at the gravesite, offering a chance for truth, grief, and reconciliation. Produced by Jerry Rapier’s Stage Two Theatre Company and premiering in 2006, the play became a staple in LGBTQ+ Mormon discourse. The title references the LDS belief that caskets should face east for Christ’s resurrection, but that somehow “our gay people are still not invited into the light.”

The idea sprang when Carol Lynn attended a playwriting workshop in San Francisco and the participants were told to quickly jot down an idea for a play they knew they were ready to write. She was on fire. “It was electric from the beginning,” Carol Lynn recalls. “I knew it would be important.” She secured funding from Bruce Bastian, who she describes as a “marvelous man with large financial abilities to make big things happen in the gay scene.” She wrote the script in three months. A 20th anniversary revival is planned for 2026.

Carol Lynn is grateful to have seen how these three works, as well as her book, The Hero’s Journey of the Gay and Lesbian Mormon (available on Kindle), have been pivotal in the LGBTQ+-LDS space. In fact, all of the works across the six decades of Carol Lynn Pearson’s career have been mind-shifting and at times, feather ruffling. Her haunting recount of various tales from those affected by polygamy, Ghosts of Eternal Polygamy, also changed the nature of how that topic has been perceived by so many. Her much-anticipated, upcoming four-volume memoir, The Diaries of Carol Lynn Pearson: Mormon Author, Feminist, and Activist, is being published by Signature Books, with the first volume expected in August. “I’ve kept a diary since high school,” she says. “Everything is in it. Everything. Even though I lived it all, it’s still fascinating to read.”

Though Carol Lynn has been cautious about travel in recent years, she remains an anchor in both church and community life. Her local bishops and stake presidents have consistently supported her, even as she’s pushed boundaries. She has often looped both them and their wives in on her new projects before they come out, as was the case with Ghosts—a project they all enthusiastically supported and saw the need for. She recalls how, “One stake president told me, ‘When Salt Lake calls asking if we should be doing something about Sister Pearson, I tell them: leave her alone. Carol Lynn Pearson does better PR for this church than you could ever buy’.”

Carol Lynn laments that other trailblazers who have said and done much less out loud than she has have not always been treated with the same respect. She’s unsure why, but surmises this may have something to do with her geography. She also says her work has always been rooted in love, faith, and hope. “I’ve never caused trouble in a church setting,” she says. “My work is not hateful. It shines light on what has been and directs it toward the future of what ought to be.”

Today, she still stands to speak in Sunday meetings. “Part of my assignment is to encourage women to use their voices,” she says. “I try to model that. I stand up. I speak loudly.” She is deeply aware of how slow change comes. “Sometimes glacial,” she says. “But these teeny, teeny steps are just not sufficient. There should be prophetic confidence in just moving forward on something we know is important and correct—not just based on how it will affect our “public relations.” The leadership will never say, “We were wrong, and we apologize.” But we should acknowledge that we can and will do better.

Still, she believes the heart of the church lives not in headquarters and policy, but in wards and stakes, where people love and support one another. “Too often our church presents itself as a patriarchal, hierarchical corporation. But the church itself is down here, where people live and love and learn.”

Looking back on her life’s mission—the poems, the books, the plays, the pain, the joy—Carol Lynn offers no regrets.

“If I had not been chosen by fate, God, circumstance—whatever you want to call it—to be involved in this,” she says, “a lot of people would have lost out on something that changed their lives.”

She still believes in the term Mormon. She still believes in using her voice. And she still believes that God’s reach extends far beyond Salt Lake City.

“We all have our assignment,” she says. “I have a big one. And it just doesn’t seem to end.”

Note: You can purchase autographed copies of Carol Lynn’s books on her website: www.carollynnpearson.com/store

Please join Lift+Love at the 2025 Gather Conference June 27-28th in Provo, Utah, where Carol Lynn Pearson will be presenting on the main stage and he Gather Conference will be honoring Carol Lynn Pearson’s remarkable life.

MARGARET STEWARD

We previously shared Travis Steward’s story of being a gay man and former mission leader who came out after many decades of marriage. To read that story, click here

This is Margaret’s Steward’s story…

Margaret Steward didn’t grow up imagining she’d one day be the wife of a mission president, or the woman quietly fielding whispers after her husband came out as gay. She was born in Nephi, Utah, into what she calls “a super LDS community,” but her family stood slightly off-center from the mold. Her father was a 36-year-old small-town bachelor and partygoer when he met her mother, a 27-year-old schoolteacher. “They hooked up, got pregnant, and married. My mom didn’t want to be married,” Margaret recalls. “My sister always suspected my mom was a lesbian. Their whole marriage was a struggle.”

From a young age, Margaret understood what it felt like to live on the margins—not active LDS, raised in a turbulent household, constantly aware of difference. “My mom was a true original feminist who loved being in her skin—confident, capable,” she says. “My dad was a traditional white guy from small-town Utah. They were always going to get divorced, but they didn’t. They found a way to acclimate to each other.”

After high school, Margaret earned her associate’s degree from Snow College and—like “all good Snow College Badgers”—headed to Utah State. A friend asked if she’d ever thought about serving a mission. She resisted, having a boyfriend already out on a mission. But the minute she actually considered it, she felt the idea implant into her heart—while equally terrifying her. Despite that fear, she submitted her papers and was called to serve in Denmark—later learning through 23andMe that she was 55% Danish. “It felt divine. I had ancestors who served there in the 1800s. I was the fifth sister missionary sent to Denmark in over 20 years. It was an amazing experience.”

When she returned, Margaret moved to Provo, low on funds but full of momentum. She was living with former roommates and a mission companion while working retail when she met Travis Steward. Her former mission companion fell madly in love with one of his roommates, so the two got thrown together. 

At first, romance was the furthest thing from Margaret’s mind. She was on a dating break and says she liked hanging out, but not like that. She wasn’t exactly leaning in. But Travis liked being with Margaret and said he could see himself marrying her, though he’d never had a girlfriend before. “I thought he was just a shy and inexperienced guy,” she says. “But being together felt comfortable. He’d always wanted to be married and have a family. And we enjoyed each other.”

The two got engaged and married within a few months. Travis worked at the MTC, and Margaret continued working at a department store. She got pregnant right away. “I wanted to be married but was terrified of kids,” she now admits. “It was just me and my sister growing up—no nieces or nephews. Little kids terrified me.” But Travis stepped in so naturally. “He was amazing with them. A great helper.”

Over the next four decades, they raised six children and served in high-level church callings, including three years as mission leaders in Houston. They took along their kids ages 18 to 4. Of that experience, Margaret says, “It was exhilarating and exhausting. But we loved it. We mourned every time a month would conclude knowing we had that much less time with the missionaries.” Their youngest children became immersed in Texas life, where they said their own version of a state pledge and made lots of friends and core memories. 

Though she embraced the church callings that came their way, Margaret felt she never quite fit the “homemaker” mold. She says, “It was thrust upon me. I loved adventuring with my family, and I was irreverent at times. I paid attention to the way other mothers were doing things and worried that I was not doing it right. But the kids are alive. They survived.”

Margaret has taught in a range of church capacities—institute, Relief Society, Gospel Doctrine—and always approached those roles with thoughtfulness. But after they served as mission leaders and then as bishop for five years upon their return, when Travis came out publicly, things shifted. “There was a quietness after,” she said. “I was teaching seminary. He was in a student stake high council. People didn’t know what to do with us. Mostly because of what they’ve been taught—what it means to be gay or bi or whatever—and that you can’t lead if you are. Too risky. As if we aren’t all a risk at any given time.”

Still, she saw that most of it wasn’t rooted in malice. “I appreciate that people just don’t know what to do. It’s what they’ve picked up from the culture, not from a desire to be cruel.”

When asked what it was like to learn that her husband was gay after decades of marriage, Margaret says, “I’m an open book, sometimes to a fault. Some people don’t need to hear it all. I didn’t know what was there with Travis. There was just… a bit of a gap. Like I couldn’t fully see him. When he came out, I realized: that was it. That was the gap. He couldn’t show me all of who he was.”

She remembers the day clearly. Travis had been carrying the truth silently for some time. “He related that he felt the strong impression to tell me, but he didn’t want to. One Sunday morning, he closed our bedroom door and said, ‘I need to talk to you.’ Usually, it was me confessing something,” she laughs. “But I looked at him and the thought came, ‘Whatever comes out of his mouth, just hear it and accept it. Don’t assign meaning’.”

When he told her, she didn’t flinch. “I saw the man I’d loved for 30 years,” she says. “And I thought, I want to help hold this.”

There were complexities, of course. Travis was deeply closeted and had internalized years of shame. “He was terrified,” Margaret remembers. “But I had received this clear directive from the Holy Ghost: Here’s what you can do to help.”

The following two years were some of the hardest. Their shared life had been tightly interwoven through church service, callings, and community. But Travis lost his career after decades of devoted effort and investment. The loss was devastating. “Everything he feared came true,” Margaret says. “But eventually it got better. He was able to accept the truth of his experience without making it mean something dark.”

For Margaret, acceptance came more easily. “I didn’t have a lot of narratives to unravel. I’ve always believed that any person can find themselves on the margins at any time,” she says. “Our brains crave simplicity, but real life is more nuanced. God’s creation is expansive.”

Margaret also never defined herself as an “ally,” and still doesn’t. “Let me explain my thinking with that. Truth stands on its own merits I wonder when I hear someone speak of defending the truth. In my opinion, the truth doesn’t require defending. Simply because it is the truth. What our LGBTQ+ brothers and sisters experience is a lived truth. Exactly like our own. Nuanced, varying, and ever evolving as we experience and learn. No one has the answers as to how we arrive at the manifold attractions we experience.” 

Her views on identity are similarly fluid. “While I recognize the need to orient ourselves in this mortal experience, we far too often simplify that process by sticking to polarities. Righteous-wicked, gay-straight, female-male, strong-weak, etc. Labels can be helpful for some, but for others, they become cages. I want people to be free to define themselves—and to change as they learn more about who they are.” 

She also doesn’t lead with the term “mixed-orientation marriage,” yet because she recognizes there are more resources out there for parents of LGBTQ+ than for spouses, she tries to be a resource when asked. She and Travis remain married, still deeply connected. They spend much of their time adventuring together, also sharing those adventures with their kids and grandkids, especially at their off-the-grid cabin. One of their sons is gay, and Margaret’s sister is a lesbian married to a woman. Several others in their extended family fall along the LGBTQ+ spectrum. “From a young age, I just knew LGBTQ people were normal,” she says. “Growing up with friends and neighbors in my own small town, and my mission and college experiences only confirmed that.”

She recalls reading The Miracle of Forgiveness as a teen and bristling at President Kimball’s framing of homosexuality as "deep, dark sin." “I remember thinking of my sister and others I loved and just knowing: that wasn’t true.”

Margaret now works part-time as a receptionist at a therapy clinic for children and families. “I’ve always loved therapy,” she says. “Didn’t get a degree in it, but I’ve learned a lot just by being around it.”

She has been to a few LGBTQ conferences over the years, including one where she remembers looking around and thinking, “I will rejoice in the day when people don’t need a conference to legitimize their existence. Similarly, I never felt I needed a man in my life to feel whole. I haven’t viewed myself as half of anything. Nor have I had interest in attending events solely for women.” Still, she’s grateful those spaces exist. “I know not everyone was raised by strong women like I was,” she says. “Some people need those spaces to heal from their trauma.”

Margaret’s hope is for more curiosity and less programming. “Recently on the beach in Mexico, we met a beautiful trans woman and her wife,” Margaret recalls. “She was testing the waters to see if we were safe. When she learned we were still married after Travis came out, she was shocked. Even within LGBTQ+ spaces, we carry assumptions. We pick up narratives and use verbiage that is fraught with restricted thinking. I wish we could all be more open, more curious. More humble.”

At 64, Margaret has shed the need to define things too rigidly. “Life is too complex for boxes,” she says. “I thank my Heavenly Father for giving me the life experiences I’ve had. I don’t have to understand everything. I just need to love people. That’s enough.”

TRAVIS STEWARD

Travis grew up in the small farming community of Tremonton, UT.  His parents both had had previous marriages and children before he was born, making him the eighth of ten kids total between them.

“As a kid you don’t know how families are supposed to be, you just are there trying to find your place and figure it out as you go along,” he says.  Still, he knew his family definitely didn’t fit the mold of the strong LDS community in Tremonton.  Though his parents and stepparents had their own challenges, Travis shares that he knew and felt love amid the chaos and uncertainty that plagued his young, anxious heart.

Long before he realized that he was same sex attracted, he knew that he was different from the other boys in school, including his five older brothers.  “For some reason I couldn’t relate very well to them and was confused by much of what they said and did,” he says.  Most of his interests, thoughts, and ideas were different from what he saw around him.  “I often felt that I had to keep them quiet out of fear of judgment or criticism. I will spare the details, but I felt that I had experienced more than my fair share of tragedy by the time I had finished high school.”

Around age 12 or 13, he began to experience a very strong interest in certain boys on the little league football team.  It wasn’t anything sexual or romantic, he had no clue what those feelings were yet, but says, “I wanted to be around them and have their attention and found them to be beautiful to look at.”  

Like most teens headed into puberty, it can be a very anxious and worrisome time.  Travis began to pick up on the conversations, expectations, and judgments that freely flow in any junior high or middle school.  “I began to hear the negative comments and see first-hand the bullying of another boy a year older than me for being gay, though that was not the term used 50 years ago. I suspected that I was experiencing the same attractions that this boy felt, and I could see how terrible it would be if anyone were ever to know or even suspect the same about me.”

This began a very long and painful journey into hiding, performing, and self-loathing over the next 40 years.
After graduating high school, Travis became active in the church after rooming with two recently returned missionaries. They inspired him. “They were very disciplined, and this example and the rules and organization of the church was very appealing to my desire for something more predictable and stable.”  Travis adopted these mannerisms to lead what appeared to be a good and honorable way of life.

He also became more aware of the harshness and disgust towards homosexuality expressed by adults around him, and the notion that this type of sexuality was a choice.  Travis wrestled with learning he must be choosing his sexuality while simultaneously abhorring it.  He recalls his mission to Chile as a respite from most of this worry.  “I felt free from the shame and anxiety associated with anyone finding out or suspecting.” The feelings of confusion, shame and fear quickly returned when he returned from his mission, and while at BYU and working at the Missionary Training Center.  He felt condemnation everywhere--from his faith community, his church leaders, and from God.

Looking back, Travis recalls it was the ease of friendship and safety with girls that contributed to his awkwardness approaching physical affection with them. “Though I was homosexual, I will say that I had always planned to marry and have a family and looked forward to that next part of life.  The thought that I couldn’t or shouldn’t had never crossed my mind.”   He had always felt an interest in girls, but it more so revolved around their humor, intelligence, and common interests than in their beauty or bodies.  In fact, he judged other guys who seemed to be obsessed with flirting, making out, and sexual inuendo, feeling he was above that type of inappropriate behavior.  “I was fortunate to find someone like Margaret who was kind and patient as we dated and gave me ample space to learn and grow as I awkwardly navigated that first kiss.” 

He knew what the societal expectations were for dating, engagement, and marriage should look like—especially in an LDS culture. Travis has been asked why he didn’t tell Margaret he was gay before they were married. “The truth is, I did not believe that I was gay, myself. I assumed that I was being tempted or that I was confused or just inexperienced.” It was a different world back in the early 1980’s, and the idea of hiding in a marriage or marrying to fix it never crossed his mind.  “I knew I loved her, and she was my very best friend, and I had no doubt that we would have a wonderful marriage.”

By the time they married in August of 1985, Travis was already deeply entrenched in hustling for self-worth. He felt terrible and ashamed of this secret he was hiding, and service became a drug of choice. He explains, “I felt that I could hide from my own worries if I could worry about somebody else’s.” He became a natural fit for and was often asked to serve in leadership capacities at church almost constantly for the next 30 years. Their family has an inside joke that Travis never thought there was ever a problem with their six kids in sacrament meetings, because he never sat with them! After serving in the stake presidency for nearly 12 years, Travis and Margaret were asked to serve as mission leaders in 2004. He was 41 at the time and their kids ranged in age from 4-18. Travis says, “The mission was one of the most joyous and fulfilling experiences of my life. I hope that something wonderful came from it for others as well.”

Immediately after returning from the mission, Travis was called as bishop of their home ward. He served faithfully for five more years—giving everything he had while continuing to carry a part of himself in silence. Spiritual growth came hand in hand with spiritual pressure, and the more he was trusted, the more he felt he had to lose.

When his time as bishop ended, Travis entered what he calls “the first real period where I couldn’t just bury myself in a calling to hide from it all.” Without the structure and distraction of leadership, the internal conflict became harder to ignore. “I think God had finally had enough of watching this turmoil play out, and it was time to look at it.”

For months, he experienced persistent, intrusive thoughts about telling Margaret about his same-sex attraction. Then one Sunday morning, without planning or warning, the words came out. He simply couldn’t hold them back any longer.  “Fortunately for me,” he says, “Margaret was able to hold such a revelation—backed up by 40 years of shame and pain—with so much love and compassion, it was never a question about not continuing in our marriage.”

But Travis was blindsided by what followed. Rather than the relief, finally getting this secret off his shoulders ushered in a slow, rising tide of grief and pain. He frantically tried to get back to that place of manageable denial. Until that moment, he had managed to compartmentalize his homosexuality—as a trial, a temptation, a weakness to be conquered. Having said it out loud it could only be compartmentalized as reality. “I felt I had lost the biggest battle of my life and now that it settled over me, the reality was very nearly too much for me to bear.”

The next couple of years were a blur of sleepless nights and hours of therapy. Central to Travis’ secrecy was the fear that with coming out now, he’d lose everything—his marriage, his career, his callings, and friends, and looking back on his journey – nearly everything he worried could happen if people found out he was gay, did. “I had a lifetime of reasons to be afraid of the fallout that I anticipated would come with coming out. I was still not prepared for the devastating blows of prejudice and discrimination in losing my career, important relationships, and all the rest of the privileges that came with being perceived as a straight man.”

Travis remembers thinking he’d probably struggle for a few months and then be over it all and feeling better. Travis says. “It’s a good thing I didn’t know then it would take years to find some footing as a gay man.”  Over the past few years, he’s both participated in and helped lead support groups for gay men in Utah and beyond, both online and in person. Along the way, he’s come to see how human nature tends to complicate healing. “It’s difficult—and terrifying—to share your deepest, darkest truth with the people you love while worrying they might stop loving you because of it.”

