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.”

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."

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.”

OAKLEY ROBERTS

“I have never expected God to actually answer the question I’ve been asking my whole life. I knew He could answer prayers, but this was something I thought was taboo for Him—a topic that was repulsive in the church. But He did.” These are the words that open a letter Oakley Roberts crafted to send to those who ask him about his experience as a gay member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. 

Oakley, who is 21 and currently living in Payson, UT where he works as a caregiver, says he had sensed he was gay since 12 years old, but had spent his teen years living in denial. He grew up in a small town, going to church every week. But as each of his older three siblings drifted away from the church (with only one since returning), Oakley found it normal to ask questions and see things differently.

After his older brother moved out when he was just 10 years old, Oakley says he didn’t grow up around many men. His father was often busy with work and then moved out when his parents divorced when Oakley was 16. The guy friends he would make in school often seemed to move away or move on after a few months, so most of his friends in high school were girls. In his youth, Oakley always felt being gay was a punishment for something bad he’d done, and he hoped he’d be able to pray it away. But as he got older, he says his feelings only got stronger. He continued to try to convince himself he was bi and outwardly pass as straight; along the way, he dated a lot of girls. 

Reluctant to go on a mission for any other reason than to make his parents happy, Oakley figured he’d go to school first after high school graduation. He also wondered if it was time to start dating guys. But sitting in his room one night, he had a strong impression to serve a mission as soon as possible. The next day he told his mom of the prompting, and says it strengthened his resolve thereafter to believe in Christ.

Having grown up feeling uncomfortable around men, being around a bunch of elders felt awkward. Oakley always preferred to be around the sister missionaries, but while serving, he says the strongest relationship he grew was the one with his Savior. He never told anyone on his mission he was gay. In fact, in the Liberian (African) mission where he served, it was not acceptable to be gay, and LGBTQ+ citizens often suffered discrimination and received threats. However, Oakley enjoyed his mission and recalls only hearing a few homophobic comments. He says he never wrestled with God. During those two years, Oakley continued to convince himself he was bisexual and that when he returned, he would date lots of girls and hopefully marry one. But after returning and spending four months dating many “amazing women,” Oakley felt defeated. He gave up and decided to start dating men. 

Oakley says this initially felt like a wrong decision, that he’d be disappointing his family, himself and God. But then he met an amazing guy and kissed him and thought, “Holy crap.”  He continued to date guys, not because he was wanting to start a relationship but because he was more curious about what it was like to be “a gay, LDS person.” But instantly, he knew his feelings for men were so much stronger than any of his attempts to feel attracted toward girls. 

At this time, Oakley moved down to Southern Utah University to attend school, though reluctantly, with the distance he’d placed between himself and the one guy (he’d kissed) who seemed to understand what it felt like to be him. He says, “I struggled with the unknown. What should I do? Who am I? Why am I like this? Was it a mistake I made or a curse of sorts?” Oakley attempted to distract himself with friends, work, or school, but one night started to really worry as overwhelming thoughts took control. He says, “My mind couldn’t settle; I was feeling lost... I tried to call my friends, but they were busy and couldn’t hang out.” As Oakley started to go into a full-blown panic, he jumped into his car and drove up the canyon to distract himself. When it became hard to breathe, he pulled over. Oakley says, “I just sat there, mad at God. I yelled, ‘Why did you do this to me?! Can’t you just take this away’?!”

Suddenly, Oakley says it was as if God stopped his mind, and directed it toward his patriarchal blessing which spelled out the numerous attributes God gave him and how he was able to bless people around him by being empathetic, sensitive, and compassionate. He says, “I always felt a little different, but these feelings helped me to heal others.” Oakley says a question formed in his mind: “Do you want me to take all of these away?” Oakley thought, “My gifts? Never!” He says, “Then God connected everything. He was telling me that if I wanted Him to take away my attraction to men, I would then lose all those spiritual gifts; they were connected. These are what made me, me. I was filled with so much peace, knowing that I wasn’t a mistake; it wasn’t a sin I committed in the past or a curse. God made me in a way that I would be able to reach people around me that I wouldn’t otherwise be able to.”

Shortly after, Oakley came out for the first time to a trusted friend – a devout girl he was initially scared to confide in, unsure how she’d take it. But one day he got into the car and told her and loved how she was so affirming. Reassured that “even a religious friend would support (me),” Oakley called another close friend the next day, and that interaction also started with a buildup of stress but ended with relief. He then became comfortable telling all his friends, many of whom smoked, drank, had left the church and yet had always felt safe being around Oakley, as he tried to never exclude anyone. In return, he says it was easy for them to accept him for who he was. 

Oakley then felt ready to tell his parents. Previously, whenever his mom would text asking about his dating life, he’d typically blow it off by responding, “I’d tell you if I was.” But then he went home to meet his mom and stepdad for lunch and let them know, “I’m not really interested in women.” This was the first time he fully admitted that he was gay and not bi. Oakley then learned his mom already knew. When at first, she told him she knew of gay guys who married girls, this didn’t bother Oakley because he had told her of his intent to stay in the church. Meanwhile, his siblings immediately encouraged him to date and marry a man. A few months later when Oakley clarified he’d only be dating men, his mother’s response was, “I hope you know that whatever you decide, you feel you can bring anyone home and we’ll welcome then.” She continued that she trusted Oakley in his decision-making and only hoped for his happiness. This trust helped Oakley to feel more confident in his own ability to make good decisions. 

Later, Oakley told his stepmom he was gay and suggested she be the one to tell his dad. Since, he assumed his dad knows, although they have never discussed it. When Oakley came out to his ecclesiastical leader, he appreciated how the bishop expressed gratitude he’d trusted him with that information and encouraged him that wherever his path may lead, to just try to keep a close relationship with the Savior because “Christ will help you figure it out.”  Oakley has since had many positive experiences coming out to straight friends before meeting up with a recently returned missionary who introduced him to Gatherings. This led Oakley to a new community of LGBTQ+ friends. 

Oakley doesn’t believe that being gay is the most important thing about him, but that it is something with which God gifted him. He says, “I know that everyone has different experiences, answers, and beliefs. My answer might not be yours, but God is in control, and as we accept ourselves as His masterpieces rather than our mistakes, we can find peace and help others along their lives.” Oakley has continued to work on building his relationship with God while dating men. He says, “This might not make much sense to most people, but unless somewhere along the path I feel that this decision is distancing me from God, then I will continue.”

Oakley’s invitation to others to lean into journeys like his ends with these words he penned in his initial coming out story, “Thank you for reading. I hope this helps you get to know me a little better, and maybe it might help you find answers to your own questions. Ask God, and I know He will direct you to the truth.”

THE BARNARD-CROSLAND FAMILY

This is the story of two “Mormon” girls who were raised in “typical Mormon families.” Rachel was born the youngest of five kids and church was a constant growing up, no matter where they lived. After residing in Texas, Virginia, and Hong Kong, her family moved to Provo when Rachel was in the tenth grade. Upon finishing high school, she attended the University of Utah where she earned a communications degree, excited about the prospect of working in marketing and advertising. She got married during her junior year of college to a man. Feeling pretty clear that the gospel checklist was her road to happiness, Rachel “pursued the path she was supposed to without questioning,” and now says her mind never let her think anything else was an option.

Rachel now reflects on how many of her experiences as a youth and adult would clearly be considered “SSA,” but as her thoughts continued, she continued to push them off as distractions from the path, or temptations happening to her and not authentic feelings within her. Rachel stayed busy with her career, often working a “ton of hours” while pursuing building a family. When her son came along, the reality of her feelings towards women became even more apparent. In her late 20s, as she began to listen to podcasts and others’ stories of navigating a similar road, Rachel says her sense of denial minimized and she could make more sense of her reality. At first, she rationalized she was bi and could continue to make her marriage work, keeping her family intact. She didn’t have plans to share this part of her with anyone but the tension of the secret she’d been keeping for a long time felt very big, too big—and her husband was the first person she pulled in to share what she was realizing. “He was thankfully receptive and helpful, kind, and gentle through the process,” she says.

As time, went on Rachel continued to wade her way out of denial, accepting that she was gay. With this understanding, she evaluated what her path would look like. She realized growth for herself, her husband, and her son was going to be severely limited and that trying to stick it out would progressively lead to an unhealthy family life for all involved. She came to the devastating realization that was not the life she wanted for herself nor those around her. 

Michelle grew up in Provo, UT as the oldest of four kids. From a young age, church felt very important to her. “I took church and the gospel very seriously and had a core testimony that Heavenly Father was real, really knew me, and loved me no matter what.” Michelle went to as many as EFYs as she could, served on the seminary council, dated a lot of boys in high school, and then went to college where she fell in love with a roommate—a girl. While the crush was not reciprocated, Michelle said her feelings felt like an explosion, her past feelings for boys paling in comparison. “I felt I had been colorblind, and then put on those special glasses and could finally see the color that everyone else could see.”

Michelle also felt very confused, working overtime to process, as she’d been taught that these kinds of feelings were wrong. Yet she says her feelings for the girl felt wholesome, right and good. Contemplating her life vision to have a temple marriage and eternal family, Michelle decided to push those feelings aside and likewise pursue the prescribed path. She went on a mission to Nicaragua and came home with a goal to date and get married in the temple. That she did, meeting a man with whom she got along well, who made a lot of sense, and who wanted to marry her. Her feelings for him were nothing like the feelings she had had for her roommate, but she rationalized that there were more important things in marriage. After marrying, they quickly had four kids in five and a half years, keeping Michelle so busy she could distract herself from “the romantic and emotional lack she felt in her marriage, that had been there from the start.”

“I trudged forward with faith, trusting it would be fine. I filled my life with the next best thing—hobbies, service, staying active in the church, being the best mom I could be. It was exhausting, and wasn’t producing the fruit I was looking for or expecting, but I had faith it would come.” Michelle says it got to a point where it was seriously affecting her mental health and she knew she was not on a sustainable path. After much prayer, wrestling to know what to do, she came to know that the Heavenly Father she loved and felt close to was not only ok with who she was, but truly wanted her to be happy and fulfilled.