But on the far side of that long-anticipated loss, Travis was surprised by something else. “I wasn’t prepared for the peace that exists without shame.” These days, he tries to value the journey without fixating too much on the destination. And after all the fear and silence, he’s found that being queer wasn’t the hard part. “The hardest part has been dealing with what other people think being gay must mean for and about me. Those meanings are hard to shake, but I manage okay now.” The same goes for his marriage. “We’ve had nearly 40 wonderful years together,” he says. “We’re happy—until we let other people’s opinions about mixed-orientation marriages get into our heads.”  To Travis, it’s bewildering that so many feel entitled to weigh in.

He is determined to be himself. “I have a wonderful family. I have gay kids and family members, and it’s no big deal in our home.  But as a man in a so-called mixed-orientation marriage, I’m too gay for the church, and not gay enough for the LGBTQ community. I’m in the 'lost boy zone,' feeling illegitimate on both sides.” That liminal space taught him something about compassion. "I’ve become a safe-space guy in the trenches. That’s my niche. To be the person I needed. To tell others: you’re going to be alright.”

To Margaret Steward’s story, click here

JESSICA ANGUS

Jessica Angus (she/her) has had many lives in her 32 years: missionary, ranch hand, electrical engineering student, circuit board designer, ramen shop manager, educator, tutor, and tabletop game master. She is also a transgender woman—a journey she has approached through years of careful reflection, private exploration, and spiritual inquiry.

Growing up in Colorado, Jess was the third of four children and born and raised as the only boy in a family of girls. “When I was still a kid—I was ‘the boy,’ the only son,” she says. “Part of me feels like I took that from my parents, but I also found some joy in that when I came out.” While her sisters were close, she often felt left out. “Girls didn’t want to do ‘boy stuff’,” she remembers. But now they all get along well.  “I love them—we communicate quite a bit.”

Her extended family is massive—her mom is one of ten siblings, and her dad is one of four. “Family reunions were huge,” Jessica says. “We’d do them all the time—my grandpa sold a business and would throw these big reunions every four years.” Jess was able to grow up knowing her extended family, some of whom have now become her closest friends.

As early as 10 years old, Jess began experiencing dysphoria, though she didn’t yet have the language for it. She’d sneak onto her my parents’ laptops, getting on the paint app and “draw on boobs” to her image, she laughs. By 12 or 14, her parents had discovered some of this behavior and labeled it “a sin” or “a fetish.” From that point on, Jessica tried to suppress everything, but it didn’t work. Rather, it only led to a path of depression—high functioning at first, then lower.

Her adolescence and young adulthood were marked by guilt and a sense of being spiritually flawed. “For 15 years, I thought what I was doing was bad—so I’d apologize to God, but always ended up slipping back into it,” she recalls. “I would buy feminine clothes on Amazon in secret. Feel guilty. Throw them in the trash. Repent. Repeat.”

College offered independence and a turning point. Jessica attended BYU and served a mission in southern Brazil—a pivotal experience. “It was the best experience of what it feels like to serve—how it feels when close to Heavenly Father,” she says. Her mission proved to be hugely important in her own journey, helping her recognize answers to questions.

The part of Brazil Jess was sent to was considered “the Texas of Brazil”—same climate, similar culture. All were religious but many didn’t attend. Jess recalls how they’d fly their state flag above the Brazilian one because they had tried to secede. “Think knives on hip, rancher, cowboy types,” Jess laughs.

She returned to BYU after her mission, where her depression increased. Five years into an electrical engineering degree, her grades slipped and attendance dropped. Eventually, her poor attendance record led to the university asking her to take a leave to address her mental health. She says the ask was beneficial because she was wasting money paying for semesters but not getting anything done. “It gave me the added kick to take care of my mental health—and led to my whole journey.”

Jessica stayed in Provo, drawn in by the eclectic local culture ad cheap rent. She began working a variety of jobs: sales rep, para-educator, IT support, hardware test engineer, professional tutor. Eventually, she took a job as a service manager at Asa Ramen. “They proclaim we’re ‘the best ramen shop in Utah’—I’d say we’re at least top five,” she laughs. Because she was eating there all the time, she decided to work there to eat for free. As a people person, she loves that she has a job that allows much human interaction.

Between shifts, Jessica programs video games and plays Dungeons and Dragons twice a week, where she’s a game master for one session. She also runs a tabletop RPG campaign where players try to build a new civilization. Of this hobby, Jess explains, “Tabletop role play games give options to create journeys for others to participate in. It’s collaborative storytelling—I think it’s awesome.”

Coming out and into her own was a slow process. As she got treatment for depression, she decided to examine where her feelings were coming from—were her inclinations to dress as a girl a sin or something else? As she’d wear the clothes she preferred, she says she was constantly praying to Heavenly Father, “Is this baby step ok? Am I good?” And as all felt ok, she’d check in at the next step.

She came out to her siblings starting at 25, then to her parents at 27. At first, she framed it as cross-dressing. She had posted a photo on Instagram of herself in a dress—ostensibly for a teaching challenge: “If you get this many people to go to prom, I’ll wear a dress.” But the reaction was intense. When she first came out, Jess’ dad said, “My son is dead,” and walked away from the phone, followed by her mom who said, “I don’t know what to say. I just don’t know…”

The call ended in devastation. “I thought, I don’t have parents anymore, this is terrible, because I wore a dress and was happy about it.” But later that same day, her parents called back. They’d gone to visit one of Jessica’s more understanding sisters, who encouraged them to express love and support. “They told me they were sorry and that I was still loved,” she said. “They expressed confusion, admitted they didn’t know how to work around it—but wanted me to know I was loved.”

That moment mattered. “Even if they’re not the most supportive in my journey, they’re still supportive of me and love me,” Jessica says. Her dad says, “I don’t know if I fully understand,” but he always asks, “Are you happy?” Jess says she feels that’s the most important question they ask of her—instead of imposing a path.

She began HRT in 2020. At first, she thought she’d be androgynous—purposefully cause a bit of chaos and confusion: “Are you a guy? A girl? But the further I went, the happier I felt—I wanted to go all the way to being female.”

Her favorite outfit now? Jess proudly laughs: Jorts and a baggy ACDC shirt. Pair of sandals.

Jessica now finds strength in a diverse network of friends and cousins, many of whom have stepped away from the church but continue to model love and morality. She says she’s been able to grow a lot through these relationships and says, “While many have left the Church, they have strengthened my belief in things the Church teaches—especially Christ.”

When Jessica legally changed her name, her friend group threw her a gender reveal party.

She’s also found spiritual grounding in her local ward. Her bishop supports her attendance in Relief Society and has tried to advocate for her amid evolving church policies. “He listens to my pains, worries—tries to find loopholes I can get through,” she said. “He says we’re going to try to ask for an exception and as there is still no guidance on how to do so, we’ll stick with status quo until we get a result.”

The Church’s recent policy on transgender members felt like a blow. “It was kind of a punch to the face,” she says. “Instead of making trans people feel invited, it tries to make other members feel protected from trans people. It wasn’t to make sure trans people aren’t discriminated against—but how to keep trans people in line.” She says the thing she’s always loved most about Christ and His gospel was how he “sat among sinners even though people thought it was impure for Him to teach them. It’s a Christlike activity to be with people we may not understand.”

For Jessica, the response revealed a deeper problem. “I feel anything made to make people not ask questions is alienating,” she said. “A lot of friends left the Church over new info for which they felt betrayed. I feel like we shouldn’t be hiding stuff and past things that were taught.” She says one of the worst wards she ever participated in was one where everyone tried to pretend they were perfect, where they’d talk about the law of Christ and say, “Isn’t it good we’re all doing this?” But she reflects how that ward felt like one in which no one could be honest or grow in their struggles.

Even so, she remains. “All the more reason I should stay—as long as I’m present and still seen, people in my local congregation will get to see, learn, grow.” 

Recently, she completed a course on self-actualization that helped her reframe her relationship to church participation. “At first, maybe I was proud of being brave for being there for people who need to know a trans person’s experience,” she says. “But I stopped and reexamined—and went back to knowing I’m here for me, for Christ. Being there for others is a bonus.”

What keeps Jess grounded is a return to the core teachings of the gospel. “A lot of fluff has been added to things—but fluff changes,” she said. “During the priesthood ban… people came up with excuses, ‘doctrine’ why. At the end, all of it was not real. All excuses weren’t the case. But one part was always the case—the love of Christ, the gospel, coming to salvation through taking His name,” she continues. “All the covenants of sacrament, baptism. I cut the fluff and go back to the core of the gospel. For everything else—I seek out God myself.”

She adds with a smile: “I can have my own fluff—the fluff God wants for me.

BEN HIGINBOTHAM

Ben Higinbotham (they/them) is gay and transmasculine non-binary. Ben says, “If I explained my personal version of non-binary to someone, I’d say, ‘If masculinity was a fork and femininity was a spoon, I’d be a spork.” Ben also sometimes has to explain their sexual orientation, saying, “When people ask what it means for me to be gay as a non-binary person, I say that I guess I’m half gay for girls and half straight for girls.” One thing Ben wants to emphasize is that being gay and/or trans is not a choice or contagious.

Ben remembers being about four years old and pretending to be Peter Pan in preschool. "I liked the way he looked, that he could fly, have adventures, that he helped people, and that kind of thing," they recall. Ben had a crush on a girl in the class and would ride around on a tricycle (because they couldn’t actually fly, and that was obviously the next best option), pretending to save her from pirates. "I thought that maybe if I rolled my socks down instead of folding them, to make them look poofy like the people’s socks in Sleeping Beauty, she might think of me as a handsome prince. It didn’t work.” 

Growing up socialized as a girl, Ben didn’t have language for what they were experiencing. But Ben often escaped into imaginative play where they could be their favorite characters like Peter Pan, Robin Hood, Simba, Harry Potter, but never the Disney princesses. Things like bows and arrows, sword fighting, and playing with bugs were great, but pretty dresses were kind of the worst. 

Ben was born and raised in Orem, Utah, in a large family that was always active in the LDS church. But from a young age, they felt a disconnect between their inner sense of self and what they were told was expected of them. As a young kid, they didn’t know what the word ‘gay’ meant, and had never heard terms like ‘transgender’ or ‘non-binary.’ Nobody was pressuring them to be queer - if anything, there was pressure to not be queer. And yet, those feelings were all naturally, instinctively there. "I didn’t have the words to describe it. But I did get the sense that it wasn’t normal, and that I wasn’t supposed to talk about it."

Ben’s first memory of queer-related shame came early: a kid in kindergarten asked if they were gay and instructed them to look at their fingernails - palm up if you were gay, palm down if not. "I had no idea what 'gay' even meant, but I figured from the kid’s tone that it was bad," Ben says.

Still, they instinctively volunteered to take on the male roles in school performances. "I always wanted to do the guy part - it was what felt the most natural." In elementary school, they were part of a Spanish immersion program. Each year, there was a cultural dance performance for each grade. There were always more girls than boys, and whenever the opportunity came up, Ben would volunteer to take on a male role. Once, a mother of their dance partner came up to them afterward and said, "I’m so honored my daughter was able to dance with you." Looking back, Ben thinks that mom was likely an ally.

In their teens and twenties, the internal turmoil deepened, but they tried not to let it show. "I was always the teacher’s pet, the (mostly) straight-A student at school, and always had the right answers at church.” They developed romantic crushes on girls, but hid the feelings. They were afraid of rejection if anyone - especially those friends - ever found out. “I thought, 'this is a trial I can handle by myself. I don’t want to burden anybody - I’m the one who’s broken, so it’s my job to carry all of the discomfort.’" Ben thought they were alone. "I thought being queer was super rare. I didn’t think a girl would ever like me back." Friendships were hard. When they had crushes on friends, they assumed those friends didn’t care as deeply in return. They had no outlet for the "spiraling thoughts" in their head. "I couldn’t talk to anyone about what I was feeling, so the thoughts often spiraled out of control. Being in the closet was very emotionally unhealthy for me." 

During this time, Ben still didn’t totally have some of the words to describe what they were experiencing. One hard part of being in the closet was not being able to talk to anyone who could help make things make sense. They knew about the acronym LGBT, and tried to figure out which letter fit them best. The ‘T’ was particularly confusing, because they knew they sort of felt like a boy, but at the same time, also didn’t totally feel like a man. 

Ben says that for years, they likened their queerness to a Horcrux from Harry Potter. Harry had a little piece of Voldemort basically injected into his soul. “I thought my queerness was kind of like that - a little piece of Satan injected into my soul. I figured that it wasn’t actually a part of me, it was something separate, and that when I died, it would go away - as long as I never accepted it as a real part of myself.” 

Ben served a three-month mission in Nauvoo as a young performing missionary, followed by an 18-month Spanish-speaking mission in San Jose, CA. Ben reflects, "I thought a mission would cure me of being queer. I figured I’d come home, get married, and live a 'normal' LDS life." But nothing changed. "As a missionary, I realized almost immediately that my same-sex attraction wasn’t going away." The first person Ben came out to was their Nauvoo mission president. The mission president reassured them: "You’re not doing anything wrong." Ben felt better but still didn’t have language or clarity to help mitigate their emotions.

After their mission, they came out to their kind and definitely well-meaning bishop, who referred them to therapy. "I basically voluntarily went looking for conversion therapy - I thought it might help me live the life I was supposed to live," says Ben. “Thankfully, the therapy that I got probably didn’t actually count as conversion therapy, at least for the most part.” The therapy didn’t change their orientation or gender identity, but it did help them understand themselves better. "It wasn’t what I originally thought it would be, thankfully."

At BYU Provo, Ben studied music composition and audio in the commercial music program. They played clarinet in university ensembles, and toured internationally with those groups through Europe and Asia. They were also a temple worker for a time. Ben says, "I realized a lot of older sister temple workers had short hair. I’d always wanted short hair but was afraid people would think I was gay." Seeing those women helped Ben realize that getting a short haircut would probably be okay. Eventually, they got the short haircut and never looked back. "Someone told me I’d look good with short hair - I got it cut, and never plan on going back."

The pandemic gave Ben time to reflect. When in-person church started back up again, they connected with a non-binary friend who became a safe person to talk to. For the first time, they had someone who truly understood. This was the first time that Ben had heard the term ‘non-binary,’ and they realized that finally there was a term that accurately described what they were experiencing. All of this helped Ben to finally feel comfortable enough to come out publicly. Still, talking about gender identity felt harder and kind of more taboo than talking about being gay. 

That friendship led to an unexpected romantic relationship with the friend’s sister. The relationship was something Ben had never planned to pursue. Ben says, "I had always told myself that I couldn’t be in a queer relationship. But itkind of just happened naturally. We’d ‘hang out’ one-on-one, and for a while I wouldn’t admit that it was a date. But eventually we realized that we were in a relationship." They didn’t tell many people. The relationship ended nearly three years ago, but it was meaningful. "The thing that I’d been taught my whole life was bad didn’t feel evil. It felt right. I was learning and growing as a person."

Through that experience and hearing stories of other queer people, Ben began to shift their view of gospel living. "I don’t think the gospel is about your orientation or gender identity. It’s about being a good person - and that’s not dependent on those things." They began to lean into the scripture, “By their fruits ye shall know them.” In considering their future, Ben figures, "If it’s bringing good fruit, it’s probably good." Now, most of the shame surrounding their queer identity is gone. Ben feels that God has been healing them - not from their queerness, but from the darkness and shame and fear. 

Last year, Ben signed up for the Gather Conference. When asked for their name and pronouns, they used "Ben" and "they/them" for the first time. Ben smiles, "It felt good. It felt like me." They had long admired the name Ben, a tribute to their baby brother who passed away 30 minutes after birth. "I tended to imagine my angel baby brother as a good, caring, kind, calming person. After a while, I realized that the way I imagined him was actually my own ideal self. I also like that in Latin, the root ‘ben’ means ‘good.’ That’s who I want to be."

They prayed and went to the temple repeatedly, asking if changing their name and pronouns was the right decision. "I figured God would give an answer in both mind and heart," Ben says - “and I believe that He has, repeatedly.” In the celestial room one day, after praying about the name and pronoun change, they saw two people who they knew - one named Ben, and another who had always tried extra hard to use the right pronouns. "It felt like a confirmation."

Ben changed their name and pronouns, started wearing a tie to church, and decided to be even more open about their identity. All the while, they’d check in during prayer, asking their Heavenly Father if what they were doing was the right thing. The answers always felt affirming, understanding, and loving.

When Ben told their bishop about the name and pronoun change, the bishop was respectful and kind. Though Ben did lose their temple recommend and can’t serve in certain callings because of current church policy around social transitioning, they’ve been embraced in their YSA ward and now serve on the FHE committee. "I’m just trying to be a normal person, so people can see that trans people aren’t scary - we’re just people, and we’re here."

One of the most spiritual moments of Ben’s life came years earlier, on a trip to Israel. At the Garden Tomb, they’d hoped to get a photo of them in front of the empty tomb, but were rushed out by another group’s leader. Frustrated, Ben walked away. "I thought, 'God’s good at turning bad experiences into good ones - maybe He can do that for me here.' I decided to identify what I was feeling, and realized that I was feeling pushed aside. Then this strong, clear prompting came: ‘I would never push you aside’." It wasn’t until years later that Ben connected that message to their identity. "Even though I’m queer, God won’t push me aside. Even when well-meaning members think that’s the best way to live the gospel - that’s not God. That’s people." 

Ben lives with their family and their beloved yorkie, Woofard Woodwoof (Woofie). They still play their clarinet in an orchestra as well as bagpipes, and they work at a printing shop. A couple of their siblings are also queer - a trans sister and a gay brother. Ben, their gay brother Matt, and their mother Barbara have all shared their stories on the Listen, Learn & Love podcast. Now Ben is excited to share their story with Lift+Love. They’re hopeful that their story will help others feel less alone. "It’s scary sometimes, but I’m trying to be visible, so that maybe someone else in the ward or community will see me and think, ‘Ben’s cool, not scary. Maybe other gay or trans people aren’t scary either’."

Through all of this, Ben is very grateful for a Savior who understands all of it, because He felt it along with us - and comes to us and loves us, right where we are, even in the hardest times.

You can hear more from Ben at the 2025 Gather Conference www.gather-conference.com

BRAXTON ROGELIO

**content warning: suicide attempt is mentioned**

Braxton Rogelio (he/him) has spent his life pursuing the arts while asking big questions—which has led him to embrace his identity as the proud transmasculine, gay man he is today.

Now 39, Braxton lives in Mesa, Arizona, not far from where he was born and raised. A passionate writer since the age of 13, he’s currently working on a memoir with the support of his uncle, who is a Utah-based author, screenwriter, and director. Their bond is built on a shared love for exploring possibilities. “He’s such a sweet, funny personality,” Braxton said. “We’re so similar—we’re always asking what if, and what else.”

Braxton’s life is rich with passions. He loves anime, karaoke, travel, and his beloved cat, Bear—a tabby-Siamese mix he describes as a “gorgeous boy and absolute love bug.” He proudly embraces his Latino roots through his dad’s Portuguese and Spanish heritage. And when it comes to music, his playlist features favorites like David Archuleta, John Mayer, and Selena.

Music, in fact, quite literally saved Braxton’s life.

A few years ago, after leaving the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and facing pressure to return, Braxton found himself in a dark place. Depression overwhelmed him. “I had been told, 'You need to come back to church,' and it just got really bad,” he says. One night, feeling hopeless, he attempted to take his own life.

As he sat alone, still suffering yet having survived the attempt, a song shuffled onto his phone: David Archuleta’s “To Be With You.” He says, “Hearing David’s song—it saved my life.”

Later, Braxton had the chance to tell David Archuleta exactly that. At a Christmas concert at the House of Blues in San Diego, he met David, shared his story, and received a hug in return. “I was so grateful,” he said. “I gave him a gift—a few things he had said he liked on Instagram—and it was great to talk to him."

Last Mother’s Day marked another turning point: Braxton came out publicly as trans. While he had long stepped away from church activity, the day offered a bittersweet illustration of the complicated ties between faith, family, and identity.

His mother, still active in the church, asked him to attend services with her. Braxton agreed, despite his deep discomfort. "I was already in tears but thought, 'I'll suck it up for my mother.'" During the meeting, young children were handing out flowers to mothers. Braxton, who does not identify as a mother, was encouraged by his mom to accept one. "I thought, ‘this is so weird’," he said.

Later, attending a Relief Society meeting only deepened his feelings of isolation as Braxton had fully embraced his identity. “Ever since I was five or six years old, I knew something was going on,” he said. “I even told my brother when we were little kids, 'Hey, I'm your brother’."

Coming out to his family brought a range of responses. His younger brother, two years his junior, was the first person he told. “He wasn’t surprised,” Braxton said. “He said, 'You've always identified that way. As long as you're happy.'"

His sister, who is three years older, and his father were also supportive. His father’s response was simple and unconditional: "No matter what, I'll always love you."

Today, Braxton enjoys close relationships with his father and stepmother—whom he affectionately calls "Mama"—as well as with his brother and his brother’s family. "Everyone lives in Arizona,” he said. "My dad and Mama have lived in the same house for 25 years. My brother and his wife and five kids live just down the street."

While most of his family offers love and acceptance, there have been painful exceptions. But Braxton focuses on the love that surrounds him. “I have a good support system and love them very much,” he said.

Braxton’s journey of self-discovery has also included navigating relationships. Over the years, he’s experienced three failed engagements. Each time, he realized he couldn't move forward without first fully understanding and accepting himself. “It had to do with me, not them,” he reflected. “I couldn’t help them the way they deserved, not with everything going on inside me.”

Today, Braxton also identifies as demisexual or asexual, and finds belonging within the ace community. Trying to live authentically hasn’t been without its challenges. Braxton has faced harsh words, including being told he was “evil” or “being seduced by Satan.” But he stands firm in who he is and trying to be. “With everything going on in the world, don't be afraid,” he says. “Embrace yourself. You shouldn't feel ashamed. You deserve to be yourself.”

Looking ahead, Braxton says, “I hope to be a man married to another man,” he said. He feels a strong connection to his Latino heritage and hopes to build a life that honors all parts of his identity. He’s also working toward greater mental health support, planning to join a group therapy program through AZ for Change, an organization supporting LGBTQ+ individuals.

Music continues to be a source of healing and joy. Braxton eagerly looks forward to attending upcoming David Archuleta concerts—including two in southern California this week. “I'm excited to meet up with some friends there,” he said.

In the meantime, he continues writing, learning to play the piano from his mother, and pursuing his dream of publishing his memoir—which he hopes will prove a testament to a life defined not by fear or conformity, but by authenticity, resilience, and love.

AUBREY CHAVES

Aubrey Chaves has mastered the art of asking questions. As the co-host, alongside her husband Tim, of the popular Faith Matters podcast, Aubrey is known for her curious spirit and ability to ask complex, thoughtful questions of her guests, who range from scholars and theologians to therapists and philosophers. The conversations she helps lead are not surface-level; they probe deeply into the experience of faith expansion, and often, faith crisis.

Her instinct for asking good questions stems from her own period of deep questioning. Around 2011, Aubrey’s husband read Rough Stone Rolling by prominent LDS scholar Richard Bushman, and it shook their world. Aubrey had picked up the book to better understand her husband’s wrestle as he sought answers as to how best to defend the church, but instead found herself devastated by its contents. She says, "It forced me to face questions I’d ignored so long because I thought if a question disturbed me, it must be from an outside source or not true."

What initially disturbed her most was church history, but over time she became even more troubled by the present-day implications—particularly the harm she saw in the church’s position on LGBTQ+ issues. History, she realized, was static, but current doctrine and policy were not. "I felt disturbed by some of what I read that I couldn’t explain—some things that were not doing active harm, but the position on LGBTQ was doing active harm."

Aubrey had long believed that the truthfulness of the church meant it was always aligned with God's will. But once that certainty began to crack, the weight of being complicit in harm became unbearable. She felt a sense of urgency to decide whether to leave or stay. She entered what she calls a "season of consumption"—a six-year period of reading, learning, and trying to resolve the dissonance. Eventually, she became more comfortable with uncertainty. She realized there might never be a single answer that could make everything feel tidy again.

With that realization, she began to redefine the church’s place in her life. Rather than seeing it as a source of all gifts and truth, she started to view her relationship to it as one where she could offer her own gifts and energy. Discovering the Faith Matters community and being asked to take over the podcast along with Tim emerged from this shift—a space to pour her energy into thoughtful conversation. She recalls, “It came about organically because we felt so desperate for connection, to find people asking similar questions and burdened by similar pain.”

Aubrey sees ongoing tension around LGBTQ+ issues as a large part of the necessary struggle. Though she wishes the church were doing more, she believes in the power of creating bridges through honest dialogue. One conversation that stayed with her was with LDS scholar Terryl Givens, who told her, "Sometimes we make an idol of our own integrity." That sentiment helped her understand why she continues to stay and engage, even when doing so is painful.

There have been many moments when it would have been easier to walk away. But she believes there’s value in remaining at the table, asking questions, building trust, and staying in difficult conversations. "I've stayed in the church to stay in the conversation—even if I'm in an excruciating conversation or at a table where we're not all aligned."

Aubrey has often felt conflicted about that choice. There were times when integrity seemed to demand something more finite—like leaving altogether. But she believes that defining integrity in such narrow terms might not capture the full picture. “Maybe we don’t always have to do all or nothing,” she reflected. “People feel a call and energy moving them to where they’ll be able to do the most good for their soul or community. For me, I felt it was okay to stay and be very uncomfortable—a calling to put my gifts and energy here.”

It took years, she said, to feel peace in that lack of alignment. But over time, she found that her discomfort became a source of transformation. “I use my gifts to push toward real change— trusting that transformation within my own circle of influence can create meaningful ripples.” 

She describes the Faith Matters experience as one of healing and exchange. “It feels like healing flowing—we’re recipients as much as we put out,” she said. In the most honest conversations, even between people who completely disagree, she has seen something almost mystical happen. “There’s a magic moment where people are being vulnerable, honest, coming to the table in good faith, to connect. The technicalities of where you fall on one issue aren’t quite so loud because of this connection. The energy is so much softer.”

This shift, she said, feels worlds away from the “angsty arguments” that once left her feeling defensive. Instead, there’s a more grounded compassion, a willingness to understand.

In recent years, as Utah legislation has taken sharp turns that many have found painful, Aubrey has also felt the weight of needing to respond. “It never feels like enough to say our hearts are hurting, too, in Utah,” she said. “But whenever church things come up, I hope people feeling the most vulnerable and raw know that those of us who feel more safe are using our privilege. I hope it’s some comfort.” She sees her role as someone who can use her voice to open doors. “I’m hoping to be a resource—to get into a room for someone with a harder path. I hope they feel a sense of solidarity. I’m here, with linked arms.”

A large part of Aubrey and Tim’s allyship journey began while they were living in Boston. They developed a close friendship with a married gay couple—neighbors and classmates of Tim’s in business school. These friends, without ever explicitly trying to teach or convince, helped Aubrey and Tim see that their lives were fundamentally the same. Through genuine friendship, any lingering resistance Aubrey had simply dissolved.

"It was the universe’s gift to us," she said. "While asking big questions, we had this steady handful of friends. It was a totally unspoken way of breaking down any remaining barriers. They evaporated because we loved these people so much."

By the time they returned to Utah, Aubrey felt deeply committed to helping the church become more aligned with the inclusive spirit of Jesus. That experience solidified her sense of purpose. It also helped Aubrey and Tim learn how to be a safe space for others, especially for LGBTQ+ loved ones who later came out. They want to always be the kind of people who radiate unconditional acceptance.

In their Midway, Utah home, Aubrey and Tim are raising four children, ages 16 to 7. From the beginning, they’ve tried to make LGBTQ+ inclusion feel joyful. Each year, they go all out decorating for Pride month, turning it into a family celebration with rainbow-themed treats and signs.

Over time, their children have come to see LGBTQ+ identity as something to celebrate. Their youngest child doesn’t even recognize there might be tension around the topic. For her, learning someone is LGBTQ+ is simply fun and good news.

As their kids have grown, Aubrey has seen how these early efforts shaped them. They’ve formed meaningful friendships with LGBTQ+ peers, who often recognize their home as a safe space just by seeing a rainbow decoration or a photo from a Pride event.

One of the most powerful moments of visceral change in recent years came during last year’s Faith Matters Restore gathering, where Allison Dayton and John Gustav-Wrathall led a session together. Aubrey remembered watching the energy in the room shift as John shared his story. The audience, many unfamiliar with John or his journey in and out and back into the church while being married to his longtime partner, leaned in with openness and empathy.

John’s decades-long effort to seek fulfillment while holding on to what was important to him resonated deeply. Even attendees from more conservative backgrounds responded with compassion. Aubrey said it felt like "4,000 people leaning in together."

Faith Matters surveyed its audience, and LGBTQ+ inclusion ranked among their top concerns, alongside women’s issues. Most of their listeners are still active in their wards, navigating tension as they show up with love and faith. Aubrey hopes those who are struggling know they’re definitely not alone. 

Reflecting on how to handle difficult conversations, Aubrey draws inspiration from Jonathan Haidt’s book, The Righteous Mind. She’s learned that trying to persuade through logic is rarely effective. Instead, she finds that storytelling and connecting at that heart level are always more productive for good. 

By sharing what is honest and painful instead of confronting or creating tempting arguments, she has seen conversations shift and “connection across the table that does so much of the heavy listening.” It’s then that Aubrey knows, “Seeds are planted in those moments—and that is the most fertile ground for good fruit.”

Aubrey Chaves will be presenting at this year’s Gather Conference. To register, go to: www.gather-conference.com

DR LISA TENSMEYER HANSEN

Chapters. That’s how Lisa Tensmeyer Hansen describes the various seasons that have directed her to what she now regards as the pinnacle of her life’s work. All along, she has felt the guidance of an all-knowing hand. 

The PhD and LMFT now resides in the heart of Utah Valley with her husband Bill, where she is co-founder and CEO of Flourish Therapy, which provides life-saving therapy for LGBTQ+ individuals. While none of her seven biological children, her foster daughter, or other “bonus children” identify as LGBTQ+, they joke that “maybe someone will come out for mom for Christmas.” Besides having a gay nephew whom she adores--and who is soon graduating in vocal performance from the U where he started a gospel choir. Lisa agrees it’s interesting how her path has brought her to this particular space. But she can’t look back without recognizing she’s always had an awareness and empathy for those often deemed marginalized.

Growing up in the LDS church, Lisa says, “I spent a lot of time thinking about what God as parent would want their children to grow up and be and do.” As she experienced various stages of faith development, she started by believing in a God who had reasons for the rules, even those that seemed to make less sense. She began to recognize a God who valued development and not just blind obedience--a God who saw something in each of us that needs to be deeply valued and seen and understood.

As a teen, Lisa believed somewhat in the idea of “the elect”—that finding a way to be like God was a narrow path and not everyone was destined for eternal greatness. But as she became a parent, she recognized that every single individual’s growth matters. That everyone has been given something to bring them closer to God and something to believe in. This paradigm was further cemented when her youngest children’s involvement in a theater program enlisted her to serve as the program’s director. A former member of the BYU Women’s Chorus, Lisa also ran her stake youth choir and served in the stake Young Women’s presidency. In these capacities, she recognized how some of the most vibrant and lively performers were those brave enough to later come out as gay. 

In their small community of Payson, it was easy for Lisa to see how the community of church and school did not provide a safe haven for these performers to be powerful leaders and contributors, despite their phenomenal skills and talents. She witnessed some be excommunicated because they identified a certain way. Another was refused participation in a temple opening extravaganza even after being selected for the top spot, because they were gay. She saw many who were relegated to second class citizen status if they chose celibacy, but “never fully celebrated as they would be if straight.” Lisa says, “That was a powerful message to me… These were not people who were anxious to leave God behind; these were amazingly spiritually deep people whose communities decided they had no place for them.”

In another chapter of Lisa’s development years, she witnessed racism firsthand. Growing up in Indiana, there were both schools and swimming pools segregated based on the color of one’s skin. When Lisa enrolled in an integrated college preparatory high school in her neighborhood, her understanding of what it means to live in a democracy with people who are treated as less than shifted as she heard various viewpoints and recognized her own privilege. At the time, largely due to the teachings she was immersed in via gospel discussions in her home and what was taught over the pulpit, she complacently believed that “God had reasons for the way things were,” even racism. Never hearing anything else, besides the incredulous objections of her more broad-minded classmates, Lisa assumed things would just be that way forever. As she matured in the gospel, and especially after reading Edward Kimball’s carefully crafted summary of the events leading up to his grandfather’s reversal of the priesthood ban in 1978, Lisa experienced a substantial eye-opening. She came to realize that it wasn’t the people waiting around for God to change His mind or make His ways known, but that the people themselves needed to change. She asked herself, “Are we content to keep others at arms’ length so we feel we are holy enough?” As this dissonance set in and Lisa pondered her participation in what she had always believed was the restored gospel, she had an awakening to the reality that even though Jewish leaders at the meridian of time when Christ was on the earth kept many from full participation, that God continued to work in that space. That this delineation didn’t obliterate Christ’s teachings about scripture, prayer, the law and prophets. Lisa says, “This seemed like a path I could emulate.” Perhaps there was something to be gained, or something to be done, in this space of nuance.

As she watched so many in the LGBTQ+ space be excommunicated from a church she as a straight woman could still belong to, Lisa decided to do what she could to elevate the LGBTQ+ community “in the eyes of people like me, and in their own right.” She decided to start a gay men’s chorus in Utah Valley, patterned after the one she’d seen in Salt Lake. “So many I knew cherished the Primary songs and wanted a sense of connection to God that was being denied to them,” she recalls, in reference to LDS markers like missions and temple marriages. It took awhile, but Lisa was able to put together a small gay men’s choir that rehearsed and performed at UVU, the state hospital, and various library holiday celebrations. Once Lisa went back to school, one member of the Utah County Men’s Choir started the One Voice choir in Salt Lake City, and most of the performers followed him to that organization.

With this goal achieved, after some prayer, Lisa felt what she should do next was go back to school with a focus on studying mental health. She knew this is where she could be of most use to the LGBTQ+ community within the context of LDS life, and ultimately chose her alma mater of BYU as the only place to which she’d apply, after a former colleague agreed to mentor her. “At 50 years old, I felt lucky someone wanted to work with me,” she says. The timing was ideal, as BYU was facing accreditation challenges in 2010 and needed to enhance their LGBTQ+ research—a role Lisa eagerly took on. As she put in her hours toward earning her LMFT and PhD, her first client in the BYU clinic was someone with gender identity questions. Soon after, Lisa received an influx of clients who identified as gay, lesbian, gender queer, nonbinary, SSA and bisexual. She says, “I felt like this was confirming a particular direction for my focus.” 

Lisa was instrumental in starting a research group at the clinic based on Kendall Wilcox’s Circles of Empathy wherein gay people would come and share their experiences with straight student therapists. Through the four sessions in which it ran, therapists-in-training participated at least once to expand their understanding. She was also able to help a professor build his curriculum on the topic and has been asked back to the MFT program more than once to talk about LGBTQ+ clients. Of her time in BYU’s graduate program, Lisa says, “I felt a lot of support for the things I wanted to do to benefit and support the LGBTQ+ community while at BYU.”

Just as she was graduating with her PhD, Lisa was approached by Kendall and Roni Jo Draper about helping start the Encircle program in Provo, launching her into a new chapter. She recruited two clinicians she knew to help advise a program in which they could offer free therapy. Along with Encircle director Stephenie Larsen, Lisa was there for the opening of the first home in Provo, where Flourish Counseling Services was born (as a separate entity). While “it was the right thing at the right time,” as Lisa oversaw 13 therapists to meet the clients’ needs, ultimately Lisa parted ways with Encircle. However, she still refers young people to the program for their friendship circles, music and art classes, therapy, and as a place where “they can be themselves without their queerness being the most important thing about them.” 

After moving off campus from Encircle with those 13 therapists, Flourish Therapy is now its own entity with 80 therapists offering approximately 2500 sessions a month in offices from Orem to Salt Lake, all on a sliding scale based on what clients can afford. Thanks to generous donors and insurance subsidies, Flourish is able to keep their session costs well below national average and even offers free therapy to those in crisis who cannot afford it otherwise. Lisa says, “We deeply depend on people paying it forward.” Because of the large number of therapists available, clients are often able to select a therapist with a similar gender identity or orientation, if they prefer.

Unlike LDS Social Services, Flourish is able to freely adhere to APA guidelines and honor their clients’ authentic selves, however they may show up. They have clients ranging from those trying to stay in the LDS church with temple recommends (whether in mixed orientation or same-sex marriages), to those trying to withdraw their names from the church or seek letters for transitional surgeries. Flourish also often treats missionaries referred by mission presidents when the assigned field psychologist perhaps might be struggling to understand. Lisa’s efforts have been widely recognized, and she considers it “a real honor” that the Human Rights Campaign gave her its Impact Award a few months ago. The Utah Marriage and Family Therapy Association also recently awarded Lisa Supervisor of the Year for her work in mentoring student and associate counselors and Affirmation International awarded her Ally of the Year for her work in steering Flourish through its first five years and maintaining its mission to support the LGBTQ+ community despite outside pressures to change their structure and process.