Rachel and Michelle first met in a Lift & Love online support group for women. Neither was there to try to meet someone romantically, but rather to process their experiences with like-minded individuals. The two discovered they’d both gone to Timpview High School (at different times, with their five-year age gap). They struck up a conversation and became friends. A couple months later, friends from the support group met up to go hiking in Utah, and Rachel happened to be in the area for a family trip, having traveled in from San Diego where she was living at the time. She was still going through the difficult path reckoning what she wanted to do with her future. Rachel says, “I was in love with Michelle as soon as I met her” and Michelle’s feelings were quick to follow.  After both women were divorced, Rachel moved to Daybreak, UT and the two began dating. After eight months, they got married and blended their families. Their combined five kids now range in age from 5 to 11. Both of the children’s fathers live nearby as well, and “the moms,” as their kids dub them, share 50/50 custody and maintain a good working relationship with their co-parents/former partners.

Rachel admits there’s a lot of grief that’s come with the decisions they’ve had to navigate and live with—including letting go of the families they’d always envisioned and worked for and only having their kids half the time now, but Rachel says, “Despite all, the good overshadows the hard and we know we still made the right choice.” Michelle concurs, “We can’t really wish things were different, but if we had had the chance to date as teens and been given the opportunity to have developmentally normal experiences, there would not have been so much collateral damage. All the people who have had to go through such hard things—it sometimes feels heavy and makes us angry. But our journeys are what they are, and we are who we are for what we’ve been through. I just wish others understood better that pressuring people to choose a marriage that doesn’t fit their orientation or telling them to be single and celibate their whole life can be so damaging, and not just for the individual.”

The Barnard-Crosland household loves their puppy Jojo and loves to ski, having recently outfitted the entire household in gear for the season. They also love watching the Great British Baking Show, and enjoy music, with Michelle playing the piano, guitar, and singing, and Rachel discovering new artists whose music she introduces Michelle to. While Rachel works at Adobe, Michelle works as a health clerk at an elementary school in Provo, aligning her schedule with the kids’ school schedules. The kids each call their new mom by her first name, and Rachel and Michelle have observed how the five kids were all quick to embrace the change and love each other through it, which they surmise is likely a byproduct of blending families while they were still young.

The family takes their kids to church each Sunday, and enjoys doing “regular LDS family stuff” like reading scriptures and praying together. There are restrictions to their membership due to the nature of their relationship as they walk this tightrope. They are unable to have official callings, but they feel their ward is doing an incredible job of making them feel included. Michelle is often asked to play prelude music, and they were asked to help plan the ward Christmas party by the committee chair. Rachel says, “We feel called to be there and show up as ourselves and participate where we can. We feel we’re doing what the Lord would have us do to build the kingdom and serve God’s children wherever we can, and especially to strengthen others in the LGBTQ+ space.” Michelle adds, “By showing up, we challenge biases and perceptions that become hard to hold onto when people have to deal with the fact we’re here, our type of family exists, and we want to belong and be a part of the body of Christ. We don’t feel conflict in our family dynamic and way of living and being disciples—we are just waiting for the church to catch up.”

When Michelle was going through the heartbreaking process of deciding to get divorced, she says her bishop remained neutral. “While he wasn’t supportive, he was not condemning. Rather, he listened, which was really amazing. He encouraged me to stay close to Heavenly Father and follow His guidance.” Michelle recalls growing up and learning to discern the feelings of right and wrong and how the Spirit prompts her. She knows that “icky, dark feeling” of sin and says, “This doesn’t feel like that. It feels like light, joy, peace, and goodness.” She feels people get stuff wrong about homosexuality. “I wish people could see that we’re just like them. How fulfilling, beautiful, and normal this marriage is. How Christlike our love for each other is. Being married to Rachel, so many things make sense and work now that didn’t before. Now I have my color glasses on and can see all the beauty of a loving, fulfilling marriage, when before it was colorblindness.”

LIV MENDOZA HAYNES

Liv Mendoza Haynes claims she fits the birth order stereotype. As the last of three kids, she was the much younger spoiled baby of the family who could convince her parents to cook an alternate meal if the initial wasn’t to her liking. But being raised in a Catholic home with high expectations, she adapted accordingly as she grew. Her mother was in and out of hospitals with illness, leaving Liv’s much older sister to care for her and her brother when they were not at Catholic school. Once Liv began to notice the family had financial struggles, she minimized her special requests.

Though Liv and her brother were born in America, they were raised in Tijuana, Mexico, where her father worked long shifts as a police officer, and her mother often left the kids to be babysat with a good friend who was a known drag queen. Liv remembers it being no big deal that the babysitter would have peers from his drag community stop by for wardrobe fittings while Liv was there. She was told it was no big deal for men to be gay, but her parents spoke negatively about women who were lesbian. Her father would also express distaste for women who joined the police force or who became “manly, lost their attractiveness, and didn’t know their place.” Liv was taught that one of the worst things she could do would be to be with a woman or to not be feminine.

 This presented a problem as, while Liv was extremely close to her mom and sister, she did not share their love for makeup, high heels, and feminine things. Liv preferred her daily jeans, t-shirt, and Converse. She developed her first technical crush on a boy in the first grade, but strategically chose a boy who was mean to her, knowing it would never work out although it would help disguise the way she felt about girls from an early age. As her mother’s health declined, Liv sensed she needed to not add to the family burden by disappointing them with her attractions. She shared her mother’s and sister’s strong personality and kept her friend group small, having the same small cluster of three or four friends throughout her school years.

In high school, Liv dated an LDS young man, but was his last girlfriend, and he is now married to a man. He would often joke with her about LDS myths. Around this same time, Liv’s ex’s brother decided to go on a mission[LM8] , and told Liv to keep an eye on his parents. While he was gone, he referred the missionaries to her door while she was baking a cake. One elder mentioned it was his companion’s birthday that Thursday and Liv said, “What do you want me to do about it? You can come back for food or water, but that’s it.” The elders left, and Liv followed a prompting to run after them and offer them cake at 2pm on Thursday—assuming they wouldn’t be able to come then. But they did, and Liv began taking lessons. One day, she invited a handful of missionaries over and made popcorn so they could all watch a Joseph Smith video, per her request. After they asked if she had any questions, and she asked why they hadn’t yet challenged her to be baptized? She sidestepped telling her parents until the following May, but was baptized that December. And yes, there was cake.

Throughout her teens and young adulthood, Liv noticed her feelings for women even more, and did have a relationship with a woman. When her mother felt it was time for her to have “the talk,” she handed Liv a VHS tape and told her if she had any questions, to ask her sister. But as the tape shared no tips about orientation, rather it was a childbirth video, Liv only walked away from that experience traumatized, thinking “I’m never going to have intimacy if it leads to that.” But it cemented the expectation in her mind that the expectation was for her to have a family. While in high school, Liv’s mom teased she had a “type” of guy she’d go on dates with (those into the arts and cooking who had more androgynous, scrawny body types). Around age 17, Liv started struggling with health conditions of her own, and found out she had a higher chance of getting cancer than becoming a mom. Doctors recommended she get a hysterectomy, with her unusual gynecological issues. Liv’s self-esteem plummeted, feeling a lack of worth as if she was “defective” if unable to have children. While always expected to achieve, the messaging she received was, “It doesn’t matter if you excel. At the end of the day, your expectation is to have a family. If you’re infertile, no guy will fall in love with you.”

These insecurities possibly propelled Liv into developing an unhealthy relationship with a man in Mexico City who “looked perfect on paper,” but over time revealed himself to be controlling (even ordering for her at restaurants) and ultimately, physically abusive. When he slapped her across the face at a party in front of their friends, Liv was stunned, and even more so that none of her friends they were with did or said anything about it. A casual friend nearby noticed it, and took Liv away from the scene to recover. Liv ended up going back to the boyfriend some time later, partly because of outside pressures she was receiving, including a man at church telling her no man would want her because she was broken goods. A few months later, the relationship turned even more physical, and after an especially violent attack, a friend thankfully found Liv in her apartment and took her to a hospital where she stayed for a couple days to recover. When she was released, her first thought was to go to the temple. While she felt less than worthy to go inside, she knew just being on the grounds might bring her peace. She felt like she couldn’t tell her parents about the abuse, thinking her father would cause harm to the guy and she didn’t want to bring them shame. Liv says, “Before that, I would have said, ‘I don’t know how strong, educated women let men do this.’ But then, I became the person I’d judged.”

On the temple grounds, Liv had a breakdown that led to a security guard helping her call a local bishop who led her to talk to a counselor from back home in Tijuana. She blurted out she needed to go on a mission, which she did at age 22—partly to get away from the abusive boyfriend and partly because she felt she had to serve (having been raised under the motto, “If you’re not living to serve, you don’t deserve to live.”) Ironically, Liv was called to serve her mission in Mexico City, near the temple where she had her breakdown as well as close to her ex, but she managed to avoid running into him. While her mission was healing, it also opened her eyes to just how much emotional and psychological support missionaries need.

Liv began to feel like two people—the Tijuana Liv, who was strong and powerful, and the Mexico City Liv—who wanted to date girls and was in some ways, more submissive. After completing her mission, Liv’s commitment level to the church was high, and she struggled for a couple years with whether sharing her feelings about girls would be best for her spiritual and emotional journey.

One night, Liv decided to confide in a friend with a trans brother, which turned out to be a good instinct. The friend knocked on Liv’s door with a Little Caesar pizza. When Liv opened it, she blurted out, “I’m attracted to women. I really like women a lot!” Without missing a beat, Liv’s friend replied, “Well, I like eating my pizza hot—can I come in?” Liv now says, “I don’t think people understand how comforting her response was. It was like, ‘Oh, I learned something about you—let’s talk.’ The best kind of reaction.” The two talked all night and Liv’s friend shared many resources. Liv says she wishes she could say “it was all bliss” after, but Liv spent the next nine years rediscovering herself and toggling with her identity. She finally settled on “queer,” as she was introduced to thousands on a well-known stage she shared with Sister Sharon Eubanks who asked her questions about her reality at BYU’s Women’s Conference several years ago. It was a moment that surprised many, and made Liv feel a sense of validation and acceptance after feeling like she’d grown up at constant intersections: “You’re not American enough, not Mexican enough, not a citizen, not feminine, you don’t like makeup.” 