When the tough questions resurface and dissonance reappears, Lisa finds herself traveling back to the early answers she received in Chapter 1 living—when she first knelt and prayed around age 10 to ask whether Joseph Smith had really seen the Father and the Son. She says, “I felt an enormous feeling of light and love. I received no specific answer to my prayer, but felt a love wherein I recognized that something here is the answer and secret and why of everything. God feels this way about us here on earth–that’s what has sustained me all this time and made me feel that what’s inside of us is valuable to God. God’s not looking at us to shed what we have that’s divine but to lean into it and live and cherish and value the learning experience. We will then become able to recognize everyone’s lives—identity and all--as stepping stones.” Lisa concludes, “The things that are true about me are what have moved me into this space where I hope I’m lifting others to that same place wherein they can see how their Creator recognizes the value—the holiness—within all.”  

AMBERLY BEAN

content warning - sexual assault

Every month, Amberly Bean, 30, leads the Lift and Love youth support group on Zoom. She opens each session of new attendees with the same introductory joke, “I identify as lesbian but I’m married to a man but we’re not going to get into that tonight, it’s a long story.” Amberly and her husband Kendall have known each other since childhood. In fact, he was the name she’d throw out every time her middle school friends talked about the boys they liked, feeling he was a “safe crush because nothing would ever happen.” She laughs that, “Even when Kendall would hear that, there were no moves made—which felt really safe for me.”

After serving her mission and attending college, Amberly now lives with Kendall once again in Idaho Falls, ID, where she was raised in a devout and loving Latter-day Saint family. The oldest of three children, from the outside, her upbringing looked textbook—kind and faithful parents, an active church life, a close-knit community. But Amberly always knew there was something about her that was different.

She had come out to a close group of friends in her teens. But nearing the end of her high school years, the inner tension she felt with her faith reached its peak. “It was all or nothing,” she believed, rationalizing she could either be a lesbian or a member of the Church. There was no in-between. While she continued to attend church with her family, she said mentally, “for all intents and purposes, I was out.” During her senior year, Amberly experienced a tough break-up with a girl that felt like it was destroying her. She finally felt it was time to come out to her family and all her friends who cared about her.

Grateful to no longer hide so much of herself with her mom, whom she had always felt close with, she remembers her reaction as being as supportive as she could be at the time. Her mom’s words made her intentions clear: “I’ll love you no matter what you do, you’ll always be a part of our family. Nothing will change. But I know the Book of Mormon and gospel is where you’ll find guidance.” Determined to prove her wrong, Amberly asked herself, “How can any part of this faith guide me when it doesn’t even believe I exist?” But two weeks later after finishing the whole book, Amberly’s heart was moved in a way she didn’t expect. “I felt God with me. I didn’t know what would happen with my dating life or my future, but I knew I could figure things out if I had the gospel.”

That conviction led Amberly to prepare for a mission, in the second wave of 19-year-old sister missionaries. She was honest with her local leaders about past relationships with women, which initially led to the direction to wait a year before serving. The delay devastated Amberly, who felt unsure whether a straight person would have been given the same edict. But a week later, she was asked to meet with her stake president again, assuming there had been a logistical error.

Instead, her stake president shared an experience he’d had in the celestial room of the temple, where he distinctly envisioned her kneeling in a small room (which she recognized as her personal oasis where she spent time journaling, playing guitar, etc.). He felt she was ready to serve, and needed to go right away. Her mission papers were submitted that night.

That was the first time Amberly says she felt a confirmation that there is a lot of misunderstanding with how the church deals with queer members and their “sins and transgressions” and “what Heavenly Father actually feels about His queer children.” She says, “It was a big milestone moment for me.” She felt a very strong impression from above that her queerness is a gift. She does not believe her Heavenly Parents sent their kids down and said, “You guys get to be queer because it’s a trial and hard, so good luck.” Instead she has felt, “this is too pure of a thing to be bad.”

Serving in 2014, Amberly felt a deep desire to tell her story, but at the time, there were few visible LGBTQ+ Church members speaking openly—let alone affirmatively—about their identity and faith. She was worried that her news getting out on the mission “might not be kosher” while she was away from home sleeping in bedrooms with girls. She shared her story with one of her companions who then took it upon herself to tell someone else which started whispers around the mission which, later in her mission, resulted in Amberly getting emergency transferred under the pretense that she was gay and had a crush on the companion. Amberly said, “That’s hilarious. The first part is true, but this has been the hardest companionship I’ve had. Even trying to like her as a friend was hard.”

By the time she returned home, Amberly was emotionally exhausted and unsure how to navigate church life again. Once again, she took a break. Dating girls at BYU–Idaho was difficult, but something she ended up doing. Then came another heartbreak. A woman she’d believed she would spend her life with ended things, saying she was bisexual and thought she could make a relationship with a man work—something she didn’t think Amberly could do.

Feeling conflicted and reminded of painful past feelings, Amberly committed to being the best celibate member she could be. She tried dating men, but after coming out to one—her only serious attempt—he sexually assaulted her under the false belief that it was his duty to “fix her.”

The experience was traumatic and left Amberly certain she would never date a man again. The aftermath was confusing as she initially sought the support of leadership but instead felt blame. But transferring her records to a YSA branch back home in Idaho Falls was a turning point. This branch president was operating off of a reliance on the spirit about Amberly’s past romantic relationships with women. Through this branch president, Amberly found healing and increased trust for leadership, and men in general.

Amberly slowly rebuilt her sense of safety and belonging in the Church. She got her temple recommend back and committed to being “the best celibate lesbian ever,” convinced it was the only faithful path for someone like her.

Then Kendall, her “safe crush” who she’d known since elementary school, re-entered the picture. Amberly ran into Kendall’s mom and joked again about any of the handful of her boys being marriage potential. Amberly retorted, “I’d marry any of your boys.” Her number was passed along, and Kendall reached out during a spring break visit home. When she suggested hanging out, he declined and said instead that he’d love to take her on a date. Their first date lasted hours—they couldn’t stop talking. “It was the first time I actually liked a boy for real,” she says. “And it freaked me out.”

She laughs as she reflects that, “As Mormon dating goes, after two weeks, he said, he didn’t want to date anyone else. You?” Two weeks in, Kendall asked Amberly to be his girlfriend. She knew she had to “ruin it and tell him,” and feared the impending break-up. “I’m a lesbian,” she said over the phone. “I’ve only dated women.” Kendall didn’t miss a beat. “Do you still like me?” he asked. Upon her affirmative reply, he said, “Then I don’t see a problem if you don’t.”

Kendall’s steady support has become a hallmark of their relationship. They started dating in March of 2017 and married that August, though they’d known each other forever. Kendall finished his studies in physics at the University of Utah, while Amberly moved to Utah with him to work.

Now, nearly eight years later, they are raising two children—a five-year-old son and a toddler daughter—and building a life grounded in honesty, humor, and mutual respect. “It hasn’t always been a walk in the park,” Amberly admits. “We’ve done counseling. But in the past few years, it HAS been a walk in the park.”

“Kendall is pretty chill and secure,” says Amberly. “He sees this as just a part of who I am. He doesn’t need a ton of outside support, though we’ve connected with other mixed-orientation couples. We talk enough to be each other’s support.”

The couple used to be involved with Northstar but now mostly affiliate with their Lift & Love community, where Amberly loves leading her monthly groups with Kelly Cook. “We usually have four or five kids show up, sometimes more. We chat, do icebreakers, let them go for it and they talk. I love it. It’s something I would have loved to have as a youth in the church.” She says, “Out of the queer kids who attend, they’re mostly still active in the Church, trying to navigate that. Their hope and optimism is contagious.”

Post-COVID and postpartum, four years ago, Amberly felt she wanted to be more authentic about her identity in their “very small, very Mormon community.” Coming out in her current ward was a process. For some time, she’d hidden behind her role as Kendall’s wife, struggling to feel like her authentic self. “I felt like a shell,” she says. “It festered.” She knew something had to shift.

“I told Kendall I needed to come out,” she says. “And he said, ‘Then let’s figure out the best way to do that for you.” With his support and the encouragement of a few trusted friends in her ward, including a YW president she served with who promised solidarity, Amberly began telling her story.

The result? “Not much changed,” she says. Her bishop came over to chat, and it was a good experience. She felt well supported. She says, “Even though I’m not talking all the time about how gay I am, it hardly comes up actually… But if it does in context, I feel the freedom to say something. I can be authentic.” She continues, “People in church don’t realize—coming out in church is not so I can talk about being gay, but so I can feel my friends know me. This is a big part of me.”

She wants her kids to grow up seeing the full range of possibilities, and will talk to them about it someday. “I want them to see that you can be queer and have a happy, fulfilled life in the Church. And I want them to see that people outside the Church can be happy too.” Amberly believes more people need to see both sides of the coin.

AMY GADBERRY

Amy Gadberry, 29, has spent much of her life navigating the complexities of her identity, faith, and mental health. Recently, the West Jordan, UT resident has come to fully embrace her identity as a cisgender bisexual woman, a realization that has profoundly shaped her ability to finally feel self-acceptance. Newlywed life has also brought a new form of happiness, as Amy and her wife Emily Tucker, just celebrated six months of marriage. But while her path has ultimately led her to a life she once only dreamed was possible, not much of Amy’s path to this point has been straightforward. 

Though she recognized an attraction to men while growing up, Amy never had a strong desire to be with one. Even before meeting Emily, she envisioned a future married to a woman, a realization that initially caused her significant internal conflict. She grappled with whether to identify as lesbian or bisexual, feeling that the latter label carried a stigma within the LGBTQ+ community. At times, she questioned whether she was “queer enough” or had the same right to celebrate her relationship with pride. However, as she has come to embrace her marriage and the love she shares with Emily, these concerns have faded. She now feels that what matters most is the life they’re building together, and she could not be more grateful.

Having first become aware of her attraction to girls around the age of 12, Amy’s discovery came with a mix of shame and confusion. She noticed that the romantic feelings she experienced were different from those of her friends, which led her to suppress them for years. During middle and high school, she dated boys casually and occasionally even had boyfriends, but she says she never developed those deep romantic connections. College did not bring much more clarity, as Amy struggled to find a relationship that truly resonated. Eventually, she realized that her sexuality was something she needed to confront rather than continue to hide.

Raised in Maryland, Amy grew up in a deeply religious household where the church played a significant role in her life. Despite her concerns about how her faith community would respond to her coming out, she found unexpected kindness and support. At 22, after coming out to her therapist—who was the first person she ever confided in about her sexuality—Amy made the courageous decision to share her truth publicly through an Instagram post. To her surprise, she received an outpouring of love, even from those within her church.

Though they needed a little time to adjust once she started dating women, Amy’s parents have remained a steadfast source of love and encouragement since. Despite the initial acceptance she received, Amy ultimately found it difficult to reconcile her faith with her sexuality. In her early 20s, she attended church less frequently and eventually stopped going altogether at 23 or 24, except for supporting the occasional family event. Though she’s never harbored anger toward the church, Amy has experienced deep sadness over what she perceives as an impossible choice between her faith and the ability to pursue the kind of love she has since found.

A pivotal moment came when she attended a fireside where a well-known LGBTQ+ advocate within the church shared his story. His account of a beautiful life with his partner that ended when he decided to reconnect with the church struck a chord with Amy. She sat in the audience crying, and questioning why he had to choose between a life with his loving partner and a beautiful church community. She says, “It didn’t make sense to me, and ultimately was the straw that broke the camel’s back. I didn’t want to choose between the two but if I had to, I decided to choose love and companionship over the church. Since, it’s been a journey figuring out what I believe.” 

Amy says she has managed to take the church teachings of her upbringing that resonated with her and keep them close to her heart. She maintains that she bears no angry feelings toward any church members, and that “a lot of people in my inner circle are still active members and good people who I know are uplifted by the church. It’s just not something I can continue forward with, and I’m ok with that.” She still maintains a strong belief in a God who loves and cares for all of us. And she genuinely believes, “God is so happy for me and all the children who are finding joy in this lifetime. That’s something the church taught me—that we are designed for joy.” 

Joy has not always been easy to come by for Amy, though even her dark moments have cemented that there’s always been a higher power who cares about and speaks to her. Amy’s journey has been deeply intertwined with mental health struggles. Diagnosed with bipolar disorder and having struggled with an eating disorder, Amy has spent years navigating treatment, including multiple stays in residential centers. Her sexuality and faith crisis contributed to her struggles with suicidal ideation, leading to some of the darkest moments of her life. However, through therapy, support from loved ones, and inner resilience, Amy has persevered and found her way forward.

In February 2022, Amy entered her final residential treatment program, where she worked extensively on self-acceptance and coping strategies. She emerged from treatment in May of that year with a renewed sense of self-worth. That summer, she moved out of her BYU housing in Provo, eager for a fresh start. It was then that she met Emily. Their love story began on a dating app, where Amy was immediately struck by Emily, saying “She was one of the prettiest girls I’d ever seen.” After matching, they quickly hit it off, leading to a dinner date the next evening.

Their conversation flowed effortlessly, and Amy knew she had met someone special. Emily had never dated a woman before, and she was in the process of reconciling her lesbian identity and deciding whether she belonged in the church. Their connection deepened as they navigated their days together, making it official within just a few weeks. They dated for two years before marrying in October 2024.

Reflecting on their relationship, Amy describes it as the best two and a half years of her life. She says, “I never imagined a life for myself where I’d feel as happy and fulfilled and as good as I do now. I credit a lot of it to therapy and treatment, and also to the fact that Emily and I are a good match, which is a testament to the validity of what LGBTQ+ love and relationships can be. I felt I couldn’t ask for anything better, or imagine myself with anyone else. When you know, you know.” Amy describes the sentiment of their first weeks together, saying, “I knew she was my person and would be forever. She felt the same. It’s a reminder this love is not wrong, no matter what people say and what views they have. We know it’s the right thing for us. The life we’re creating together is the best life either of us could have ever asked for. It’s pure joy, and I’m so grateful every day for it.

Both Amy and Emily are fortunate to have families that fully embrace their relationship. Amy says her in-laws are among the most loving and accepting people she has ever met, treating her with the same warmth as they show any other family member. Though her own father initially struggled, he ultimately supported her wholeheartedly, walking her down the aisle at her her wedding, and fully embracing Emily as part of the family.

Amy attributes much of her inner strength to her mother, Tricia Gadberry. From the moment Amy first came out to her mother, while sobbing over the phone, Tricia has remained a pillar of support. Amy appreciates how she listens without judgment and provides a safe space for Amy to process her emotions. To this day, Amy considers her mother to be one of the most important people in her life, and a source of love and guidance she will always cherish.

Currently pursuing a graduate degree in school counseling, Amy plans to graduate in August and is actively searching for a job. She appreciates how her mother-in-law is helping the process by leveraging her connections in the education system. Emily also works with kids as a behavior analyst. Amy’s ultimate goal as a counselor is to be a safe and supportive figure for LGBTQ+ students, particularly those who may feel isolated or unaccepted. She is especially passionate about advocating for transgender students, and ensuring they receive respect and validation despite discriminatory policies that may exist within school systems. She says, “My heart goes out to all trans students now navigating this legislation and the hatred they’re experiencing… I want them to feel like they can talk to me about anything that goes on and that their existence is valid.” 

Beyond their activism and careers, Amy and Emily lead a fulfilling life filled with travel, outdoor adventures, and quality time with their beloved pets, Bella (a dog) and Leo (a cat). While they love their roles as aunts to nieces and a nephew, they feel their fur babies may be the only babies they raise. At home, they love to watch reality TV and when the weather cooperates outside, Amy enjoys teaching Emily tennis. In turn, Emily has been teaching Amy canyoneering and water sports.

This October, the couple plans to celebrate their one-year anniversary with a trip to the Netherlands, the first country to legalize same-sex marriage. They are currently feeling out the possibility of living abroad in the future. In the meantime, during what has felt like dark days for many in Utah, Amy is buoyed in knowing that so many allies are out alongside them there fighting and wanting the best for their LGBTQ+ loved ones and others. Amy says, “The only way I can get through it is to find the parts of hope that come with it. Seeing others fight gives me hope. There will always be people who care, even if you don’t know them personally.”

MADDIE FOX

Every February is Bald Eagle Month in Utah, and Maddie Fox (she/her), takes full advantage of the season.  A self-described amateur wildlife photographer, Maddie, 35, sets out early on one February Saturday a year to photograph her favorite creature. While she’s also garnered a frame-worthy collection of bison, elk, wild horses, and black bears, there’s something about the way the bald eagles soar overhead as they migrate south looking for food—so free and unencumbered—that captivates her. 

The proximity of her West Jordan home to the mountains affords Maddie opportunities to enjoy other outdoor activities like hiking and rock hounding for minerals and gems in the state in which she was born and raised. But as of late, she has been less than enthralled with recent Utah legislation that affects the trans community she is a part of. She says, “Transgender people just want to go about living our lives. We are who we are, the same people we always were—we’re just trying to match our external to who our internal selves tell us we are.” In a state that has now passed some hostile policies including the recent bathroom bills and legislation preventing PRIDE flags from schools and public buildings, Maddie continues, “I wish people knew that I am not the threat politicians say I am. I’m kind, loving, and just want to have the best quality of life I can being my true authentic self.”

For Maddie, her authentic self has felt “different” for as long as she can remember. Growing up, she didn’t know what it all necessarily meant, but she always felt something was unique about her. While she was assigned male at birth and grew up playing sports like basketball and baseball alongside her two younger brothers, Maddie typically felt more drawn to feminine things until a sense of shame would inevitably set in. Maddie grew up in the church, and later loved serving a mission to Ireland, but saw when she returned home after two years, her feminine feelings had not gone away as she’d presumed they would. This time, she got into a therapist who helped her work through various thoughts. After some time spent building up trust, based on all Maddie shared, she was diagnosed with gender dysphoria. 

While Maddie had experimented with wearing women’s clothing intermittently throughout her life, she started officially socially transitioning about a decade ago, at age 25. Six months ago, she began hormone replacement therapy, which she says has greatly helped with her gender dysphoria and increased her ability to feel authentic and “much more happy.”

With the recent shift in transgender policies instituted by the LDS faith, “and even before then,” Maddie says she has experienced a faith awakening. Last August’s policy shift has made activities and second hour meetings too difficult for her to attend. Now, she says, “With the policies, I just kind of go for a sense of community, but I don’t know where my faith journey will lead. I am still blessed to have a knowledge of my Heavenly Parents and their love for me.” Maddie says her family is coming to terms with her transition and she is grateful to feel their unconditional love. 

Besides working at a university as a testing proctor and enjoying outdoor activities, Maddie stays busy watching college sports – with football being a favorite. She also belongs to a few support groups for trans individuals that she attends as her work schedule allows. Maddie takes comfort in hearing others’ similar stories and seeing how they live her lives. “I see what I can take from them and apply it to my own.” Maddie also identifies as lesbian ad has dated a little. She says, “Being trans and lesbian can be difficult here in Utah. I hope one day I can find someone I can date and settle down with and have a relationship.”

As the temperature rises nationwide when it comes to LGBTQ+ issues, Maddie says, “I wish that whether it’s church or state or federal that they would get input from transgender individuals who have lived experience instead of listening to the fearmongers.” Maddie prefers a gentler way, much like the nature of Jesus as portrayed in her favorite TV show, “The Chosen.” She says, “How Jesus is portrayed in The Chosen is how I see my Savior. That’s how I imagine He would be.”

JOSH HADDEN

content warning - suicide ideation and the death of a parent are mentioned

Josh grew up feeling a bit different. He loved playing with girls' toys and even asked for a My Little Pony Dream Castle when he was four-years-old. His favorite colors were pink and purple, and he tended to get along better with girls than the other boys his age. This went on until around seven-years-old when Josh started to learn what the word “gay” meant, and then subsequently started to try and hide those parts of himself. He spent years trying to convince himself that he was not gay and that if he tried hard enough, he could hide this part of himself from everyone. In fact, Josh decided being gay would be something he would need to spend his life hiding, managing and changing. The frustration of that journey has only been alleviated in the past few years as finally, at age 26, Josh has come to trust that he was intentionally created as he is by loving Heavenly Parents.

Throughout high school, Josh tried to ignore his feelings and pray for his orientation to change. In college at BYU-Idaho where he studied communications, he knew he was gay but continued in his efforts to find that one special woman who would magically capture his eye and his heart--the woman with whom he could make everything work. He recalls, “Over years of dating, I managed to get a fair amount of girls to like me, but after never being able to like them back, I just felt like I was toying with people’s emotions and hurting people.” Josh decided it was time for dating to take a backseat. 

The following years, Josh experienced extreme loneliness. It’s an uncomfortable thing for him to acknowledge now, but he remembers praying he could just disappear. “Some might call it being passively suicidal, but for me, I just didn’t want to exist. I didn’t have a lot of hope for my future as I had no intention to date or marry a man and forfeit the covenant path for myself. But dating women felt so uncomfortable and I just felt so alone,” Josh reflects.

He continued in this tumultuous pattern of managing his conflicting desires to not be alone and to stay active in his faith while ignoring his strong desires to be with a man. “It was a life in conflict,” Josh says. In 2021, he realized he was in really bad shape when his father passed away from Covid. Josh had learned in marriage and family classes about the emotional process of grief and that studies had shown that the most intense pain people typically experience in life is the death of a child, parent or spouse, followed by divorce. Josh says, “I realized at that time that I was experiencing more emotional pain everyday as a gay member of the Church than what I felt in the peak of my grief over my dad’s passing. There’s a note in my phone where I journaled my thoughts on how everyone was being so kind and supportive, yet I was wrestling something so much bigger and more long term--something I had so many more questions about. And I was fighting that silent battle with no support.” Josh recounts how he’d been raised to understand that doctrinally, he knew how he could fit into the kingdom as a son who’d lost his father, but he had huge questions about whether his Heavenly Father could love him and have a place for him as a gay man. At this point, Josh realized something was seriously wrong and it was time for him to start opening up to others.

At the time, he had only told a few close friends on a case-by-case basis about his attractions. He never discussed it with his dad before his passing, but had one conversation in high school with his mom about it. He recalls there was a “silent acknowledgement, but it died there and was not discussed again.” However, after Josh’s dad passed away, he says his family “got more real” about things and he was able to revisit the conversation with his mom, who he says has since proved to be “a rockstar.”

Over the years, being gay became the subject for many of Josh’s prayers. For years, he prayed that it would be taken away and that he could be happily straight and fit into God’s kingdom the way he had been taught. After some time and realizing that his orientation would not change, he changed his prayer to ask God to just find one woman that he could be attracted to and be happy with. Then again, after many seasons of prayers unanswered, Josh decided that maybe he was praying for the wrong thing and changed direction. He started praying that if he would never successfully date or marry, that he could just have a best-friend. Someone to rely on and be close with in life. This prayer also proved unsuccessful, so he made another pivot. Josh changed his prayer to accept that he may be alone in this life, and his prayer was that in his life of solitude, that God would help him feel peace, contentment, and happiness where he was. Yet, Josh still felt painfully lonely.

After finishing school in Idaho, Josh did what many LDS singles do and moved to Utah. There, he hit a low point, and his years of unanswered prayers seemed to pile up. He experienced more intense loneliness after his move to Utah and nothing seemed to change. For a long time, Josh had dealt with his loneliness in dating by keeping close friendships, but during this new chapter of his life in Utah, that support wasn’t coming. He did everything he could think to do in making new friends and made it a serious matter of prayer, yet nothing seemed to change. After months of that intensified loneliness, Josh came to remember that old saying that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, but expecting different results. It was at this time that Josh identified that the one thing he had not yet tried was dating a guy.

Deciding to dip his toes in, just to see how it felt, Josh offered up a prayer, “Stop me, God, if this is wrong.” But Josh quickly found a guy he liked, went out a few times, had a good time, and felt utter confusion because nothing about dating this guy felt wrong to his spirit. His excitement over these new possibilities weighed against a lingering sense of despair for his future. After one of his dates, Josh prayed, “God, how did I get here? You know that for so long I prayed for Plan A, B, C… to happen and now I’m on Plan F.” But now, Josh also felt ready to listen. After pouring out his heart in prayer,the answer he received was, “Josh, I know. I know your heart and your mind. And I have been there every step of the way, yet this is where I have allowed you to be. And this is ok.” Josh says his mind at the time added a “for now” to the end of that prayer, rationalizing that all this was still to prepare him for marrying a woman. That was a year ago, in March of 2024, and the messages Josh has received since have been consistently the same. Every time he starts to feel unsure about his future, he feels God reassuring him, “You’re so afraid about leaving me, but I’m not worried about that. I have other children who don’t want to be with me,and I know how that feels. But Josh, you are not one of them. This will be ok in ways you may not yet understand.”

With that assurance, Josh proceeded in dating guys. He ended up moving from Orem to Lehi last summer, where he said his social life really changed for the better. He moved closer to some old friends he’d met while serving as an FSY counselor, and has been able to make many more friends since. Surrounded by friends, he’s been able to stay active in his ward where he serves as executive secretary alongside a friendly bishop who’s aware of his situation. After a few months of improved peace both in friendships, and in this new chapter of dating men, Josh decided it was time to prioritize coming out to his family. The youngest of seven kids, Josh remains close to his siblings and mom, most of whom live in Arizona. When he finally felt it was time to come out to his siblings, he realized that might be tough to do in person at a big family event, so he opted to share his news via text:

I’m sorry if this text message is a little uncomfortable or badly timed but I wanted to take a step towards living more honestly and let you know that I’m gay. I’ve kind of always known and I’ve been talking to Mom about it for years and just figured I should probably let my family know. 

In no way am I planning on changing my relationship with God or the church but I just wanted to let you know. I’m the same old Josh I’ve always been.

I would totally love to talk about this with you some time either on the phone or in person! I would’ve told you sooner if we lived closer or had more time to talk privately.   I’m always happy to talk about it and answer any questions you might have.

And this doesn’t need to be a secret either, feel free to talk about it openly with anyone you’d like. I’m telling the other siblings, too.

Anyways, I love you, and I hope you can still love me.

Josh received all positive responses, with his brothers acknowledging that his road must have been tough, while assuring him they were proud of him. He laughs that his sisters are supportive as well and like to keep in touch and ask for dating updates.

Recently, as another step towards peace for himself, Josh decided to come out publicly in a post on social media. He says the responses were overwhelmingly positive and that he feels much more at peace in his life now, having nothing to hide. 

That increased peace has led him to try online dating and join Hinge. He’s enjoyed Hinge with its increased specifics on profiles as he’s remained selective in trying to find a man who is friendly toward the church (which is admittedly hard to do). Josh recognizes he’s experienced a lot less antagonism than some do, as his family, friends, and leaders have allowed him to be true to himself. He can see how things might be different if this hadn’t been his experience. 

Josh recently returned from a night out and was telling his mom how his date was newer in his coming out journey and that his family had not responded well. Josh asked his mom what contributed to her having been so kind and supportive. She responded that it just took time. By the time he was ready to fully come out, she’d spent lots of time reading the stories of people who knew they were gay and their journeys. She felt she saw patterns of people who tried to pray it away, then tried to plead and bargain with God, and then tried to date members of the opposite sex with hopes of getting married in the temple. She’d read how these people tried every avenue but were met with defeat after defeat. And eventually, she’d seen how they typically did best when they came to the point where there was nothing left to do but be themselves. She observed that sometimes, your entire life as a gay person is a secret until you’re out, with those around you never seeing your silent struggles for years. Because of these witnesses,

and the very lived experience of her son, Josh, she says, “I feel more at peace just accepting people where they are.”

As for Josh, he currently loves his hybrid remote job and coworkers, working for an elementary education company in Orem. An avid outdoorsman, he enjoys adventurous hobbies like hiking, swimming, running, cliff jumping, backpacking and camping. For Josh, a perfect date might include a short nature walk around the pond and getting ice cream. He is looking forward to a summer full of adventures and hopefully some fun dates in the future. 

MONICA, HORACIO, & CAYLIN

Monica Bousfield met her husband Horacio Frey in the fortuitous aisles of Babies R Us, where they both worked in the early 2000s. At first, they were just friends. Then best friends. Then after about a year of hanging out constantly, they surmised they must be dating. A year later, Monica nudged Horacio that it was probably time for them to go ahead and get married. After an eight-month engagement, they did, and while they eventually both left Babies R Us, their commitment to each other later resulted in two babies they would together raise. Through all this, Monica kept her maiden name—primarily because she’d never known of another couple like her and Horacio to last, and she didn’t want to complicate legal paperwork around having to undergo name changes twice. Monica had never heard of a woman marrying a gay man and having it not end in divorce. While she’d known Horacio was gay from their early days of hanging out, there were two other things she knew about Horacio: he was her best friend, and she wanted to marry him. Over two decades later, the couple is still making it work in Westminster, Colorado, where they have two children—Caylin, who is 17 and also identifies as queer, and Dominic—13.

While Horacio has known he’s gay since a young age, this is the first time he has come out publicly. His childhood was marked with hardships, having suffered abuse and being adopted at age eight, which created abandonment issues. He came out to a few friends and his parents in high school, but very few people knew he was gay when he married Monica. He had been raised in a Christian church community in Santa Fe, New Mexico. While it was an open affirming congregation, Horacio opted for the white picket fence and kids route that was so highly encouraged. When he met Monica, she was not active in the LDS faith of her family of origin, but after their daughter was born, Monica says, “I realized I had this amazing, super special kid, and started going back to church gradually and then more actively.” After about five or six years of attending by herself with Caylin, Horacio converted. Monica laughs that she has the kind of mom who, every time they went to her house for dinner, would make sure the missionaries just happened to be there. Finally, Monica says, “She had a set there with the right personality at the right time.”

Horacio’s bachelor’s degree in Information Systems Security brought him to Colorado. After receiving her bachelor’s at what is now UVU, Monica started a graduate school program in counseling at CU Denver. But three years into the program and then married, she found while she loved learning about counseling, she had no desire to go into the practice. Instead, Monica went into management at Babies R Us, and then got her masters in HR. Now she works for a local municipality in compensation and benefits, a job she loves. Horacio works as a tech manager for a solar company.

Monica says, “if you’re going to marry someone who’s gay and you’re not, you need to be pretty confident, but we figured we’d never know if our marriage would work out unless we got married.” The beginning of their union felt lonely for Monica, having no one she could talk to who could relate to her variety of issues. “I internalized a lot, which is probably not healthy. But I didn’t want to out him. When others would talk about how great their marriage was, I was like, ‘Um, yeah…’” Monica didn’t actualize that hers was not the only mixed orientation marriage in existence until a few years ago. But of her almost-exclusive status, she says, “It doesn’t go away and it’s not easy. I’m not going to say it’s not worth it, but it’s not easy.” Horacio agrees it’s been difficult as well from his perspective with the couple talking about it, then not talking about it, when perhaps they should have more often. But after lots of counseling, he says, “We’re committed to making it work and have no interested in getting divorced or not making it work.” Monica appreciates how Horacio is still her best friend, despite the complexity of their issues.

Five years ago, new information about their children brought the two even closer together. Around the same time that Dominic (at age 8) was identified as being on the autism spectrum, Caylin revealed that she’s queer. Of their kids, Monica says, “She’s very creative, and he’s very, very logical. It’s two extremes, and definitely makes things interesting.”

While Monica was shocked about Caylin’s admission, Horacio was not as surprised, after Caylin had recently played Christina Aguilera’s “You are Beautiful” at the dining room table and asked her dad if he’d still love her if she came out. It was 2020 during the pandemic, and the family had spent much of their time together in quarantine. One afternoon, while on her way to her first outing to a friend’s house in a long while, Caylin sat in the back of her parent’s car, quietly drafting a text. She didn’t hit send until she’d safely entered her friend’s front door, and Monica and Horacio drove home in shock, processing. Besides the blindsiding of the information itself, they were now also apparently “old” because they had no idea what Caylin meant by: “I’m coming out as pansexual.” Monica googled it on their drive, while her heart stung with the second half of Caylin’s text: “I hope you still love me after this is over and done with.” Of course they did, she says.

However, needing more time to process as she hadn’t heard of a 12-year-old coming out that young before, Monica sent Horacio to pick up their daughter. When he pulled up to the house in a slight rainfall, he saw a rainbow in the sky behind Caylin’s friend’s roof. A scene that felt “picture perfect.” Caylin got in the car and Horacio abruptly revealed he was mad at his daughter--only because she had told him in a text and not in person. The two went and got ice cream at Chic-fil-A (Monica now laughs at the irony of that), and Horacio explained to his daughter that he was in a position to understand what Caylin was feeling. He revealed, “Not that I want to steal your story, but I understand because I identify as gay.” Horacio went on to explain how Caylin could still have church values, even though there is a lot of stigma in church communities about how to act. Horacio clarified, “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. Your mother and I still love you and will navigate with you, and you’ll get through it.”

Caylin says she’d known she “was some flavor of gay” since age nine, just growing up in the internet age, though she didn’t always have words for what she felt. She now prefers to identify as queer instead of pansexual, and says it has been hard to “figure out what I actually am and to surround myself with people who would accept me, especially in the church where a lot of people don’t necessarily agree with all of that.” Now a senior in high school, the church is still a part of Caylin’s life as she attends sacrament meetings on Sundays, but she prefers to go to Relief Society with her mom over Young Women’s. She also prefers to avoid seminary and youth activities, and keeps quiet about how she identifies at church. The family’s ward is small and skews a bit older and more conservative. With few youth, there are fewer opportunities for friendships. Caylin says her school has its ups and downs, but she has a good friend group and likes to do art and read fiction and romance books--the Caraval book series being a favorite. She also participates in theater, and is on the costume crew for the school’s current production of Chicago. While dating has been a part of her teen years, she’s not currently seeing anyone.

Shortly after Caylin came out to her parents at age 13, she was sitting at a stoplight with her mom. Monica remembers her saying, “Mom, I don’t know why God hates gay people.” Monica asked what she meant by that, reiterating that God loves everybody. Caylin replied, “I don’t know why gay people can’t get married in the temple, have kids, and do all the things.” Monica feels this messaging kids receive while sitting in the pews is important to share, as the words hit hard and create more harm than some may intend. While it took Monica herself time to process the news Caylin shared via text that day, she now feels protective “like a mama bear” and wears a rainbow pin and speaks up when it feels appropriate, which can be hard to gage in their ward. Horacio also wears some sort of rainbow every Sunday.

The family has attended some of the events sponsored by their local ally group Rainbow COnnection, which was started by members of their stake. While Monica’s an introvert, she values the gatherings. In her extended family circle, people tend to more quietly share big news to avoid big reactions. Monica has appreciated how talking with her relatives about Caylin has strengthened her relationship with her family members who were raised in a world where their family “looked good on the outside but weren’t that close.” Nowadays, they’re working on being closer at home.

Caylin says sharing a unique identifier alongside her dad has helped her to feel less alone. She now focuses on not letting others’ opinions bother her. One Sunday, after a lesson in which someone expressed how they had a kid “struggling with LGBTQ issues,” Caylin walked out into the hall and toward their car, confidently telling her mom, “I’m not struggling with LGBTQ issues. I’m quite good with them.”

For Monica, who has kept much close to her heart over the 20+ years of her marriage, she longs for a day when it feels more comfortable for people to share what they’re experiencing at church in a real way, instead of trying to present the image of “being perfect.” She says, “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if people could say, ‘I’m really struggling with this,’ instead of ‘Life is great’! I’ve dealt with a lot on my own, which is probably not the best way to handle things.” She continues, “It’s good more people have been talking about this in the last few years. It’s important to get out there and hear about it and share, so you don’t feel so alone.”

MARY ANN ANDERSEN

Mary Ann Andersen had always believed that love was unconditional, yet nothing could have prepared her for the totally unexpected revelation that would reshape her life and her marriage. For years she had built a life with Dave, a man she knew as a devoted husband, caring father of four, and committed member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. Their days were marked by shared routines: family dinners filled with laughter, lively discussions, the typical demands of raising kids, and the steady pressure of church and community service. Yet, beneath this familiar rhythm lay a secret that would eventually alter the contour of their relationship.

It began 14 years into their marriage in 1993, when Dave confided in Mary Ann about the inner conflict he had carried since youth—a dissonance born of a desire to express a feminine side he had long kept hidden. At the time, Mary Ann was busy raising four kids and managing a farm and bed and breakfast while Dave worked full-time and served as the bishop of their ward. Dave had always gone to great lengths to keep his feminine interests and clothing hidden, though Mary Ann had observed how complementary Dave was about how she did her own hair and makeup. “It didn’t make a lot of sense back then, but I just thought what a goldmine of a husband I had that he even noticed. But really Jennifer was living her life through me.”  While some wives might have loved having their husbands encourage more facials and makeovers, Mary Ann started to resent this, wondering if she wasn’t attractive enough for her husband.