Recognizing it’s not the preferred term of generations past, the term “queer” still works best for Liv as she says, “It helps me feel happy, and also respectful of the person I’m sharing this journey of life with.” That person happens to be her husband, Matthew, who she met six years ago while playing Two Truths and a Lie on an app. Matthew had just moved to Utah from Montana and was looking to make friends. He handled her Harry Potter banter with humor, and their first date was eating brownies together that Matthew had made. They haven’t spent a day without talking since, and Liv says Matthew is in every sense her best friend. Her prior attempt at online dating had ended quickly after she told a guy with whom she had good chemistry about her attractions and he in turn shared his wife had just left him for her ministering sister. Liv quipped, “Well, at least you have a type.” They went on a couple more dates until his demeanor started to remind her of her ex. A therapist then told Liv just to focus on making friends, which is when Matthew appeared.

When people criticize Liv for being in a relationship with a man just to comply to the church standards, Liv says, “Honestly, that hurts because that person doesn’t know my whole story. My relationship with my husband, as public as it may be, is still our relationship. It’s hard when people have preconceptions. The reality is I fell in love with Matthew. The only way our dating happened is I stopped looking at marriage as something on a checklist and more of an opportunity to be with someone who knows and loves me. We respect each other, and he met me knowing I was open to dating men, women, and anything in between. It’s my reality, my experience, and what works for us. Every day, I choose him, and he chooses me.”

Liv laughs that no, Matthew does not get nervous when she goes away for a weekend with her lesbian friends. “I feel that if my husband didn’t trust me to be alone with someone of the same gender, we have a bigger problem. It’s about integrity, faithfulness, and values.” Matthew was not as familiar with the LGBTQ+ community before Liv, but she laughs he now has several lesbian friends of his own. Liv does not recommend a mixed orientation marriage for everyone, and says it took her years to figure out what works for her. “We’ve both grown a lot from being together… It’s a mixed relationship in many degrees – culture, orientation, language. I’m social sciences, he's exact sciences. We have enough in common to have a path together – but enough diversity to learn from each other every day – which is key to our marriage. Plus, I get to learn random dinosaur names.”

After undergoing three IVF treatments, the two share their son Lucian as well as an angel baby in heaven, and are expecting a new baby they will call Elijah, due November 25th. Throughout their prenatal care, they’ve become aware this baby will be born with challenges, and being open about that has helped Liv cope and “be human.” She says, “As Christ had outbursts, I’m allowed to have moments where I say, ‘This sucks’.”

If life’s taught Liv anything, it’s that she can take moments to have her cake and eat it, too. Shortly after exiting the relationship wherein she experienced domestic violence, it was Liv’s birthday, and a friend asked what she wanted. Liv requested a certain cake from a certain bakery because it was her favorite. The friend brought the cake Liv requested to a restaurant to celebrate with friends. After the wait staff brought out the cake and everyone sang to Liv, she instructed the server to wrap up the cake. Baffled, the group questioned her decision not to share it. Liv replied, “It might sound selfish, but this gift is my cake and I’m taking it home.” She continues, “It might sound silly but it’s symbolic—we are conditioned that if you’re not constantly happy and thankful for the trials you’re going through, you’re not a good person. But the reality is you need to know your boundaries. I had to work for years to learn to find power in my voice and use it. These boundaries are the only way I’ve been able to stay alive. You can’t show gratitude if you’re not here. Where’s the progress if you’re not truly loving yourself? I’m not willing to risk not being my full self.”

JAVIER AGUILAR

Tomorrow, Javier Aguilar turns 24. He’ll celebrate in Allen, Texas where he is currently working for a light installation company while taking a break from his studies at BYU Provo. He’s a long way from Mexico City, where he was born and raised, but not too far from his parents who moved the family to Texas while he was on a mission. While within their physical proximity, emotionally, family life is a struggle for Javier, whose parents would rather deny the fact that he identifies as bisexual, with his leanings more toward men.

The oldest of five kids, Javier grew up in a well-known, “pioneer” family in the LDS faith in Mexico. His grandfather was a patriarch, sealer, and principal of the LDS church-owned school in their region. As a child, Javier often felt the spotlight on him, with other parents in their congregation saying things to their kids like, “Why can’t you be like Javier? He’s so nice, so obedient.” Overhearing this, Javier would think, “If you only knew.” 

His orientation was not at the forefront of his mind quite yet, but Javier certainly knew he wasn’t perfect. He says he was on autopilot mode with church—attending every Sunday with his family, and promising he was reading his scriptures, whether he managed to or not. He tried to always do what would best please his parents and his ancestry who prioritized strict obedience, discipline, and manners—there were no elbows allowed on the table at the Aguilar house. As the oldest kid, Javier knew he was to be the example.

Music was a large part of Javier’s upbringing, and he played the piano and other instruments. He was also involved in theater and the drama club. While his parents always encourage him to play sports, he says he “sucked at basketball but liked it.” He also liked school and tried hard, but claims he wasn’t always a great student.

Javier didn’t realize he was attracted to guys until high school. Before, it was more of a curiosity in which he’d find himself paying attention to those he found attractive. But he didn’t dare talk to his parents about it, as they had once told him if he ever saw someone who was gay, to move in the opposite direction and “keep yourself as far away as possible from this.” Helping him with a Primary talk once, his father even likened homosexuality to one of Moses’ plagues. It wasn’t until he was older that he got to know people in the LGBTQ+ community. But even when he met his first bi person, he didn’t get too close.

The time came for Javier to serve a mission. In his house, his father only half-jokingly would say, “You have two options. You either go on a mission, or I send you on a mission.” So of course, Javier went. It took him a little bit to acclimate, but he did love his mission. Today, he says if he had gotten an answer whether to serve for himself, it might have gone better faster. He spent the first half in Brazil and the second half in Mexico, due to the pandemic. Like many, Javier believed if he did his best on his mission, his attraction to guys would go away. But when he returned, that wasn’t the case – in fact, he found his feelings had only increased. 

A couple months after his return, Javier started a long-distance relationship with a girlfriend back in Mexico, trying to please his parents in Texas. At the same time, he started talking to a male friend from the mission and realized he was developing feelings for him. Worried he might out himself or another person, Javier tentatively got in touch with a missionary he’d heard about in Mexico City who was gay, hoping he could ask some questions somewhere, to someone who might get it. Even though they’d never met, they had a productive conversation, though that alone made Javier feel very guilty for going against his parent’s wishes to turn away from all things LGBTQ+. The missionary was helpful and happy to help and directed Javier to the Questions from the Closet podcast, which converted Javier “into becoming a podcast guy.” Javier says, “It was great to finally listen to stories of people who are part of the church but also living out their sexuality. The podcast answered some of my questions.”

Javier had made a friend on the mission who had come out for the first time ever to Javier. In turn, Javier came out to this young man while communicating online, realizing he might even have a crush on him. In response, Javier says, “He lost his mind, he was super happy and called me. This was the first time I was actually starting to accept it.” Shortly after, Javier would occasionally whisper to himself, “I’m bi; I’m part of the LGBTQ community.” His internalized homophobia caused it to take some time to get used to, but gradually he became less afraid. TV shows about LGBTQ+ characters and the movie Love Victor helped Javier feel less isolated. His plan was to only tell two friends ever, but over time he realized he wouldn’t be able to keep it a secret for the rest of his life. 

Soon, Javier found himself at BYU Idaho where he found a “cool group of friends who adopted me. They were Latinos, too, so they understood. I was able to come out and they were so supportive, even with having Latino backgrounds where machismo was often still a thing.” In Rexburg, Javier says, “I didn’t break the commandments, but I took a break from church.” After two semesters, he came back home with a new sense of confidence about who he was. He sensed he should tell his parents, but wasn’t sure how. Javier consulted with a close friend in Texas named Ben who was going through similar things. Javier’s depression peaked, and even when he was hanging out with friends, he felt so alone. One night, Javier went to a park where he says he “bawled my eyes out.” He put on his Air pods and walked around, “wanting to scream, to cry; I wanted everything and nothing at the same time.” Javier texted Ben and begged him to join him, risking the embarrassment of having his friend see him in that state just so he didn’t have to be alone. After arriving, Ben convinced Javier that not coming out to people was only going to continue to hurt Javier. Javier agreed and told his friend a date he’d come out to his parents, for accountability.

Having selected a day he’d be meeting his parents at the temple, Javier listened to music to prepare. But when he arrived, there were other ward members there so Javier requested he and his parents go off alone so he could tell them something. His mom expressed excitement, thinking he might be getting engaged (even though he wasn’t dating anyone). When Javier instead told them he liked boys and girls the same way, he saw their faces contort with anger, sadness, and deception. He calls it “a face I’d never seen before. I stopped talking; they didn’t say anything. My hands were sweating, I was shaking. Fortunately, the bishop came up and said, ‘Let’s go inside’.” 

For Javier, the session was a blur and when he returned home, his parents called him into their room. He shared more and invited them to read up on LGBTQ+ from the church website. They replied they would not be doing that and told him he had a disease he needed to be cured of. Javier concurred that him telling them was a way of admitting he wanted to be cured, but that he was innocent and hadn’t done anything to cause this. He says, “I couldn’t say anything; the things I said were used against me. I felt destroyed.” He went to his room and texted Ben to share how badly it had gone.

The next morning, Javier begrudgingly went to church but felt “so broken and sad.” He sat next to Ben, who gave him a side-hug that meant the world in support. He says, “I wanted to cry; I just wanted that hug so badly from someone who was supportive of me.” As time passed at home, things were not great whenever the topic of LGBTQ+ came up. Javier returned to school where he participated in a research project wherein he realized how many students in Rexburg vitally needed support after facing discrimination. Javier and his friend Emily started a support group, mostly to combat racism, but also LGBTQ+ bigotry. 

The next time he went home, Javier decided to come out to one of his brothers. He was met with confusion and surprise, although his brother tried to be supportive. Javier says, “It was nice to have one more person in my family know about it, though my parents got mad when they found out, saying, ‘You told us you wouldn’t tell anyone, especially your siblings’.” Around that time, Javier’s dad suffered from facial paralysis due to stress, and his mother blamed a portion of it on Javier, claiming it was due to his father’s worry Javier would force their family to not achieve exaltation. Javier has tried not to internalize this. He says he knows his parents love him, and he loves them.

Soon after, Javier heard about the inaugural Gathering and went to Utah with his friend. There, he says he “felt amazing. It was so great to be with people who understood and shared my values, beliefs, and experiences. I came away crying with happiness because of the good experience.” After attending a couple smaller Gathering events, Javier decided to get more involved in Rexburg by helping organize support gatherings. He got to know the person who leads the PRIDE parade in Rexburg, and found himself being asked to lead the walk. He recalls, “It was my first time being out at BYU, and my first PRIDE parade. I was excited but scared.” As the day approached, his anxiety increased but listening to the song “This is Me” from The Greatest Showman, Javier harnessed the strength of the line, “I am brave, I am bruised, this is who I’m meant to be, this is me.”

Indeed, Javier felt every bit himself as he realized how many he’d helped by coming out and sharing his story as he marched in front of hundreds of people at the event. “It was a surreal moment; it felt so good.” Javier ended up transferring to BYU Provo, where he met a friend from Mexico who concurred they needed to start doing Gatherings in Spanish. “All of this journey has required me to step outside my comfort zone to do things I never expected… Now I’m trying to help others in Spanish-speaking countries.”

Javier says things are still rough with his parents, but “as long as we don’t talk about it, we’re fine.” He maintains hope things might improve after hearing Charlie Bird on share on his podcast how it took him 20ish years to understand all this, so he could give his dad some time. Javier likewise figures he can give his own parents more time. Meanwhile, he finds joy with his “chosen family,” which consists of many friends who support him where he’s at. Javier says, “Sharing in the Lift & Love family stories is very important to me even though it might not be what you’d expect. Even though my family doesn’t support or accept this part of me, my chosen family is always there for me. Through my depression, they even got me ice cream. They’re always there.”

In Mexico, Javier shares that a cultural tradition is to call good friends “cousins” once you achieve a certain level of closeness, as if you’ve become family. He says, “I now understand why we’re called an LGBTQ+ community—it’s because we’re never alone’

TEGAN (Z) BLANCHARD

Tegan Zelano Blanchard has lived a lot of life in just 21 years. Tegan, or “Z” as he’s called by friends, is majoring in National Security studies with his foremost interest being in international relations. He hopes to work for the state department and go into diplomacy. But in this hot political climate, he’s quick to state, “I care much less about who’s in charge or how our national political system works, and much more about how to get clean water into under-resourced regions of South America, or how to get sex-education to rural communities that need it. I want my career to be focused on improving others’ quality of life.” He claims if he didn’t need to make money, he’d likely work for an NGO.

Tegan’s global awareness was certainly influenced by his parents, who both work in international business/relations themselves. He was raised bilingual (English and Spanish), and is the youngest of four kids–with his three older sisters all now married. Tegan spent the first nine years of his life in Utah, then moved to Costa Rica for a year, then back to Utah, then to Chula Vista, CA at age 11. When all his sisters had moved out and Tegan was a sophomore in high school, his parents felt strongly they needed to move to Ecuador for business opportunities. Despite this inspiration, it wouldn’t be until the summer before his senior year of high school that this prompting would come to fruition. His father had served a mission there, and the Blanchards started a series of businesses in Ecuador selling everything from carpet cleaning to dragon fruit, and sourcing chocolate and flowers. Their impression for the move felt divine, and after two years in Ecuador, Tegan’s parents were called to serve as bishop and still serve in that capacity.

But their kids all now live in Utah, with Tegan attending UVU with one of his sisters. He loves taking a sculpting class with her, and recently enjoyed going clubbing in Salt Lake with all his siblings. Having just returned from his mission in Argentina three months ago, Tegan is full of life and eager to enter this next chapter. While there were dark periods in his life, he now exudes optimism and purpose.

Ever since a young age, Tegan said he felt “an inherent, extreme closeness to God in a way that isn’t entirely normal.” Now defining God as Them/his Heavenly Parents, Tegan remembers playing on his bed at age five and talking to God as if They were right there with him. He also felt very aware of himself and the way he’s built. With a high propensity to love others, Tegan always loved love—from romcom movies to having at least three different crushes on girls in elementary school, when that seemed to be the thing to do. 

As puberty ensued, Tegan began to notice he felt something much more profound for people of his same sex. At age 12, he told his bishop he was attracted to boys. The bishop responded that it was probably just hormones, that things would change and he’d be fine. Tegan says, “Even though that was not a helpful response, I’m not angry at him at all. I couldn’t have expected him to react in the best of ways given the lack of experience he probably had.” Tegan felt he needed to tell his parents, who he says were not homophobic, but not necessarily educated on the topic either. He still spent about five years having moments of pacing outside their room to drum up the courage. During that process, he’d stare into their large mirror and think about how they saw some of him, but not all of him. 

The Blanchards lived in California in 2016, when President Obama legalized same-sex marriage. Tegan remembers that time as a hot debate in which he felt his church community was against him, while his school community was for him. “I thought, they’re debating me—I’m the topic of the debate,” he recalls. But he also tried to remain in a state of outward denial. Tegan says most of his queer friends grew up hearing hard things from relatives, and while he loves that his middle name is his great-grandfather’s and loves his extended family, he recalls a close relative telling him that gay marriage was an attack on the family. As a young child, he interpreted that to mean he was Satan’s attack on the family. But all things considered, Tegan said he had a happy, idealistic childhood with a loving family.

Having never experienced depression before, 2020 wrecked Tegan. When the pandemic hit, he was in a “difficult but growing” relationship with a girl, especially because they were both struggling deeply with their mental health. They ended up cutting it off just before his depression began to take hold. “I remember this was the first time in my life I felt absolutely no hope, no light at the end of the tunnel. I felt God less than any other part of my life. Though looking back, I can see just how intimately They were involved.” The Blanchards moved around a lot during this period—to five different homes just during the pandemic. Politically, Tegan felt an intense connection to the pains of marginalized groups he saw online. Feeling the impact of George Floyd’s death, he became involved in BLM, and he started experiencing a faith crisis, questioning the history of racist policies in the church, as well as limitations against women and LGBTQ+. “Something within me cried out so desperately for the pleas of these people. I can’t compare the experiences side by side; each is distinct with its own challenges. But my heart bled so deeply for people struggling to find a place, because I too had felt that pain of feeling like there was no place for me.”

In 2021, when he was 17, Tegan’s parents sat him down to listen to a podcast about sex “to make the topic less taboo.” At that point, Tegan finally decided five years of carrying his stress alone was too much. He’d had some practice, having come out to three or four friends prior, which helped prepare him to face his parents at the end of the podcast and say, “I’m going to throw you a curveball at you right now… I think I’m bisexual.” He says his parents replied with a huge embrace, tears, and “so much unadulterated love.” He was then able to open up and share what it had been like. His parents advised him to focus on girls, but he says moving forward, that advice didn’t prove to be helpful and the topic didn’t come up much again. Tegan’s sisters and brothers-in-law also responded with full support on video calls in which he told each of them, one by one. He’s not sure if they found it a surprise, as he says his interests had always been more artistic, and he recalls his cousin overhearing his parents talking about him at age eight and wondering if he might be gay because he was “very effeminate” as a kid—something Tegan at times was bullied for. When his cousin told him that, Tegan remembers breaking down sobbing and then trying to act more masculine from then on out. Though now, he’s comfortable saying he believes he was born gay,

The day Tegan and his parents decided to move to Ecuador was the same day his friends in California called saying school was canceled due to the global pandemic. But it wasn’t until June of 2021 that they landed in their new home country. The Blanchard’s initial residence in Ecuador was in a dangerous area and his mom was robbed at knife point while going to the gym. After so much transition, and now continued isolation with COVID-19, Tegan says this was the most overwhelming time in his life, grappling with his faith crisis, sexuality and the uncertainty of his living situation mixed with extreme limitations on his ability to socialize with people of his age. Yet, he endured.

In Ecuador, Tegan’s faith crisis culminated with the figurative breaking of the shelf. Harboring internalized homophobia made the cognitive dissonance worse, and church became a difficult place in which he felt so “othered” that there were times he’d stay outside the chapel, sobbing. Yet, watching queer-affirmitive media like Love, Simon and Heartstopper, reading queer novels, and hanging out with queer friends, made Tegan begin to feel less “othered.” He remembers countless nights on his knees praying desperately, not angry at God, but “so worn out feeling so much pain and hurt in the silence.”

That Thanksgiving, Tegan’s sisters all came to visit and held an intervention. They were worried about Tegan’s mental health because to them, “the light had gone out of [his] eyes.” He confirmed he didn’t want to take his life, but felt he had been in darkness with no hope for so long, that he had nothing to live for. Looping in their parents, Tegan’s dad eagerly agreed to support him pursuing therapy, and Tegan says meeting with life coach Jill Freestone (online) made all the difference. Tegan loved how her approach is affirmative both toward the church and the queer community, and in his first session, she centered their work on a more expansive view of God and Heavenly Mother, with which Tegan identified deeply. Tegan now says, “Learning about the Divine Feminine kept me alive spiritually at that time.”