Back then the term “transgender” was nearly unknown, and the idea that the man she loved might also be the woman he felt inside was as bewildering as it was painful for Mary Ann. She remembers that Dave’s first hesitant admission was filled with both fear and hope for understanding. As Dave revealed that he carried within him a longing to be seen as female, Mary Ann felt shock, confusion, and an aching vulnerability. She wondered if her husband was gay and wouldn’t admit the truth to her. “And why didn’t he tell me this before we got married?” Back then, they both didn’t fully understand the difference between sexual orientation, gender identity, and gender dysphoria. After a difficult month of trying to process this news and wandering the aisles of local bookstores and libraries to pour over whatever literature she could find in search of answers, Mary Ann informed Dave, “I can’t change who I am, and I’m not attracted to women. This isn’t going to work for our marriage.” She figured he would do the “right thing” because he had always done so in the past. Being raised in the church, and being a teenager during the 70’s, it was taught that being gay was a choice, it was so black and white. This is something you can choose not to do. So the two shelved the topic for over two decades, never bringing it up or discussing Dave’s confession. She figured he had control over it.

Yet over the last ten years, as Mary Ann began meeting people from the LGBTQ+ community and hearing their lived experiences, her perspective began to shift. She learned that transgender identity was not a flaw or a choice, but an aspect of human diversity. Slowly, her heart softened. The realization eventually came that the hidden part of Dave’s soul—Jennifer—was not a betrayal of their love but a long-suppressed truth that needed to be acknowledged. It was in 2018 that Dave came forward a second time, revealing his authentic self as Jennifer. This time, the revelation carried with it both shock and sorrow—as Mary Ann recognized the pain Dave had suffered suppressing this side of him for so many years. It also caught her by surprise and many conversations ensued. She did a lot of soul searching to understand her own feelings and how to make things work in her marriage.

In 2020, when they felt it was time to tell their children and their spouses, Mary Ann was concerned how they would receive the news. She knew they would be surprised and shocked because she remembered feeling that way the first time she found out about Jennifer. It took time for their children to process the news and to their credit they led with love, acceptance, and curiosity. Each child was concerned with how their mom was coping with this change. Mary Ann appreciated their checking in with her. The Andersen grandchildren, accustomed to the familiar image of their granddad gradually were introduced to Jennifer and soon began to accept this new reality.

Their oldest son, Blaine, shares this insight about his journey. “Prior to my father revealing to me that he was part of the transgender community, I had recently chosen to leave the comfort and security of my Mormon-influenced worldview. Part of this process involved the painful re-evaluation of what I once believed to be etched in stone. My soul dragged my mind to a state of intrepid curiosity. This beautiful ‘hell’ I found myself in was the ideal climate for learning that my parent had far more dimension than what was previously known. Knee jerk, black and white thinking had been replaced with an ability to see nuance and adjust focus, which I had control over. I was able to give myself permission to explore the world through his/her eyes without the crippling fear that I was on the wrong side.” Knowing that her family continued to love and support them lifted a huge burden from Mary Ann’s soul.

Blaine continued, “When a person comes out as trans, it’s important for all affected parties to have compassion. My initial reaction was that of acceptance, love and curiosity.  But to be sure, I have dealt with feelings of loss and second guessing along the way.  I admittedly have many more miles to cover on this journey and I have made peace with the idea that it's okay to feel a range of emotions.  Patience, humility, love, and curiosity have been effective checks and balances for me. My father and Jennifer are both amazing. They are incredibly courageous and loving. Members of the LGBTQ+ community add a depth and spirit that is badly needed in our world.”

Mary Ann says that, “Now that Jennifer is out, we laugh more. We can be ourselves, and are more relaxed. We definitely communicate better.” Mary Ann laughs at how with her spouse alternating throughout the week between presenting as Dave and Jennifer, she avoids name confusion by calling her spouse “Babe.”

Mary Ann has found that the outside world, particularly the church and some segments of their broader community, have been slow to offer support. In church circles, Mary Ann was often asked hurtful questions like, “Why do you stay in your marriage?” Or  “What’s wrong with you?” instead of questions she’d prefer like, “How do you make it work?” She does appreciate some LDS friends and others who have remained loyal and caring, and who often open conversations with her and others by modeling the welcoming words, “Tell me more.”

In their former stake, where news of Jennifer’s emergence spread like wildfire, some of those who the Andersens once considered friends began to distance themselves, and invitations to gatherings dwindled. For a variety of reasons, Mary Ann stopped attending church services altogether. This happened well before Dave began attending church as Jennifer in 2022. Now, neither attend LDS services, instead preferring to attend another more welcoming congregation in town. 

Mary Ann’s decision to step away from the church, largely due to their LGBTQ+ policies, was met with a reticence from many who remained. She says, “I’ve noticed when I let people know I no longer attend, they’re almost a little fearful of me. They don’t want to engage with me. I don’t hold any weight anymore; when you leave, you’re no longer believable nor credible.”

As Mary Ann has listened to the stories of other spouses of trans individuals and engaged with the broader LGBTQ+ community, she’s come to understand Dave’s struggle was never a denial of her worth, but rather a reflection of the rigid expectations imposed upon them by doctrine and culture. She says, “I now understand that this isn’t a choice, this is who these people are and they’re not broken. It’s made me open my arms to humanity and not just our little church world.” This realization has been liberating for Mary Ann, paving the way for a profound redefinition of what it means to love and be loved.

A voracious reader and talented seamstress, and as one who genuinely enjoys learning from and listening to others’ stories, Mary Ann loves to engage with those around her, and has always pursued her own passions and interests. Her organic skincare business, formed due to her own experiences having sensitive skin, flourished for a decade as an online business. In sharing her creative pursuits with Jennifer—offering alterations, fashion advice, and collaborating on projects—their lives have become interwoven in new, dynamic ways.

The evolution of their marriage also brought changes in how Mary Ann and Jennifer spend their time together. While Mary Ann doesn’t like to shop as much as Jennifer does, she loves to go out to dinner and to the beach with their friends. Mary Ann cherishes any time spent with their four children, their spouses, and their 11 grandkids, 5 of whom live nearby in their Oregon community. And Mary Ann has observed how Jennifer, now free to be her authentic self, has become much more social. They both enjoy attending dinners with their friends in the Rose City transgender group (including spouses), and participating in Affirmation, Gather, and other trans-affirming conferences where they both feel well understood. 

While Mary Ann did not know this part of her spouse before they married, she understands Dave’s former presumption that it would all go away if he just “married a good wife.” She recognizes now that Dave didn’t have the words for what he was experiencing. Mary Ann has always appreciated how her spouse has been “such a wonderful, kind, thoughtful person and very much a team member with raising our kids, and still is.” As Jennifer emerged, their relationship was tested and ultimately transformed but Mary Ann embraces the belief that no marriage remains static.

“Having always enjoyed people and hearing their stories, I like this version of me so much better. It’s so much healthier. There’s a whole new world out there, with amazing, wonderful people. This has all made me more friendly, and more able to depart from my comfort zone.” Mary Ann acknowledges, “I didn’t sign up for this, and it’s not what I agreed to. But on the other hand, if you thought your spouse would never change and will always be the same person you married, that’s a grave misconception. The key is to grow and change together—to support each other, give each other space, and let them be who they are.”

Want to learn more? You’ll find Jennifer’s story here

Jennifer Thomas

Born as a biological male and raised in the conservative milieu of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, Jennifer Thomas spent much of her early life navigating a path dictated by strict cultural and religious expectations. In her late 60s now, and having been married for over 45 years to Mary Ann Andersen with whom she’s raised four children, Jennifer’s life has been predicated with duty, love, and a quiet yearning for authenticity. But behind the familiar roles of husband, father, and devoted church member lingered a deeply personal struggle—a battle to reconcile the masculine identity imposed by society with a more gentle, unacknowledged feminine soul.

From an early age, Jennifer was drawn to what many would label as “feminine.” In a world where boys were not expected to be curious about the styles and hobbies reserved for girls, she found herself captivated by women’s fashion magazines and the allure of makeup and hairstyles. Yet in an environment where exploration of one’s gender identity was discouraged, if not outright condemned, she learned quickly that expressing even a hint of her proclivities was equivalent to admitting to a profound brokenness. For years, she suppressed this part of herself. But as she grew into the expected roles of dutiful spouse, father, and eventually as a respected leader serving as bishop and later in a stake presidency—Jennifer’s dissonance persisted. The man known as Dave Andersen carried a secret internal world, where the desire to express a feminine identity was a source of intense guilt.

It was during a period of solo travel that Jennifer (as Dave) wandered into a second-hand store and purchased a pair of high heels and a few pieces of women’s clothing—a small act of defiance. In the seclusion of a hotel room, Dave (who interchanges names and pronouns) dressed as a woman. But the exhilaration was short-lived, replaced swiftly by a torrent of guilt and shame. Soon after, he revealed his secret to his wife Mary Ann, a revelation that pre-internet, took her by complete surprise. She assumed the revelation indicated that he was gay—and also made it very clear she was not attracted to women. Dave conceded and discarded his hidden stash of feminine clothing. For over 20 years, the conversation was shelved. 

Throughout the intervening decades, Dave’s internal struggle deepened. Despite outward success in his software career and the accolades of leadership within the church, the man behind the title wrestled continuously with the guilt of having surrendered to the feminine inclinations he could no longer silence completely. He sought therapy from a psychologist who specialized in gender issues, and who explained that his experiences were not a pathology but rather a natural variation of human identity—a perspective that, though liberating in theory, was too difficult for Dave to accept at the time so he quit therapy. As bishop, he confided his grappling with gender dysphoria to his stake president, who assured him all bishops have something with which they struggle.

Over time, however, the framework of Dave’s early, more rigid beliefs began to crumble under the weight of new insights as he and Mary Ann encountered a stage of reflective, critical engagement with their faith and its teachings. They began to explore church history through gospel topic essays that revealed a more complex and sometimes contradictory narrative than the one they had previously been taught. This awakening paved the way for Dave to confront many other longstanding positions. He says, “Though I had spent my entire adult life believing and teaching that homosexuality was ultimately a sinful choice and that it was contagious (as the Church had forcefully taught in earlier times), my wife and I felt a need to reexamine those beliefs.” In his discovery, the realization that the feminine aspects of his identity were not a flaw to be cured but an essential part of his human experience began to take root.

More than two decades after that initial, painful confession, Dave once again opened up about his transgender feelings to Mary Ann. He explained that his inner experience had never truly dissipated, and recounted the recurring cycle of secret dressing, the inevitable purges, and the intense internal battles waged between the desire for authenticity and the fear of societal and ecclesiastical rejection. Though taken aback by the revelation, this time Mary Ann, who had evolved in her own beliefs about the LGBTQ+ community and come to understand that gender identity is separate from sexual orientation, was more open to her husband’s revelation. Though it was still not an easy thing for her. But her reassurance that she still loved him and valued the qualities that made him who he was became a turning point in their marriage and in his journey toward self-acceptance.

Mary Ann wondered if Dave might approach a time in which he’d fully transition. Of that reasonable fear, Dave said, “While nobody can know for sure that feelings will never change, the passage of time has led to both of us being more confident that, in my particular case, full-time transition is neither needed nor desired.  Even so, we understand that for many transgender individuals, full-time transition appears as the only viable path for relief from debilitating gender dysphoria.” The couple extends compassion to all who “travel this often-challenging path.” 

Emboldened by Mary Ann’s support, Dave began to more fully embrace the identity of Jennifer.  But at first, her reticence to be seen as Jennifer in town included well-plotted escapades. For instance, Mary Ann would sometimes drive Jennifer (hunkered down in the backseat of the car under a blanket) past their adult son’s family’s house a mile away, whereafter Mary Ann would get out of the car at a secluded park and run home, while Jennifer continued into town to run errands. Nowadays, both Dave and Jennifer are roles their family embraces openly. In 2020, when Dave and Mary Ann individually met face-to-face with each of their adult children to share some important news, the kids anticipated they might hear of a divorce or cancer diagnosis. But of being introduced to Jennifer, their daughter said, “You couldn’t have picked a better year to tell us this, because nothing surprises us anymore.” The kids were all very loving in their responses, though it’s certainly been a process as some have expressed they were worried about losing the dad they once knew. There have been a lot of questions, including curious ones asked by the grandkids who have met Jennifer. Some even eagerly anticipate Jennifer being the one they will see when visiting.

Of her dad’s revelation, daughter Aubrey says, “It was a very big shock for sure. Wrapping my head around it was difficult; it was an emotional roller coaster. But in that moment, I knew that I still loved my dad very much… I was not going to disown him for being his true self. I couldn’t imagine what he had been through, with all the years of torment and feeling broken because he couldn’t be his authentic self. I could sense the relief and freedom he felt once he told me about his journey and how he’s been able to accept himself.” Another daughter, Melinda, credits her parents’ own example throughout life of leading with curiosity and love rather than with fear and defensiveness as instrumental to their acceptance of their dad’s news. She says, “It was so meaningful to witness all of us prioritize that when learning about my dad's journey - that you don't have to fully relate to or understand someone's own journey to love and support them; that maintaining safety and support among family members matters more than a perfect comprehension of someone's life path.”  

In the equally supportive environment of local transgender groups, such as the Rose City group, Jennifer has found a community of kindred spirits who understand her experience. She recalls with vivid clarity the first time she walked into a restaurant dressed as a woman—nervous, yet buoyed by the welcoming smiles and greetings of others there facing similar struggles. Mary Ann often accompanies her to these dinners, where she enjoys meeting the other spouses and partners and “has no qualms about being out in public with me when I’m presenting as Jennifer.” 

Living in Forest Grove, Oregon—a place celebrated for its open, accepting community—Jennifer has also become an active participant in local civic life. Serving on several boards and commissions, she’s open about her dual presentation, sometimes appearing as Dave and at other times as Jennifer. She says the response from the community has been overwhelmingly positive. In a gesture of recognition of her unique identity, the mayor even presented her with two separate name placards in acknowledgment of her contributions and affirmed her authenticity. A school board member, impressed by her forthrightness, invited her to join a budget committee. Such affirmations contrast starkly with some of the institutional barriers Jennifer has encountered within the church space.

Determined to foster a greater understanding of transgender realities among church leaders, Jennifer eventually began the delicate process of coming out within her local congregation. Initially, she met with the bishop and the stake president to explain her experience—not as an act of repentance, but as a candid disclosure of her truth. In August 2021, with cautious support, she addressed her ward during a sacrament meeting, affirming her identity as part of the LGBTQ+ community. The response was mixed; some members expressed gratitude for her vulnerability, while others remained silent or visibly uncomfortable. For nearly a year thereafter, she continued to attend church services in “male mode” as Dave, until the growing dissonance between her internal self and her public persona became unbearable. In July 2022, after much prayer and reflection, she made the courageous decision to attend church services as Jennifer, explaining that worshiping in her authentic self allowed her to experience a deeper, more complete connection with God. That first Sunday as Jennifer came with a blend of hope and trepidation—while the bishop greeted her with warmth and several sisters offered genuine support, many in the congregation were hesitant, unsure how to reconcile this new facet of the person they thought they knew.

Soon after, however, institutional boundaries reasserted themselves. The stake president and bishop, who had initially shown support, determined that presenting as Jennifer at church was crossing handbook-stipulated lines. Membership restrictions were imposed, including the cancellation of her temple recommend and she was barred from holding certain callings and participation in priesthood ordinances. These limitations were a difficult reminder of the church’s ongoing struggle to accommodate transgender members. Despite these setbacks, Jennifer’s local congregation continued to offer small gestures of acceptance—occasional invitations to offer prayers in sacrament meeting, with her female name announced as a subtle nod of respect. After the policies announced in August 2024 banning transgender individuals from attending second hour meetings if presenting contrary to their gender assigned at birth, Jennifer and Mary Ann have decided to attend church elsewhere at a more welcoming church in their town where Jennifer is welcomed and has been invited to share her story.

Outside of church, Jennifer’s life has flourished in unexpected ways. In her community in Forest Grove, she maintains a balanced schedule that honors both sides of her identity. Typically, Sundays and Wednesdays are dedicated to living as Jennifer—on Sundays, she attends church in her true form, and on Wednesdays, she and Mary Ann often go out to dinner with friends. She says, “For most of my adult life at church, I would contemplate, ‘Am I being a good person or not?’ One way I would determine that is if I had caved into feminine inclinations. But now, to show up as, ‘Here I am, God – it’s me, Jennifer. I‘m not hiding anything anymore…’ I feel amazing, whole, complete, and the closest to God than I’ve ever felt before. So I don’t like to worship as Dave anymore. I prefer worshipping as Jennifer now.” But on other days, she presents as Dave, a nod to the past that still informs her understanding of herself. Even in retirement, after a long career as a software engineer at Intel—a role in which she was known as much for her innovative spirit as for her playful, entrepreneurial flair—Jennifer continues to seek out new spaces for self-expression.

Through thoughtful posts on social media where she contributes to Facebook groups (as Dave in Richard Ostler’s Ministering Resources group and as Jennifer in the Transactive LDS Support group), and in writing reflective articles—such as the one she published in Exponent 2 recounting her transformative experience of worshiping as Jennifer, she invites others to reconsider their own assumptions about gender, authenticity, and the nature of spiritual connection. She also reflects how recent policies have pushed so many friends in the transgender space out of the LDS faith. 

With the recent administration coming into power, Jennifer recounts how the trans community is largely reeling from multiple shocks in quick succession. She says, “It’s more important than ever to maintain a sense of community. These are very difficult, tumultuous, trying times. It’s been even more than we anticipated and worse than we imagined, and it’s happening so fast.” Jennifer also reflects, “As horrible as what’s happening right now at a national level, sadly, there’s a case that the Mormon church got there first and did it worse, with the August 18, 2024 trans policy. While the government won’t let us serve in the military or acknowledge we exist, the church essentially declared us a danger and threat to youth and children. I can’t even be in a Relief Society classroom with cisgender women.” Jennifer is confident a lot of members still don’t even know about the recent LDS church policy affecting the trans community.

In sharing her journey, Jennifer hopes to show that there is beauty in the fluidity of identity—that the interplay between the masculine and the feminine need not be a source of shame, but rather a celebration of the full spectrum of the human experience. Whether known as Dave or recognized as Jennifer, she hopes the essence of who she is remains unchanged: a person of depth, courage, and grace committed to living truthfully in a world that often demands conformity. She hopes her lived experience serves as a quiet revolution—a daily act of defiance against a legacy of repression, and a hopeful step toward a future where every individual is free to be their authentic self.