After finding some healing, Tegan went to visit his sisters in Utah and felt “free” for the first time in two years – free to drive, to go out at night, to see people. For the first time, he made out with a girl and “kept his standards,” but did “just about everything fun one could do that’s still legal.” This time, when he went back to Ecuador, his parents had moved to an incredible house with a pool in a safer area, and he was able to design his bedroom with posters and LED lights, just the way he wanted. They could now go outside without getting robbed. Continuing to work with Jill, Tegan moved forward with his mission papers which he says felt “batsh!t crazy” amid his faith crisis; but he felt a desire to proceed in a tentative but trusting mindset. A 2022 talk by Elder Dallin H. Oaks set him back and made him want to give up, but Tegan felt propelled by the wisdom in Jared Halverson’s words, “Don’t let a good faith crisis go to waste.” Following the hard talk, after more than a year of intense bitterness, Tegan hit the point of apathy and screamed at heaven, “I just don’t understand!” At that exact moment, his sister in another country texted him: “They love you.” Tegan screamed up again, “What am I supposed to do now?” He got another text from his sister: “So much.” Tegan says, “It was so precise and perfect in timing that I couldn’t see it as anything but divine. Although I didn’t receive a specific answer like I was hoping for, I felt that a knowledge of Their infinite love would be enough to keep moving forward.”

“Even in apathy, I thought, ‘If God loves me this much, I could go serve’,” says Tegan. His parents gave him autonomy to make his own choices, and supported him as he later was called to Buenos Aires, Argentina. Right before he left, Tegan again went to Utah for some fun with his sisters, and this time he kissed his first boy—which felt important to him, to affirm you can be queer and a faithful member. He says, “Part of it was a ‘take that’ to so many years of pain. I wanted to show I can be me and a disciple of Christ. A week later, I went through the temple and was endowed. There, I better was able to understand that God is much more expansive than we define Them to be. I still have so much left to learn.” 

Tegan says his experience in the Mexico MTC was brutal, but he loved every minute of his mission, where he grew close to his mission leaders and spent a lot of time serving in the office. As he prepared his farewell talk, he says he felt the first spark of the joy of the gospel in two years, something that he had deeply missed during the darkest moments of his depression and faith crisis. He realized he could focus on talking about Christ during his two year service. And that’s what he did. He says, “My faith crisis redefined my relationship with the Savior and got it to a place where I could really reach people… I learned how to more deeply love God, others, and myself and developed the divine gifts of empathy and charity. I recognize others have had hard experiences serving a mission and I weep with them and validate their pain. But for me, it was life-changing.”

Now having been home for three months, Tegan is “going on a ton of dates and learning so much about myself and how I was made, and more about God and the way I connect with Them.” Though he originally came out as bisexual, he is learning that attraction is more complicated than he anticipated and definitely leans towards men. Above all, however, he’s most interested in dating people willing to invest in a personal relationship with God, saying, “That has led me to my kind of people, those who are genuinely searching for a connection with the Divine. But if they’re in a potent faith crisis or on a different part of their faith journey than me, that’s still okay.” 

Tegan says he is wholeheartedly committed to “living the life and future God would have for [him], no matter what that is.” Though he doesn’t believe that necessarily means marriage to a woman in the temple is the only way. “If God says, ‘I want you to always stay close to me and marry a man that you love,’ or if God says, ‘Here’s the perfect woman for you’, so be it. I trust Them way more than I trust myself.” Tegan continues, “I had made certainty an idol of sorts; it had become my God as I sought after it looking for peace and comfort. It was only when it was taken away from me in those two years of intense darkness that I came to realize only God can give me lasting peace. It was God’s way of teaching me to make Them my God and idol. And I now know more than ever that my future is much brighter as I keep my Heavenly Parents as my focal point and closest confidants.”

TRENT CLARKSON

“If you’ve ever had a debate with the spirit, you know you can’t win.” That was Trent Clarkson’s experience while sitting in a car late one night with a friend at age 17. The difficulties of his life had come to a head. School and the social scene were not going the way he wanted, which had wrecked his mental health. Looking to escape, he asked a friend to go to a movie and out for a drive. While navigating the dark roads, Trent felt a strong impression he needed to tell his friend what was really going on, including the things he’d been pushing down and trying not to consciously recognize himself. He started slowly, at first only sharing the depths of his severe depression. But it kept coming to his mind—the “it” he’d never told anyone about yet. “Saying those words felt physically impossible,” says Trent, “but I turned to him and said I need to tell you something else—I’m gay. It was the first time I’d actually acknowledged that part of my life, the first time I accepted it.”

Looking back now, Trent calls that night lifechanging. He says owning this part of him “set me on track to figure out what was really going on in my life.” Life didn’t immediately become easier; in fact, things got worse. Trent remembers being alone in his bedroom grappling with intense confusion. Since his childhood growing up in a “lovely little town called Kanab, UT” near Cedar City, one of six children in a devout family who practiced daily prayer and scripture study and weekly LDS church attendance, Trent had felt an instilled knowledge of not only who God was but that He loved him and wanted to communicate with him from a very young age. “I knew He was there and would talk to me if necessary, which set me up well for later in life when things went awry.”

Yet one Sunday at age 17, Trent battled darkness and gloom while sitting on a pew in church with his family thinking about “existential things”—who he was, what was his purpose, why this was happening to him and that if this was his reality, what else might be different than all he had learned since childhood? “I wondered if there was a God, where was He, and why He wouldn’t talk to me anymore.” Trent says an indescribable feeling washed over him and he felt an immense sense of peace, love and comfort. Words came into his mind: “I know you, I see you, I love you.” Trent says it took all that he had to not sob on that pew. “I like to reflect on that experience. It only answered three of my 1,000 questions but it confirmed God is there, God knows me, and God does care about what’s happening to me.” It also taught Trent that it’s ok to have unanswered questions, and that some questions are more important than others.  

Over the next year, Trent was able to open up to more people—a few close friends, a trusted therapist. He accepted he was gay and came to the mindset that he didn’t have a problem with it because God didn’t have a problem with it. His senior year of high school was a little better, and soon it became time to put in his mission papers, something that had been impressed on his mind years before. But it took him a year to get the papers out, and his call to Independence, Missouri. A major history buff, Trent was thrilled to walk and talk through all the church history sites, but an upset occurred. In February 2020, Trent entered the Provo MTC where he stayed for three weeks and watched as the world crumbled with the pandemic. His second week in, they stopped admitting new missionaries and every day his MTC teachers would give updates that seemed unfathomable: “No NBA playoffs; no in person general Conference.” Trent was still headed to Missouri but the Frontrunner train he took to the airport suddenly stopped in Draper at 8am. There had been a huge earthquake (the one in which the SLC temple’s Moroni dropped his trumpet). Trent didn’t feel it on the train, but had to reroute to the MTC. Swept up in all the speculation at the time, he thought, “We’re going to the land of Zion, and with all the prophecies about earthquakes, plagues, locusts in Africa, I just wanted to get to Independence to be the first to meet Jesus.” The next day, he was given the all clear to go out. Five days later, lockdowns shut down most of the world. As a missionary, Trent wasn’t allowed to leave his apartment for the next four months besides P-day grocery runs, but he says, “I’m grateful for how it worked out. I’m a huge believer in the Lord’s timing.”

While Trent had reconciled being gay, he wasn’t quite sure how he’d navigate shelving it for two years. He was able to circumvent certain conversations and “pretend it’s not a thing,” but eventually realized, “God had other plans.” Two or three weeks in with his first trainer, an incredible person Trent learned a lot from, Trent felt an assurance from the spirit that he should tell his companion he was gay. He sat on it for a few days, then got the confirmation from above that the Lord would be ok, and the companion would be ok if he shared. Visibly shaking, Trent said, “I’m gay. I hope that’s not an issue.” Trent says the companion responded “as well as I could have hoped. I think it was a good experience for both of us.”

Throughout his mission, Trent would occasionally feel similar nudges that it would be ok to tell certain trusted people, and every time he did, he said it opened up some of the best experiences on his mission as he felt closer to those around him and better about himself as “the irreconcilable parts came together.” He emailed his mission president to let him know, and in return got the response, “If you need to talk to me, I’ve available, but I have no worries.” As missions are small communities, word spread, and Trent learned he wasn’t alone, estimating that about 10-15 other LGBTQ+ missionaries opened up in his zone over the next two years. Trent especially loved coming out to people who had little experience with the LGBTQ+ community. One day while doing their work on social media, a district leader next to Trent made a comment about a gay couple on a Facebook profile. Trent stopped and looked at him and said, “Elder, have you ever worked with LGBTQ individuals before?” The DL said, “I haven’t; have you?” Trent replied, “Yeah, I deal with that quite frequently. I’m gay.” The district leader immediately and profusely apologized. Trent replied, “Don’t worry, Elder, it’s understandable—not having worked with LGBTQ individuals before. Mind if we can talk about it?” Trent then shared his story and explained what life was like for him. He loved sharing that, “Even though I experience same sex attraction, I love the church and am on a mission.” Trent says he grew to treasure the connections that came from learning of others’ experiences with God and life as they exchanged stories.

Trent worried about returning home after his mission. He’d liked having his life put on pause, focusing instead on others’ lives. He knew when he returned, he’d have to deal with tough questions. Still, he filled out a “My Plan,” a tool missionaries are given to map out their return plan to follow. He saw how a good part of that deals with “how I will stay active in the church and marry in the temple,” something he knew might not fit in God’s plan for him. “While much of the plan was helpful, it wasn’t specific for my needs, and I had to figure out a lot on my own—something I’ve learned to become comfortable with.” Trent didn’t feel like he could try to date women, but also felt, “If by some act of God some amazing young lady comes up, I’ll put nothing outside of God’s power.” Trent says he loves the framework the church gives, although since he’s returned from his mission, he says, “I haven’t been the most active. I don’t know where I’m going or doing, but I know that God lives and that Jesus Christ is the son of God. I have immense faith in Jesus Christ as my Lord and Savior… That gives me light when there’s no path. If nothing else, I know that’s true.” Trent says he also loves the Bible and Book of Mormon and has felt a lot less alone listening to the Questions from the Closet podcast over the years. He says he’s fine sitting in ambiguity.

At his first Thanksgiving back from his mission, Trent sent a coming out text on his family group chat, and everyone was supportive. “My younger siblings were a little confused at first, but they figured it out and moved on. Things have gone great ever since.” Of the pretty seamless transition, Trent says most of them had already known, though he says he’s a “pretty straight-passing gay guy; the straightest gay person I know.” A mechanical engineering student at Southern Utah University, Trent hopes to work with robotics, possibly in aerospace, a shared passion with his brother with whom he’d love to go into business. Trent currently does 3D printing and loves fishing, cooking, reading, and again, all things history—whether it be church history or American history. He works at a historical museum outside of Kanab where he loves to exchange stories with patrons all day. “It’s amazing to see what inspires people to be people.”

While he doesn’t consider himself a social person, claiming “I like to maybe have ten people in my vicinity,” Trent braved up and went to the first Gather conference last year—an experience that he loved and that inspired him to go back this year and to also start a Gather group at his college campus. He says SUU can be a difficult place to be as it’s “more traditional than Provo. Finding connection there with the church isn’t hard, finding connection with LGBTQ+ people is harder. Finding connection with both is almost impossible.” Trent felt “immensely grateful” when the Gather curriculum was released. Though only about five people currently gather in his group, Trent is excited to be part of the influence where people can strand in a room comfortably and hold both identities—as a person of faith and LGBTQ+.

“Doing this work that I feel called to do—I feel it as strongly as I felt called to go on a mission. I love knowing this is a work the Lord is very interested in doing. It’s encouraging to know progress is being made. As hard as things get sometimes, I think things are only getting better. We’re on the right track; we’re headed where God wants us to be.”

THOMAS AUSEUGA

content warning - suicide ideation

Thomas Auseuga was born and raised in Australia and currently lives in Brisbane; however, having spent the last three months in Utah has made him consider a permanent move to the states. “I think I’ve met more LGBTQ+ people in one month here than I have in five years in Australia.” Thomas brought a trademark jar of Vegemite with him to share with new friends, and it must have worked, as he bonded with many at September’s Gather conference in Provo. Thomas loved Gather, but said going to church the following Sunday, even in Utah, felt like a harsh reality that things aren’t quite where he wishes they were just yet. However, Thomas feels called to the space he’s in at the moment—being an openly gay, outspoken advocate for the LGBTQ+ community within the LDS church. But that doesn’t always make it easy.

Thomas grew up with his twin brother smack dab in the middle of eight children raised in a Polynesian/Australian family who was “very into the church.” Both of Thomas’ parents served missions, as did his mother’s second husband and grandma. “The gospel was the epicenter of our home,” says Thomas, despite religion and church attendance not being a popular choice for many of Thomas’ peers in Melbourne, and later Adelaide, after his mom moved the family there. Thomas was the smallest of his siblings and was picked on quite a bit at home. At school, he was teased for having an “effeminate, higher pitched voice” and was called “church boy,” which he says was “supposed to be a derogatory slur, I guess?” Thomas says at times he had a rough childhood in which he often felt isolated and lonely, but knew he had a family who loved him and was grateful they had the resources to get by. Thomas also recalls being called gay before he ever knew what the term meant.

Around age 11, Thomas began to feel “a connection to one of my mates. I wanted to be around him—a lot. Now, as an adult, I see that as my first crush.” But because the dialogue surrounding gay people in the early 2000s was so negative, Thomas internalized that all things gay were bad, and besides, he went to church every Sunday so, “Of course I couldn’t be gay.” Thomas’ shame around this plagued him to the extent he’d cry himself to sleep every night, “praying for Heavenly Father to take this away, or I’d prefer not to wake up in the morning. That was my habitual prayer. I definitely experienced suicidal ideation growing up.” But at the same time, Thomas would pray he’d be blessed with protection. Heeding a prompting, Thomas says he felt God’s hand in helping him reframe negative thoughts he battled at the time. When he was 15, he felt directed to tell his mom the feelings he’d been battling alone for three years.

“She told me she loved me, but my mom’s experience was limited with this, so she said, ‘You’re not gay, you just think you are because everyone calls you that’.” Thomas explains that a lot of her fears stemmed from her perspective on AIDS and the mistreatment of gay people, fearing discrimination and rejection. Offering her grace, Thomas says, “She tried her best with the knowledge she had.” Thomas also told his bishop at the time, who offered him a pamphlet, but didn’t say much to unpack the coming out discussion.

Four years later, at age 19, Thomas finally came out to his best friend. “He handled it pretty well, but needed a couple days to process. When he came back, he said, ‘I love you anyways, you’re my best friend; it doesn’t matter’.”  That opened a dialogue that taught Thomas that when he opened up to people and was authentically himself, it deepened their connection. By age 21, he’d come out to his three best friends and every bishop he’d had up until that point. He remembers feeling, “It was surreal that I could tell people, and they wouldn’t hate me or try to fix or change me. I could be myself with them and talk about it on a regular basis.”

At the time, Thomas was feeling stagnate living in Melbourne, in a dead-end part-time retail job and a YSA environment that left him feeling belittled and beaten down. After two years of this, he began to feel depressed, stuck, with no upward trajectory. Thomas had convinced himself he wasn’t smart enough to serve a mission like his siblings had. He was active in the church then, but “mostly just for the social scene and food after.” He began to see a therapist his bishop had recommended, after referring to his being gay as “an addiction.” Luckily, the therapist was more experienced and created a beneficial, affirming environment for Thomas in which he could steer his own path whichever way he chose.

“At this point in time, I feel like I had hit rock bottom,” says Thomas. He wasn’t fully invested in the church but felt a constant pressure to date girls, and to serve a mission before that. “Finally, I said, Heavenly Father I don’t want to serve, but since you’re giving me promptings, I will. And from there, my desire to serve grew.” It took Thomas a year to get his papers submitted, and despite his plea bargain with God to not be called to the Philippines (after being told by his two siblings how hot and sweaty it was, along with a side order of food poisoning and other sicknesses they experienced), Thomas was called to the Philippines. “I lost 40 pounds, though, so I guess it was… a blessing?”

In reality, Thomas loved his mission and felt it changed his life. There, he grew the confidence in studying both the scriptures and a foreign language to the point of fluency. He helped support companions and other missionaries as their pseudo-therapist, and Thomas’ mission president likewise affirmed he should go into social work or therapy of some sort, a second witness to the spiritual nudge Thomas himself had been feeling. Covid-19 cut Thomas’ mission 12 weeks short. He came home in March of 2020, and got into his social work course six weeks later. He’s now in the second to last semester of his degree.

His mission helped Thomas to “understand how important the gospel is to me. I always want it to be a part of my life.” When he came home, at age 26, that meant trying to date girls to prepare for a temple marriage. Thomas drove 24 hours north from his family’s hometown of Adelaide to move to Brisbane to expand the dating pool, but began to see a trend that the more dates with women he went on, the more his mental health declined. “They were all lovely, nice, cute girls. I just wasn’t attracted to them.” One girl asked him out a couple times, and each time he’d drive over to pick her up, Thomas would find himself crying and on the verge of a panic attack. At the same time, he had a bisexual friend he’d developed feelings for, so he says, “I knew what attraction and romantic feelings felt like. So in contrast feeling nothing on dates with girls would just lead to a depression spiral afterward.” Thomas’ bisexual friend ended up marrying a woman, so this gave him the added confidence to do the same, and Thomas tried hard to make it work with one young lady. Three dates in, she friend zoned him. After two days of sadness over the effort he’d put in to try to make it work, Thomas finally prayed surmising he was now off the hook, he’d tried his best. The answer he got in return was that it was time to come out publicly.

Not wanting to be the victim of a hate crime, Thomas resisted this impression. But finally realizing it was best for his mental health to do so, Thomas prayed that the decision was right and wouldn’t be detrimental to him. One Sunday afternoon, he sat next to his best friend while he pressed post on Facebook, sharing words it took him 28 years to say out loud, to all. “After that, a weight lifted, and my life changed in a really good way.”

Thomas began to speak up about LGBTQ+ issues in his ward and circle of influence. At first, he had friends confess they’d never met a gay person before. He himself only knows a handful of openly gay, LDS Australians. Thomas says, “It’s been two years of helping to educate others. I feel very called to the work right now in this space.” Thomas described an experience at a recent YSA Q&A in which people could submit anonymous questions. Naturally, Thomas submitted questions focusing on LGBTQ+ inclusion. One person asked, “Why do we have to include gay people?” Thomas was impressed as others jumped in for him and said, “Why wouldn’t we? It’s Jesus’s church, and all are part of the family.” Thomas has also proposed to his stake president that they do an LGBTQ+-themed devotional across the board, not just for the YSA.

Thomas feels peace going to the temple and to church and feels lucky to have a support network in which he can be himself. He says, “I didn’t really lose friends when I came out. Those who don’t talk to me now—it’s more a reflection of them than me.” While he says he could decide to get offended or not talk about it around certain people, he prefers to share his personal experiences with love in hopes it educates and changes someone’s attitude towards the LGBTQ+ experience. “When you’re one of the only openly gay people in this space, that’s kind of the attitude you have to have.”

Although Thomas thought he’d be single forever, over the last few months, he’s opened up more to the idea of dating men. “After the Gather conference, I realized being single and celibate for the rest of my life could make me jaded and bitter toward God and the church. Instead, I could find someone to have a committed, loving relationship with. I could still go to church and be as active as I can with limitations. In terms of progression, I would become more Christlike by serving someone in a relationship – that’s where I’m at. I think God would be ok with that, too. My discipleship might look different than someone who is heterosexual, but my idea of God and my perception of Him has changed through an evolution of thoughts. He’s all loving, all merciful to all his children and especially those who are– he understands.”

Before coming out in 2022, Thomas experienced weekly rough spells at church in which he’d presume it would be his last week there. But now, he says he’s “striving to still have a relationship with God, staying close to the spirit while navigating being gay in the church. If there’s going to be a change in the church, it will be through the influence of LGBTQ+ people helping move it along. If I’m not talking about it, who will? I feel inclined to show up for the next generation, so the next 12-year-old experiencing same sex attraction isn’t crying himself to sleep at night, wishing he was dead.”