Want to learn more? You’ll find Mary Ann’s story here

ELDER STEVEN E. SNOW

“He’s a Democrat and an environmentalist. How did he end up an LDS general authority?” teased the headline of a September 30, 2024 Salt Lake Tribune feature story about Elder Steven E. Snow, an emeritus Seventy and former historian for the LDS church. The header left out an additional, unique identifier for a General Authority, but one that Elder Snow also considers important: ally. After dedicating much of his life to a church service wherein he was assigned to study and present some of the thornier topics that have been known to make or break testimonies, Elder Snow says, “There are a lot of personal stories of grief and heartache we could eliminate if we could find a way to be more inclusive.”

The grandfather to two granddaughters and a granddaughter-in-law who identify as LGBTQ+, Elder Snow says he has always been hopeful that “the church would be more receptive to those who experience same gender attraction and provide opportunities for full engagement so they can one day make all the covenants in the temple.” While he’s always been a devout believer who “loves the church,” Elder Snow sees and appreciates the parallels in its history leading up to the June 6, 1978 priesthood ban reversal and the efforts now being made by many members to treat LGBTQ+ people more inclusively. He remembers exactly where he was, who he was with, and what he was wearing when it was announced the policy many deemed racist was reversed, saying it was as landmark a day for him as JFK’s assassination and America putting a man on the moon. Elder Snow recalls, “Even though I hadn’t been exposed to discrimination personally growing up in St. George, Utah, the priesthood ban really troubled me.” 

Much like last August’s new guidelines for transgender individuals in the church, the November 2015 policy preventing the children of same sex couples from getting baptized also deeply troubled Elder Snow, as did President Nelson’s doubling down on it in a speech at BYU Hawaii two weeks later. At the time, Elder Snow was friends with a gentleman who had married in the temple and had kids before later coming out as gay and divorcing his wife. The policy directly affected the man’s family, and at the time Elder Snow promised him it would be corrected, while internally feeling surprised he’d said something so bold that he had no real control over. When the policy was reversed in 2019, Elder Snow rejoiced and was pleased when that friend called him up and said, “You were right!” He’s hoping one day his hopeful words will prove fortuitous again, if and when the church someday allows full temple privileges to all faithful members, including those in the LGBTQ+ community, like his granddaughters.

At a family reunion in Newport Beach, CA a few years back, Elder Snow’s granddaughter Katie approached him and asked if she could share some news with everyone. She detailed a familiar story for many in this forum—that she had struggled through childhood feeling “different,” which led to significant mental health challenges, and that she was ready to share with the family she was gay. Elder Snow appreciates how all at that gathering received the news well, assuring Katie they loved her and that they supported her. Katie graduated in anthropology and now works at a museum in Oregon. Elder Snow says, “She’s such a great soul, everyone loves her – and her sister, Vanessa. I’m partial, I know, but they’re great.” Elder Snow’s oldest granddaughter chose Instagram as the forum to share that she was queer, and later that she was marrying her nonbinary partner, Grey. Elder Snow and his wife attended Vanessa’s and Grey’s wedding in Logan, and admits, “For a former General Authority of 18 years and Mission President, it was a little different and surprising in some aspects, but we were happy to be there and support them. We just love them.” Vanessa received her doctorate from Utah State and now works as an audiologist in the Northwest.

Elder Snow understands why, after so many devout years of trying to make it work, Katie and Vanessa both felt the need to leave the church. He says, “My hope and prayer for the future is we can be more inclusive and find a way to somehow maneuver through this difficult issue and yet keep people together and love them and make them feel they can take part in all the blessings the gospel of Jesus Christ offers everyone.”

Elder Snow and his beloved wife Phyllis (who passed away last year from COVID-related issues) raised their four boys in St. George. Elder Snow very much misses Phyllis, and now tries to focus his time with his many grandchildren, one of whom helps care for him after he suffered a disastrous fall down a flight of stairs a few months ago. “Getting ice cream downstairs at 4am sounded like a good idea, but…” he now chuckles. When he is in optimal health, Elder Snow enjoys golfing with friends and restoring classic cars. A retired attorney and self-proclaimed “news junkie,” Elder Snow has had to turn it all off lately as the nation’s political leadership has proven disappointing to him. 

While serving in the church office buildings, Elder Snow was certainly a political minority among his mostly Republican colleagues, some of whom would tease they could convert him. But he says that as a whole, they collectively tried to keep the focus on being an international church, and made efforts to invite both Harry and Landra Reid as well as Mitt and Ann Romney in for conversations about the national and global landscape. 

As the LDS church’s historian from 2012 to 2019, Elder Snow’s keynote projects included continuing to oversee the publication of the Joseph Smith Papers as well as supervising the launch of the Saints four book series which chronicles some of the tougher topics in church history. He was also tasked with overseeing the release of the gospel topic essays. Having full access to all of the church vaults, it remained important to the researchers and scholars assigned to this project to bring more transparency to the church history department. The discovery process included many meetings with the First Presidency and Quorum of the Twelve to determine which 13 topics would be addressed more openly by the CES so that seminary and institute teachers might provide more forthright answers to questions that many members had ultimately left the church over in the past. Elder Snow says they found the project ultimately helped many millennials establish more trust in a living church, although there proved quite a population of older members who were unaware and who have found particular aspects of church history jarring. Elder Snow remains optimistic that “This will one day be a church for everyone,” but also that, “It’s going to take some bold leadership, and it might take awhile.” 

As for his own relationship with the LDS faith, Elder Snow says, “I love going to church and being in a ward and worshipping with my friends and neighbors. I’m grateful for the good the church does as an organization around the world. I love being a part of it. There are so many good things; those types of blessings should be available to everyone.” He continues, “I also understand the concerns and difficulties, and that it’s not a perfect church. None of us are perfect. We are led by people with challenges and difficulties just like everyone else in the world. But it’s the best place to be I know of. That’s why I feel badly that not everyone can enjoy the same blessings.”

Ever mindful of establishing safe spaces for LGBTQ+ loved ones in the church, Elder Snow surmises, “We’ve done this before with race; we can do it again. Will it be soon? Probably not in my lifetime – it might take a while. But my hope is we can find a way for it to happen.”

KATELYN OLIVER

Growing up in Washington State, Katelyn Oliver enjoyed a childhood filled with adventure and exploration. Her hometown of Snohomish is bigger now than it used to be, and Katelyn loved living so close to the beach mountains, desert, and Canada. Youth trips often involved hiking and camping, and weekend family time included jaunts to the San Juan Islands off the Washington peninsula. While there was always a lot to see and do near home, Katelyn’s parents’ Christmas gifts to their four kids were often travel experiences. These trips included visits to Europe, Washington D.C., Arkansas, Utah and Hawaii, and fostered an openness to different cultures and perspectives. “I never felt like I was living in a bubble. For us, it was important to meet different people and have that exposure.” Katelyn says she was “a double minority in Washington – gay and a member of the church.” But growing up in a diverse community with friends of all denominations and persuasions, Katelyn never felt the need to tell others they needed to join her church. “We all thought of each other as good people, and had a lot of fun together.”

Now a 23-year-old student at Utah Valley University studying social work and minoring in Brazilian Portuguese, Katelyn says she realized she had crushes on girls from a young age but lacked the vocabulary to express it. A moment of clarity came when she visited her uncle in California and met his partner. Around the age of 10 at the time, she recalls, "I saw them give a kiss goodbye and was like, ‘Oh my gosh, that’s crazy’!" Her father later pulled her into the subway and explained, "So, your uncle is gay…" At that moment, Katelyn had the thought, "Oh, that’s me!" This was a conversation she now understands her parents had been prepared for, suspecting that she might eventually reveal something to them about her own gender or orientation.

As she navigated middle school, Katelyn struggled with the gender binaries that seemed to divide the boys from girls when it came to hanging out, and she always preferred to cut her hair short as a kid. She often expressed disdain at home for losing friends over these things. Navigating her identity within the church she loved could also be complicated, although church was still her favorite place, with most of her closest friends being members of her ward and stake. Katelyn frequently felt a sense of anxiety when approaching her bishop interviews, particularly when asked about supporting any groups or ideologies contrary to church doctrine, because of her strong desire to be honest, which has remained an important value of hers. When she was 15, she brought up a hypothetical, “What if someone was having these kinds of feelings…” to her bishop, a close family friend. He reassured her that, "If you don’t act on it, you’re okay – it’s not a sin. Just having an attraction is okay." This validation lifted a weight off Katelyn’s shoulders, but she continued to keep her feelings private for some time.

The challenges of being openly queer in a church setting quickly became evident at a youth girls’camp when a friend confided with others that she was questioning her sexuality. Another camper overheard and reported it to a leader, leading to the girl being sent home early. Katelyn was deeply upset, and expressed to her mom when she went home from camp that this was why people left the church—that leaders had been so unkind, they basically sent the girl away. "I was so mad because of course, I’m gay and had known." Katelyn’s mom responded, "If it was you, Katelyn, how would you want us to react?" Katelyn replied that she wouldn’t want her parents to change a thing because she was still the same person she’d always been. Later that night, Katelyn texted her mother, asking her to come into her room. "I told her first. I just said, 'I like girls’.” Katelyn’s dad then came in and they both reacted well, having had experience with her uncle. While supportive, the Olivers initially assumed Katelyn was bisexual. It wasn’t until later that she clarified, "No, I’m not bi. It’s 100%." This revelation to her parents and siblings led to months of conversations within her family, with periods of talking about it and then not so much until Katelyn turned 18 and started to tell her close friends. It became refreshing when she finally reached out to a few queer teens from her stake with whom she could really open up. “I started hanging out with queer people for the first time, and got my first playlist of queer music. They were like, ‘You haven’t listened to Girl in Red or Fletcher?’ It was so fun to be around people like me in this one area and be able to talk without a filter.” Katelyn also was able to get together with Ben Schilaty who was from her same stake, and she appreciated the seasoned advice from someone who had been on a mission and experienced similar things.

Deciding to serve a mission herself was one thing Katelyn had always wanted to do, though the reality of it was fraught with anxiety as she wasn’t exactly sure how she would navigate her feelings and be herself. A missionary during COVID, Katelyn was called to the Brazil Brasilia mission but began her service in the Fort Collins, CO mission (serving in Nebraska for six months) due to visa delays. Adjusting to missionary life while grappling with her identity was challenging. "I felt so disconnected and alone," she admits. With encouragement, she confided in her sister training leader (who told her she had never met a gay person before) and later her companion, who responded with tears and unconditional support. "I’m here to take care of you, on your side, here to protect you," her companion replied. Katelyn learned that companion’s best friend back home was also gay, and she had sensed Katelyn had something to share. That reassurance changed everything, and gave Katelyn an easier workaround when there were parts of lessons she didn’t feel comfortable teaching. "It made being able to teach people so much easier – to have someone on my side willing to adjust things with me." After opening up to her companion and making adjustments with how they shared their messages, Katelyn felt she could really feel the spirit when she talked about the Savior.

When she finally arrived in Brazil, Katelyn’s transition proved difficult. Isolated as one of only five American missionaries at the time, she struggled with the language barrier. "For four months, I couldn’t understand them, and they couldn’t understand me." Once she became fluent, things improved, but her relationship with her third mission president became strained. Unlike her two previous mission leaders who she describes as “wonderfully loving” and who had felt prompted about Katelyn’s need to be paired up with someone who would be friendly to a queer person, the new leader had a rigid, numbers-driven approach and a general resistance to anyone nonconforming. In their final interview, he questioned her about cutting her hair and then told her, "I know you’re gay, but if you don’t go home and marry a man in the next six months, you will lose your inheritance in the kingdom of God and destroy your family." He then handed her a certificate and sent her home. Returning from her mission left Katelyn with conflicting emotions. "The mission played a part in where I’m currently at – it showed me what I truly believe. I believe in Jesus Christ. We can never be Him, but He can make us the best version of us we can be. That doesn’t mean I have to deny myself or every part of me that makes me me.” Katelyn also says, “I believe that families are together forever, not that they 'can be’." However, she describes her relationship with the church as iffy. "For me, the LDS church isn’t the biggest focus when it comes to my relationship with God. I’m open to seeing where the future takes me."

Now at UVU, Katelyn is building a life in a way that aligns with her authentic self. She works at the university’s outdoor adventure center, leading camping and skiing trips, and enjoys spending time with her girlfriend. Twice a month, they attend gatherings with other queer Latter-day Saints. "They’re not 100% church-centered, but a good 'how are you doing' check-in. We are there to support each other," she says. Katelyn continues to reflect on her experiences and what they mean for her personal and spiritual development. "There’s a lot of fear in the community about stepping away or questioning," she says. "But I’ve learned that it’s okay to change your path. It’s okay to take breaks and explore what truly brings you peace." Her advice for others navigating similar experiences is simple: "Don’t be so hard on yourself. Regardless of what happens, you’re always capable of changing your course. If you feel you want to try something new, or step away, it doesn’t mean you’ll never come back. You can always change your life. There doesn’t have to be this weight of 'Oh no, if I do this, the consequences if I’m wrong are too grave.' Just be willing to go after the things you want and be kinder to yourself."

VIENNA BOYES

23-year-old artist, musician, and filmmaker Vienna Boyes grew up in a Southern California home most would call a breeding ground for creativity. Every corner of her childhood was infused with art, music, and the permission to dream. “That was how we were taught to cope, express ourselves, aspire,” she says of her family’s ethos. Creativity wasn’t just encouraged—it was the language her family used to make sense of the world. 

Each now an artist of their own variety, Vienna and her four older brothers were also brought up in a “super religious” household. Her dad (who works in fashion) has been in a bishopric much of Vienna’s life; and since the family’s move almost a decade ago to Provo, UT, now serves as bishop of a BYU student ward. Vienna’s mother (a painter) was her Young Women’s president both in San Clemente, CA and then again in Provo as soon as they moved during Vienna’s high school years. Vienna says she’s “always felt very sensitive to energy, divinity, and the presence of love in the world. Growing up in a religious family, that aligned well with me and was easy to take in.” 

At the same time, Vienna realized she was gay at 12 years old. Looking back, she remembers experiences as young as first grade where she was drawn to girls and developed early crushes. From a young age, Vienna also observed an older brother experiencing extreme anxiety, mental health problems, and seizures so intense he had to start online school. This brother soon after came out as gay. When young Vienna heard his story, she quietly realized that was her story, too.

“Watching my family navigate that was fascinating, because there hadn’t been anyone else in our family to come out as gay,” says Vienna. Witnessing the difficulties her brother encountered with his mental health and eventually leaving the church also terrified Vienna as to what might happen if she eventually came out, as the only daughter in the family and caboose to a tribe of brothers who “adored me and put me on a pedestal like this life was made for me.” Vienna told her mom about her attractions at age 13, but then dropped it, unsure of what life would look like if she didn’t fulfill expectations or have a husband.

Throughout middle and high school, Vienna knew being gay “was part of my life but I also ran from it so much. I dated a boy for a year, because I was so in love with my best (girl) friend.”  

Vienna decided to go on a mission after high school. Prior, she had watched her mother become a huge ally for her brother, and loved how she spoke of the queer community. At the same time, internally, Vienna was experiencing anxiety, stress, and panic attacks almost weekly, realizing there was a significant something going on she couldn’t run from anymore. She started going to therapy, hoping to avoid going down a path of extreme mental health duress. Quietly, she navigated the juxtaposition of her identity with her religious upbringing in emotional prayers in which she realized she never felt her orientation was a sin or evil part of her; but she carried so much confusion as to whether the shame she felt was doctrine or society-induced. “I felt so broken at the time.” 

Once Vienna realized it was physically damaging her body to not be authentic, she decided to come out to her older brother, and then to a few of her closest friends. She says, “Once I started coming out to people, I felt this thing I’m experiencing and person I am is light and goodness, and my intentions are pure. The way it feels in my soul is beautiful and true to myself.”

Then, Vienna went on a mission. Houston, Texas showed her a whole new world, and an unexpected part of the journey was how many openly gay people she’d encounter. While door knocking one day, one woman said she’d “never convert,” but invited Vienna and her companion over for dinner out of kindness, saying all people deserved to be treated like humans. At that dinner, Vienna got to know someone who’d become very important in her life. K* was queer, married to an ex-Mormon, seemed to already know everything about the church, and taught Vienna lessons she deeply valued, one being, “It’s more important to be honest than kind. Being honest is being kind.” During one interaction, K spoke about being gay, and seeing Vienna’s reaction, pointedly told her how there’s a beauty and joy in humanity in being yourself, and that you can find true joy even outside a religion. This was a new concept for Vienna, but one that allowed a mind shift that would later prove important.

Vienna also experienced some difficult moments in relation to the LGBTQ+ experience on her mission. One of the friends she’d made in the ward (who was gay) tragically died by suicide. In mourning, Vienna told her mission president about it. His offhand reply, “Oh, that’s too bad” felt eye-opening to Vienna, especially as she knew that her mission president had heard she herself was queer. She no longer felt safe turning to him for guidance on personal matters. While Vienna learned much and especially met many people she loved on her mission, she says stepping off the plane felt like “stepping into a new life.” She felt, “I gave the God I grew up knowing everything I possibly could, and it felt like my way of showing I really did try my best to do this. But I knew now was the time to set myself free from all the expectations I realized were not for me.”

In the first six months after her mission, Vienna’s mental health became worse than it ever had before. She says, “I started going to therapy, worried about suicide and so many things… I’d never felt so hopeless or so much loathing for who I potentially was. I felt if I couldn’t live the life I was expected to live, I didn’t want to live.” But luckily, at the same time, Vienna was surrounded by the support of a group of powerful friends. “We are deeply interdependent. Being able to rely on them and witness how their responses when I came out to them were so beautiful and affirming and hopeful and loving took me out of so many difficult situations. Just being able to rely on them in that way--I am grateful.”

Returning to therapy with “some amazing therapists” helped Vienna navigate future decisions, and eventually she started feeling the right one for her mental health was to stop attending church and do a fresh restart of her life. The hopeless abyss of her past was replaced by a hopeful image of what her future could look like, as she began to see representation online and in real life of “happy beautiful lives and homes with two women.” She says, “Finding it was like breathing—I became addicted to it. THIS is what I want. I felt like the lights had been off in portions of my soul, and I got to turn on all the lights and look at myself. And I thought, ‘This resonates. This is what people are talking about when they talk about love.’ All I’d suppressed I now get to have if I claim the autonomy I deserve.”