Thomas sees God in the details of it all and believes the gathering of Israel includes all God’s children, “especially those who feel oppressed and marginalized. I’ve heard it said that, ‘All of God’s children have a place at the table with Christ, and LGBTQ+ children have a special seat with their name reserved’.”

JESSIE + JETT

Newlyweds since June, Jett & Jessie are what one might call “unruly gays,” and they have no regrets. It’s a term they’ve coined on their IG site: @headedtonineveh, and a concept that still makes them laugh. Their summer wedding at the White Shanty in Provo (coincidentally aka the setting for the infamous party scene in “Secret Lives of Mormon Wives”) sealed the deal--in an (unruly) sense. No longer were they “Saint Gays—the kind who put other LDS at ease as faithful members with full membership willing to be single and celibate, forgoing any relationships.” Jett and Jessie claim that, “While saint gays are sometimes weaponized against unruly gays, they are not to be confused with the straight, single LDS folk who are encouraged to pursue marriage and pray to fall in love. Saint gays pray not to fall in love.”

For them, it's a sad reality that once resonated. But Jett and Jessie were deeply touched when their entire bishopric and much of their Eagle Mountain, UT ward came out to celebrate at their reception. They acknowledge “leadership roulette” is currently serving them well, and they’ve felt embraced by their current congregation. Jett taught Gospel Doctrine up until the week before the two married. Upon addressing the elephant in the room and likening her situation to the end of Mosiah in which the Lord addressed “the wayward members,” Jett became emotional as she announced she knew she’d be released as she was doing something contrary to church doctrine. After the class, she was moved by the line of people who came up to hug and thank her for her lessons.

Teaching the gospel is something that always came natural to Jett, a returned missionary who Jessie describes as “way more orthodox than me”—ironic, as Jett was married to another woman before Jessie, while Jessie followed a more prescribed path, having married a man at age 20 with whom she was married to for nearly 15 years and had three children with. Since their divorce, Jessie’s former husband maintains a friendly co-parenting relationship with both Jessie and Jett and is supportive of their relationship. Although, it was about seven years ago that Jessie first began to wonder if she might also be attracted to women.

It happened during a slice-of-life production for an A&E documentary Jessie was recruited to be in, though her segments never saw the light of day. However, on set at Jessie’s house, while nursing a newborn and wrangling a toddler, Jessie found herself fascinated by two of the female crew members who presented as more masculine and were “most definitely gay.” At the time the information didn’t startle Jessie nor her husband—merely she just observed the feelings, and watched as life marched on—as a wife, mother, and dance choreographer who taught at BYU off and on for six years. Explaining that perhaps it’s because she’s a millennial, Jessie recognizes many her age (36) didn’t inherit as much of the cultural shame others do, she says, “For me it wasn’t a big traumatic thing… my takeaway was ‘it’s fine. You’re fine.’ I see it as a gift, as part of my divine nature.”

At this, Jett laughs and says, “I find it interesting that it wasn’t hard for her, that it wasn’t traumatic.” Just entering her 50s, Gen X Jett hates having to explain how there’s nothing more annoying than errantly being called a boomer, but acknowledges she grew up in the generation where everyone was required to read The Miracle of Forgiveness and beat themselves up. “There was no gay representation anywhere. I now love watching old movies where you can see the gay-coded characters of the time; it’s a lot of fun.” Jett never felt like a “traditional girl.” She says, “I liked boy things and boy characters on Halloween, like the Lone Ranger. I wanted to be anything but the princess. I’d rather be the knight who fought and rescued her. I was clearly a queer little girl.”

When Star Trek: The Next Generation debuted, Jett found herself fascinated by the head of security character Tasha Yar, and told her mom she wanted a “short, boy hair cut like her.” Jessie jokes about Jett’s Xena warrior princess phase, which included her wearing hightops and a leather vest everywhere. Jett admits what started as a “this show is so ridiculous” evolved into Jett joining the internet explosion of the 90s and became a creator of a wildly popular Xena fan fiction comic strip. Her work took off to the extent she became known “by the Xena gays” and even the head writers of the show took notice of her strip. Her comic strip was successful enough to pay for her room and board at school. “I would kill for that now,” Jett laughs. She learned most of her fan mail came from “gay women assuming I’m gay, too. I’d laugh and say, ‘No I’m not,’ but I acknowledged Xena and her ‘friend’ likely were.” 

This wasn’t the last time Jett garnered fans, as the current go-to cartoonist for Sunstone, and as a past contestant on America’s Got Talent as part of the performance group Aurora Light Painters. She also attended art school at Sheridan College in Canada, which is where, during her first year, she allowed herself the concrete thought and then to say aloud that she might be gay. “It was momentous to allow the thought enough cohesion that I spoke it into the world.” And then, “like a Mormon gay ladder, I went through the stages of gay Mormon grief and panic. 1- Don’t tell anyone, remain single and celibate. 2 – Only tell close friends and family and stay in the church and ‘Saint Gay’ our way through.”

At school, Jett was exposed to other gay women for the first time, though she laughs they were “crass and a bit shocking to me, a good Mormon girl from Farmington, UT. But I liked them.” There, she met a woman at, of all places—a Xena party, who she fell for. She taught her all the missionary discussions, still fresh in her mind. Jett’s dad baptized the woman, and ultimately Jett realized the woman would go on to marry a man, which she did. Jett then migrated her way through singles wards, and eventually met and married a woman she lived with in San Francisco for over ten years. While she’s never said the words “I’m gay” to her parents, Jett says they talked around it and she remembers her mom once hugging her and saying, “Oh Jeanettie, your life is so hard,” back when she was going to church as a “Saint Gay.” That made Jett realize that, “A lot of Mormons love to cast their gay loved ones as tragic figures. We love the tragedies, the Romeo and Juliet stories. But we don’t want to be tragedies; we all want to be in romcoms. I realized I had to rewrite the narrative I had going for myself in my head.”

Jett’s San Francisco ward was always welcoming, which she chalks up to both a kind bishop who announced his desire for LGBTQ+ to feel welcome from the pulpit as well as the apparent desperation for anyone to come as numbers were sparse. But when Jett did go, he invited her to take the sacrament and gave her callings. She never banged on the door for a temple recommend, but always felt loved and welcomed. When the 2015 exclusion policy was announced, Jessie says, “Being labeled an apostate hurt Jett profoundly. She had served a mission and meant it.” Jett stopped going for a while. After her marriage ended in 2020, Jett jests she decided to further complicate a pandemic year by moving back to Utah and decided to “come back into full church activity.” When she told this to a friend, he said, “What are they going to make of you?” Jett replied, “They’re going to love me!” She smiles, “And they have.”

Jett decided not to be closeted when she moved into the ward. When the Relief Society came over to help her unpack, she told them she’d just broken up with her partner. Jett says, “They saw me in pain, heartache, divorce. I bristle when people say ‘Oh, those Utah Mormons.’ They have struggles, too—I’ve been truly welcomed in.” Jett decided to give dating men a “good college try” and while she found one nice man with whom she shared much in common, when she realized it just wasn’t going to work out, she says she felt Heavenly Father figuratively flick her on the forehead and say, “Jeanette, my dear daughter, you know why.” She says, “It was the first time, in my mid to late 40s, that I really truly understood and felt comfortable enough in my own skin to accept and tolerate…and celebrate this aspect of myself, as part of my divine nature. The first time Jessie said that, I rolled my eyes, but then I thought—no, she’s right. It is.”

Having already lived in the boundaries at the time, Jessie agrees, “Jett was the belle of the ball when she moved in—the cool, gay lady in the ward.” This year, there have been humorous moments when people realized their relationship had evolved. A new friend said, “I knew you were friends, but I didn’t know you were kissy friends” when she got their wedding invite. Their officiant was a good friend from the ward, and Jessie’s former co-chorister in Primary. Jessie’s 11-year-old son walked her down the aisle, her four-year-old was the flower girl, and seven-year old the ring bearer. “The kids adore Jett; they think she’s the best thing since sliced bread. Having her be a part of their lives has been a tremendous blessing. They’re so lucky to have a Jett,” says Jessie. Jett agrees, “I’ve lived in a lot of cool places and had a lot of cool jobs (as an animator) but I didn’t think I’d ever have kids. It’s stretched me in ways I could never be while single. It can be challenging, hard, exasperating—I’ve learned if you love anything, don’t put it on display. But it’s so rewarding and fun. There’s nothing else I’d rather do the rest of my life than be with Jessie, helping her raise her kids. I’m finally living the whole measure of my creation.”

As they’re still welcomed in their ward, Jett and Jessie still attend, and say, “It’s gone as well as possible.” They admit that over several conversations they had to explain quite a few things to their bishopric, who were new to the LGBTQ-LDS intersection, yet willing to listen to the podcasts and read the things Jessie and Jett recommended. Jett and Jessie explained how it can be hard for someone at the top of the figurative food chain in the church (white, male, straight) to understand what they were going through. It also helped having Jessie’s brother (who served in a bishopric) send over a 5th Sunday lesson and beautiful talk he had written about LGBTQ+ inclusion. In the last meeting before they married, when a leader held out his tablet and asked Jett to read President Nelson’s “Think Celestial” talk, she explained she would not be reading from it, that she had listened live as it was delivered and reread it since and each time, it put her in tears. Jett said, “I understand why it speaks to many, it’s the refrigerator magnet talk. But in real time, I knew it would be used as a cudgel for people like me, and my parents and others will look at me and my wedding and think, ‘If you’re really thinking celestial, this is what you should be doing’—without taking into account my ability to honor personal revelation and have a life partner who loves and gets me.” Once she explained all this, the leader agreed, “Yeah, I guess you don’t need to read that…”. Jett’s parents had indeed made it “abundantly clear” they would not be at Jessie and Jett’s wedding, but hundreds of friends from their lives were, including Jett’s high school principal.