After her mission, Vienna did date boys and girls to experiment, but she landed on girls. She says, “I dated a really rad girl for a long time who I’d met through mutual friends, and everything slowly healed for me.” In the past two years, she’s solely dated girls and has had several relationships in which each has taught her a vital something about herself or love in general. She is now dating someone special. 

While navigating her own journey, Vienna has also been co-directing and editing a feature documentary film called “Sanctuary,” about creating safe spaces for the LGBTQ+ community in society and religion. Interviewing various subjects who have likewise felt alienated by institutional intolerance proved a cathartic (and at times soul-crushing) experience for Vienna who has in real time been processing everything in her own life. “While doing that project, my other work, and dating girls, it’s felt like I’ve been running. Because everything was so exposed for the first time, tasting that feeling of freedom and authenticity unapologetically right next to excruciating grief – it felt like I was grieving, processing, healing.” But seeing the humanity in those she interviewed was “proof to me that love is boundless and belongs to every human – regardless of their background or anything. Every living thing belongs to it.”

In the process of meeting so many LGBTQ+ friends through PRIDE events, Vienna has developed a new perspective on living out loud. “To me, the queer community is so unbelievable, because to be proud of something society showers shame on and tells you not to be takes so much mindfulness and intention… On the other end of that, I experienced authenticity and joy, and the amount of love I feel in my body now.” 

Coming to this fulness has not been easy in all realms, as while her family loves her and remains a close unit, Vienna has had to navigate tough talks at times. “The most vulnerable of the conversations I’ve experienced are within family – because the worth and value I get is so much more tender and intimate; so if they were to say something horrible it’d be way worse.” One family member in particular said some things that devastated Vienna after she first came out to them. Thankfully, her mother entered the room shortly after and held her while she cried. But since, Vienna has had poignant sit-down conversations with the family member that have been tough, tricky and ultimately healing as Vienna has been able to finally feel she is seen for who she is and not as a broken soul. “I’ve sat and cried, begging for understanding more times than I can count. It’s part of the journey, but so worth it.” Vienna is touched that now, this individual will text Vienna’s girlfriend just to see if she needs anything, and have sit down relationship conversations with and treat them the same as anyone else. Vienna says, “All the pain, shame, hard conversations that happened with family, leaving the religion I  grew up with... All of it was made worth it because of the feeling I get to experience and how I get to live now.”

Vienna’s friend group has remained “so unbelievable.” She says, “Even though most of them are in the church, they are so understanding and seek to be present with my experience even though it’s different than theirs. Maintaining relationships when you believe different things is extremely valuable and does nothing but strengthen friendships, despite the odds.” 

Art remains the centerpiece of Vienna’s life. Beyond her film work, she is in a band with nine of her best girl friends and they “play music constantly.” She says, “Music is my coping mechanism; it’s how I express emotion and navigate life. It’s the greatest blessing and tool in my life.” Their band, Girl Band the Band (aka Hardly Know Her) played in the Marriott Center and won BYU’s Battle of the Bands last year, and has booked other gigs throughout Utah. Vienna sings lead and plays guitar and bass, though she can play just about any instrument. The uniquely talented videographer and filmmaker also loves drawing, sculpting, and photography.  

Always finding the beauty and the beat in the pain, Vienna says these lyrics (from “Life is Hard” by Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros) best describe the soundtrack of her life right now…

Life is something to behold

But if the truth is to be told

Let us not leave out any part

Do not fear, it’s safe to say it hear…

Come celebrate, life is hard

All life is all we are

ADELLE GILES

Adelle Giles, 54, has a joyful laugh that emanates resilience. After a turbulent childhood and decades of navigating the complexities of relationships and identity within the LDS faith, only recently, she has found the peace and purpose she always felt she was lacking. She largely credits this to the guidance she felt along her journey pushing her toward her partner, Carmen. “Carmen is my true person in life… I want people to know this may not make sense to everyone, but it makes perfect sense to Heavenly Father and to us.” Adelle now identifies as bisexual and runs a Gathering group where she lives in Pocatello, Idaho. She attends church alongside Carmen in a welcoming ward. It’s a path she never allowed herself to pursue back in the 80s when she first had inklings about her attractions toward women. But she’s grateful for the bends and turns that have brought her here. 

Growing up in Everett, Washington, Adelle describes her upbringing as challenging. Her mother, who she refers to by her name Mary, ruled the household with a controlling, unyielding hand. “We had no room to grow or explore,” Adelle recalls. “Any thoughts that weren’t hers were unacceptable.” Her father, a firefighter who worked long hours, relied on Mary’s perspective to guide the family, leaving Adelle without the parental support she desperately craved.

The oldest of six children, Adelle bore the weight of responsibility in an often abusive home. She managed the household chores and shouldered the blame for anything left undone. While her siblings turned to her for guidance, Adelle’s own needs went largely unmet. She remembers turning to food for comfort, saying she “ate her feelings and developed a weight problem. I never felt good enough, wanted, or loved.” Despite this, Adelle found solace in her Young Women’s leaders at church, especially one who became a mother figure to her and recognized her talents and potential. “This leader was the first person to ever tell me I was pretty -- I was 16 years old.” The leader told the bishopric about the abuse going on under Mary’s rule, but Adelle says she was told, “Because it wasn’t sexual abuse, there was nothing they could do about it.” 

As a teenager, Adelle excelled in leadership roles within her Young Women’s classes and cherished the four years she spent at girls’ camp. She was one of the area’s best babysitters and competed with another local sitter to see who could get the most repeat customers. Adelle loved singing, acting, and drawing, and she enjoyed her first paycheck job working at Baskin Robbins. However, these moments of independence and creativity stood in stark contrast to the challenges she continued to face at home. 

Adelle was more than ready to leave the house and attend college and pursue a degree in education. It was the first time she felt free from her mother’s oppression. But her independence was short-lived. Although Adelle had graduated and was dating a boy she wanted to marry, Mary’s influence persisted, convincing Adelle to serve a mission shortly after her brother got his call, despite Adelle’s own doubts. “She wanted to be able to say two of her kids had served missions,” Adelle explains. “I wasn’t praying about it for myself—I was doing it for her.” Adelle caved to her mother’s demands to break up with her boyfriend and pack her bags for missionary service.

Her mission experience was challenging to say the least. Physical pain from back problems forced her to return home early, only to face false accusations from her mother that further isolated her. “She told the bishop I’d had sex with my boyfriend,” Adelle recalls. “The next Sunday at church, no one talked to me. It was like I had a big scarlet letter on my forehead.” Adelle’s grandmother confirmed Mary had been spreading lies about her. This betrayal marked a low point in Adelle’s life, leading to estrangement from her family and a period of homelessness. Besides her brother and father (who’ve both passed away), Adelle has maintained no contact with Mary or her four sisters.

While her childhood friends had always predicted she’d be the first one to marry and have lots of kids, things didn’t exactly go that way for Adelle, though it was her wish. In the years that followed her mission, Adelle found solace in teaching. She moved to Idaho and taught middle school science and special education, finding purpose in her work and joy in her students. She recalls often just “feeling happy to be alive,” and loved her church callings teaching gospel doctrine and playing the piano. But her personal life remained tumultuous. After years of praying for a husband, she met a man 26 years her senior, and married him after just two months of dating. One week into the marriage, she walked out of the house, disillusioned by the reality she had married a man who really just wanted a caretaker. “I remember sobbing under a tree and asking Heavenly Father, ‘Why this man’?” Adelle recalls. “And I felt the answer: ‘To teach you’.” The marriage was not the “happily ever after” Adelle had craved. Rather, it was fraught with emotional abuse similar to what she’d endured throughout her childhood, leaving Adelle with no choice but to pack up her bags after seven years and once again go out on her own and seek to rebuild.

It wasn’t until she turned 50 that Adelle began to piece together the puzzle of her identity. She moved to Twin Falls, Idaho, and after what she describes as a vision that made her future clear, she started looking into the idea of dating women—secretly at first, perusing dating sites online and unsure of how to reconcile her feelings with her faith. A turning point came in 2019 when Adelle revealed some of her own struggles with weight (at the time, she weighed 400 pounds), self-worth, and having been diagnosed with cancer in a Facebook chat for the “My 600 Lb Life” show. Producers from the Mel Robbins show saw her post and reached out and soon, she was flown out to New York by CBS to be on the show. “That trip saved my life,” she says. “I saw the sites of Manhattan, shared my story, and came back feeling like I could start again.” After she returned, Adelle finalized her divorce, lost weight, and overcame cancer, emerging with a renewed sense of purpose.

In late 2021, a spiritual prompting led her to pack her bags and move to Palmyra, New York, despite having no job or place to live. “I drove across the country and made it to New York with my last $100,” she says. “When I arrived, I woke up crying, and Heavenly Father told me everything would be alright.” Adelle encountered a woman that day who befriended her and offered her a place to stay. She soon found a job, but after six months, she felt prompted to return to Idaho. Though reluctant, she obeyed, trusting that all would work out.

Back in Idaho, Adelle’s life took another unexpected turn. She met Carmen, a woman from Texas who reached out via Facebook. Carmen asked about the “beautiful light in Adelle’s eyes.” She wanted to know how she could have what Adelle did. Adelle replied it was the gospel. Their friendship deepened, with nightly calls and messages about the church and so much more. When Adelle fell ill, Carmen packed up her life and moved to Idaho to care for her. “I knew we had feelings for each other,” Adelle says. “But I was afraid to admit it. Growing up, I’d been taught that those feelings were wrong.”

It was Adelle’s best friend Sara who gave her permission to embrace her truth. “She met Carmen and said, ‘Adelle, you can love her. She’s part of your wolfpack’.” With Sara’s encouragement, Adelle allowed herself to acknowledge she had fallen in love with Carmen. “She’s my person,” Adelle says. “I know Heavenly Father brought us together.” Adelle has also loved observing Carmen’s spiritual path, saying, “The gospel softened her, she’s the most wonderful person I’ve ever met.”

Today, Adelle and Carmen share a home and life filled with faith and love. Carmen, who was baptized in 2024, has become an integral part of Adelle’s faith practice and church community. Another gay couple (men) attend Adelle’s and Carmen’s ward and Gathering meetings, which has been helpful to building their sense of belonging. 

“We always include Heavenly Father in everything we talk about. She has so much to give; people at church flock around her. I’m very lucky. Not a lot of people in life get to meet their true partner.” Adelle continues, “She’s a provider, a protector, and the best person I’ve ever met. Heavenly Father knew I couldn’t be with a man anymore. Carmen has given me a sense of stability I’ve never had before.”

Adelle’s journey has been anything but conventional, but she sees it as divinely orchestrated. “Not all of us will marry the opposite sex or have children,” she says. “But that doesn’t mean we’re not living according to Heavenly Father’s plan. He loves all of us exactly as we are.” 

Moving forward, Adelle is excited to introduce Carmen to others as her partner. “We’re a team, a pair, a package deal,” she says. “Heavenly Father showed me who’s what waiting for me – whatever happens, I’m bringing Carmen along. We don’t know what will happen, but we know we’ll be together forever.”

THE BALDWIN FAMILY

Natalie Baldwin has spent her life ensuring things run smoothly—whether as the administrative assistant to the Dean of UVU’s College of Health and Public Service where she currently works, or as the heart of her home in Salem, Utah, where she and her husband, Briggs, are raising five children. But her life’s journey has taught her that even the most careful planning cannot account for the unexpected. Diagnosed with Chronic Myeloid Leukemia in June 2022, Natalie’s health required her husband’s career overseas with the State Department to come to an abrupt halt; until she can hit certain markers, they cannot return to expat living. Instead, the Baldwins were forced to leave their last assignment in Turkey to move near her family in Utah where she could focus on her health. The past ten years of both adventure and change have left Natalie grappling with profound questions—about faith, culture, family, and the unique challenges of raising two LGBTQ children within the framework of her Latter-day Saint beliefs.

Natalie and Briggs’s children range in age from 13 to 22. Their eldest, Easton, is 22 and a manager at a popular chain restaurant. Emery, 20, a manager of a popular food truck, came out as bisexual at 15, but now identifies as pansexual. After exclusively dating women for a while, she now plans to one day marry her current boyfriend. Eli, 18, is a junior in high school, and Estelle, 13, is in middle school. Eloise, a 15-year-old sophomore, is in the process of exploring her identity and currently identifes as bisexual with just the “occasional” moment of attraction to boys. The Baldwin’s family dynamic has been shaped by love, questions, and a steadfast commitment to embracing their children for who they are.

For Natalie, the first major shift came when Emery came out at 15. Having always been open with her parents until then, Emery had given them a small “heads-up” about a year before her formal declaration, processing much of her identity internally. When she finally came out, Natalie’s immediate response was rooted in her conviction: “I know God doesn’t make mistakes. If you’re made that way, it’s the way you’re supposed to be. We’ll love you unconditionally regardless of any decisions you make.” Those words became a mantra, grounding Natalie through the ups and downs that followed.

Yet there were challenges. Living in Cairo at the time, Emery’s sexuality became a complicated and, at times, dangerous issue. In the predominantly Muslim country, where homophobia was rampant, Emery was outed by a peer. The news reached a church leader, who responded by incessantly preaching the Family Proclamation. Of that time, Emery says, “The year between realizing my sexuality, and finally coming out, I was battling some serious internalized homophobia. I couldn’t grasp the fact that I was queer, but I was also supposed to be a righteous daughter of God. It didn’t make sense to me that I could be both at once. I had a million questions, and so many bad days, but I was terrified to share any of these thoughts. My thought process was, ‘If I myself am having such a hard time accepting my own sexuality, how could anyone else’?” Feeling unsafe and unwelcome in a church community that for much of her childhood had taught her negative things about the LGBTQ+ community led Emery to eventually make the decision to step away from church entirely. 

Though the family soon relocated back to the U.S., Emery has not returned to church, but Natalie remains proud of the strong, empathetic woman her daughter has become. Emery likewise is grateful for her family’s unconditional support, saying, “Feeling like you don’t belong, and feeling so utterly lost and helpless, is not an easy thing to come back from, especially when a lot of those feelings were created by peers and teachers from what was supposed to be my church, and my community. While I have nothing but love for the church, the hurt that I felt from individuals in the church is one I don’t think I could ever forget. Every single day of my life, I am eternally grateful for my parents who made the choice to learn more, and love more, rather than to judge and to try and teach.”

Of her eldest daughter, Natalie says, “She has a good head on her shoulders. It didn’t take her long to realize who she is doesn’t align with the church, but that doesn’t make her a bad person. The church is just not a good fit for her. Her sexuality, and Eloise’s, have given them an empathy for others we will never fully understand. They have the ability to see people in ways I never could.” The Baldwin’s oldest son has labeled himself “nonpracticing, but with a testimony.” While he occasionally attends church, Natalie points out that often young men feel out of place when, like Easton, they didn’t serve a mission. He “really doesn’t like the outspoken conservative culture in the church, but still has a love and respect for the gospel,” says Natalie who adds that Easton said he never plans on labeling himself an ex-Mormon.

For Natalie, the process of supporting her children has been deeply personal. She says, “I’m not afraid to ask questions, or of the answers that I’ll receive. I trust myself, my intuition, and my ability to hear God. I know God doesn’t make mistakes. The way these children come to us is the way they’re meant to be. Maybe sometimes it doesn’t align perfectly with gospel doctrine, but that doesn’t change the fact that they’re eternal beings with unique gifts and souls.” Briggs has had his own journey to see things through a different lens, thanks to his wife and daughters, and has grown to embrace and love the LGBTQ+ community.

Eloise, Natalie’s 15-year-old, is currently exploring her identity. Unlike Emery, who initially kept much of her early journey private, Eloise has been more open about her feelings from the beginning. She’s also benefitted from her older sister’s experiences and how they’ve prepped the family. Analytical and self-assured, Natalie says Eloise came to this earth like an adult, speaking in full sentences at age one. “Eloise has a strong sense of her worth. She knows she’s a child of loving Heavenly Parents.” That doesn’t mean her path has been without challenges. Recently, she called her mother in tears, asking to be picked up from seminary after a class discussion on good versus evil where another student included the LGBTQ community as an example of “evil.” Eloise has also been privy to conversations in which her peers have said LGBTQ people are mentally ill or just need to go to therapy. While Eloise’s seminary teacher has been a supportive ally, redirecting harmful comments and fostering a more inclusive environment, incidents like these still sting. Yet, Eloise remains resilient, determined to stay true to herself despite the occasional adversity.

Returning to Utah after years overseas presented its own set of challenges. The family had grown accustomed to the somewhat liberal and inclusive culture of the expatriate community. “Living among expats was a different world,” Natalie explains. “The schools were welcoming, the communities open. Moving back to Utah, we’ve had to face deeply rooted anti-LGBTQ sentiments and the realities of living in a predominantly conservative area. It’s made us all want to retract and keep to ourselves, not knowing who we can trust and who will be a safe space.”

For Eloise, navigating this environment in high school has been a learning experience. “She’s queer, she’s female, she’s liberal,” Natalie says. “It’s a triple whammy in this area. But she’s so bright, intelligent, and mature. She’s learning to decide when to speak up and when to let things go. That kind of wisdom is remarkable at her age.”

Natalie herself is no stranger to speaking out. Over the past two years, Natalie has become a visible advocate, not just for her children, but for all those navigating the intersection of faith and identity. Her ward itself reflects the complexities of her environment. Natalie describes her current congregation as very young and predominantly conservative. “We’re the old people here,” she jokes, noting that she and Briggs often feel out of place as what feels like the lone liberals in a sea of Trump signs and conservative culture. Yet, even in this environment, Natalie has found moments of connection. Her social media posts, particularly on Instagram, often address these themes, sparking private messages of support from some other members of her ward and broader community. “People thank me for being outspoken, but they’re afraid to say it publicly,” she shares. “They don’t want to face ostracization, but they’re grateful someone is saying what they feel. If I can make them feel less alone by being the one to speak up, it’s worth the target I’m putting on myself.”

Natalie’s hopes for the church extend beyond her immediate family. “I wish church leaders would genuinely try to get to know a variety of queer people,” she says. “Really know what they think, feel, experience, and then believe them. If they say they feel a certain way or have confirmation from God, don’t question them, just believe them.” 

Through it all, Natalie’s love for her children has remained constant. She believes their unique journeys have made her a better mother and a better person. “I know without a doubt that God has guided us on this path,” she says. “Our family is exactly as it is meant to be. And I will never stop advocating for my children—because their worth is infinite, and their stories deserve to be heard.”