With the gentle prodding of Jessie, Jett has begun sharing their story at the Instagram site @headedtonineveh, which they find symbolic as Jonah also didn’t want to go to Nineveh—"the place where you have to go say hard things to an audience who won’t like it, and who may or may not be receptive.” But Jessie says, “You still have to say it and create more order in the world.” Jett agrees how the first time she was courageous enough to say she was gay to herself out loud changed the world for her. And now, she’s saying, “I grew up in the church, I did the things. Not only does Heavenly Father not care if I’m gay, but this is how I was made and now I’m married to the great, crashing love of my life—and raising kids.” Jessie concurs, “This is not counterfeit. We have as much right as anyone else to claim our divine doctrine and live it. This is my Eve moment. As matriarch of my family, I have special rights to divine revelation. This has absolutely been the right thing. I love my life. We’re not sorry.”

THE CASE FAMILY

“We both love live music, the Utah Symphony, college sports, and theater. That’s one of the joys of the relationship we have—she doesn’t drag me to ballet and I don’t drag her to football,” says Jeff Case of Pleasant Grove, UT, sharing that loving going to these things together is just one of the perks of their mixed orientation marriage. Both Jeff and his wife Sarah are classically trained musicians, owning that, “Music is a gigantic part of our lives.” It’s a passion they’ve passed down to their three kids, Andrew—25, Danae—22, and Moth—18, though the younger ones may gravitate toward different genres. “We don’t always get what they listen to, but it seems like that’s just par for the parenting course,” says Jeff.

After staying at home with their kids for 15 years, for the past seven, Sarah has been teaching junior high. She teaches family consumer science which includes sewing, interior design, and behavioral health. Jeff, who leads the Lift & Love mixed-orientation marriage group for men, had originally joined the National Guard as a musician in ’95 before being sponsored by the Army to do his doctoral work in psychology at BYU. He was then commissioned as a psychologist in the Army for eight years. He is a veteran of the war in Iraq. Since getting out of the Army, he continues to work with veterans and their families as the director of the Provo Vet Center (a nationwide organization with 300 centers around the country).

Raised LDS on military bases while his dad served in the Air Force, the culture and era in which Jeff grew up did not feel conducive to coming out, though he knew he was gay by the end of high school. He was one of six kids who had to pay out of pocket for his own college and rely on military scholarships so it felt safest not to rock the boat. He went to BYU freshman year, then served a mission where he finally came out to himself after feeling “tightly boxed up and unsure what to do.” Jeff laughs, “God sent me on a mission to South Beach, Miami, which was a gay mecca in 1993. Two contrasting lifestyles were in my face—the BYU/LDS path, or South Beach gay life of the early 90s. I had a strong testimony, and still do—though it’s evolved over the years. I decided to come back to BYU.”

Jeff met Sarah the first day of class that year. Both music ed majors, she sat behind him, and they quickly became best friends. Jeff knew he wanted to get married and have kids—and his patriarchal blessing said as much. After a couple years of their friendship, Sarah was preparing to go on a mission herself. But suddenly they went from being best friends to getting married, without really dating. Sarah laughs, “I didn’t want to be one of those BYU couples who got engaged after four minutes, but essentially we got in the car one day and decided to date, and got out of the car engaged.”

Sarah had told Jeff first she had feelings, actually having fallen in love with him a year prior. At first, Jeff felt panicky—unsure of how to be a boyfriend, and he didn’t want to ruin the friendship, but says, “A lot of things happened that led to me falling in love with her.” He found her beautiful, and when she started completing her mission papers, he started having romantic inklings. “I had a series of small miracles happen that showed me we could get married,” says Jeff. He told Sarah he loved her but didn’t want to stop her from going on her mission. Sarah replied, “What mission?”

After meeting in 1995, they were married in 1997. While Jeff served in the Army, they lived in Washington, Germany, and Texas, before moving to Utah, where their kids completed high school. His military service was during the peak of “Don’t ask, don’t tell,” and Jeff had become accustomed to not telling. In fact, he did not even tell Sarah about his attractions to men until after they’d been married for six months. He says, “I thought it might have just been a phase and would go away, that I just needed to take a leap like Indiana Jones stepping out into the chasm. But it didn’t go away (with getting married).” And a lot was on the line—at that time, one could get kicked out of BYU just for being gay. He could lose his scholarships and get kicked out of the military. And he really didn’t want to lose Sarah. But as things “were bubbling and that tight box called ‘Jeff’s sexuality’ opened and spilled out,” Jeff finally broke down and said, “Sarah, I need to tell you this—I’m attracted to guys.” Sarah asked, “So what’s the plan, are you leaving? Will we work this out?” They decided to see where it would go, just the two of them. They navigated it quietly for a couple years, with no additional support.

After their first son was born, they each confided in their best friends, and started to talk to their friends in the music department—many of them who understood themselves. “There wasn’t really a way for gay people to connect back then; all of us were afraid to speak openly.” Talking seemed to help, and over the years, they opened up to their parents and siblings. When Jeff got out of the army in 2014, they felt it was time to speak openly about their story. “We experienced a number of moments in the temple and felt sharing our story could be a gift back to God who’d shown us how to live in this world,” he says. In 2014, Jeff published an essay for North Star’s Voices of Hope website. Then they made a video together. (Jeff now spends most of his volunteer time working with Emmaus and Lift & Love.)

After their bishop attended a North Star conference with them in 2017, the bishop asked Jeff what the temperature was in their ward about LGBTQ+ topics. Jeff replied, “There is no narrative. The only comment I’ve ever heard at church was that, ‘Modern day Korihors are the gays and feminists’.” The bishop asked the Cases to facilitate a fifth Sunday lesson on LGBTQ+ latter-day saints in 2017, saying a number of ward members had grandkids coming out and he wanted people to be willing to talk. Jeff says, “That got a narrative going, and our ward has been accepting, loving, never hostile to our faces.” As there has been some turnover since Covid, they’re unsure if everyone knows, but Jeff does talk about LGBTQ+ issues in priesthood and Sunday School lessons from time to time.

 When Jeff’s essay was about to come out, Jeff and Sarah told their oldest kids (then 14 and 12) that he was gay, feeling it might still be too complex of a topic for their 8-year-old. Their 12-year-old replied, “I thought you loved mom.” Jeff confirmed that that was the case and made sure it was clear nothing in their family dynamic would be changing.

Many years later, it was their youngest, Moth (his preferred name), who chose to come out at age 15—first as pansexual, then lesbian, then nonbinary attracted to women, then as trans male. The Cases found an affirming therapist whom Moth adores, which Sarah says is “an important step to Moth being able to work through their transition in a safe environment.” Sarah continues, “Moth is interesting—he’d like to be seen as a fem boy. He likes makeup and dying hair, wearing skirts. He’s very fun.” Moth’s parents have been supportive during the medical process, which they did have to pause a few years ago when Utah passed a law that wouldn’t allow trans-affirming medical care for minors. Sarah says, “We’re trying to be present and supportive wherever Moth is at.” Their middle child, Danae, has also come out as bisexual, though doesn’t love labels.

The two younger Case children no longer attend church, and Jeff and Sarah have made it clear to them and others that, “Being gay and in a mixed-orientation marriage and active in the church is our path. You figure out your path, what works for you.” Jeff likes to view the long game, and has seen that the church offers value for him, but that their adult children need to find their own values related to spirituality. “That’s fine,” he says, “I don’t want to drive them away. I want them to still be around and look to us. They only get that if they sense we love them where and how they are.” The Cases asked all their kids to join them at church one year for Christmas Sunday, and one child had a near panic attack. Jeff now reflects, “Why’d we do that? Are we trying to punish them? I now say, ‘Come if you want. I want to know where and how you see yourself on a spiritual level and just be present with you wherever you’re at’.” As to what advice he’d give other parents, he quotes his friend Bennett Borden who says, “You only have influence on people you have access to.”  Jeff also advises parents to remember the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy and to not panic if their kids come out—”Parents who panic often drive their kids away.” 

Jeff says, “Being in the closet as long as I was, I never heard the bad types of advice from well-meaning parents and leaders (that was common during those years). We want to show up for our kids, but let them do the work.” Their parenting approach has been to focus on teaching their kids to be good people and to move themselves as parents into more of a consultant role. He values how Elder Neal A. Maxwell spoke of the need for individualized curriculum.  “We’re not too worried about the box-checking outcomes; we don’t need our kids to be like the Israelites who checked so many boxes but didn’t recognize Christ when He came. Just because they don’t believe in our same religion doesn’t mean they can’t be spiritual or have a relationship with Deity—they just have to figure out what that means for them.”

As to how she experiences being in a mixed orientation marriage, Sarah says, “It comes with its own set of trials and obstacles, but every marriage has something others don’t have to deal with. I believe you choose your trial by who you marry; you choose your tough parts. We decided these are worth it. I also believe if he wasn’t gay, that might take away parts of him that are really important and lead him to being a sensitive person, considerate, kind. I love who he is and wouldn’t take that part away. Him being gay is an important part of Jeff.” On the other hand, Sarah and Jeff are quick to say it’s really important that people know they would never prescribe their path for others. Sarah says, “It works for us, but I’d never suggest it should work for anyone else. It’s not going to work for everyone.”

The Cases love to travel, and Sarah and Jeff just completed a 3,400-mile road trip during which Jeff visited his 50th state right before turning 50. It was a long and winding road (or roads) that not everyone may experience, much like their journey together, but it’s one they’ve decided to keep navigating together.

LINKS:

Jeff’s presentation at Gather Conference 2023

Jeff and Sarah’s “Voices of Hope” video

CAYSEN CRUM

Content warning: suicidal ideation 

He was the quarterback of his high school’s football team. The homecoming king and the prom king. He served in student government, did a musical, learned several instruments, played five sports, earned his associates degree while still in high school, and quickly advanced to Assistant to the President status on his LDS mission. Never wanting to draw attention to himself for anything unbecoming, Caysen Crum earned his nickname, “Mr. Perfect.” He felt, “If I did everything exactly right, no one would suspect otherwise.”

 Along the way, Caysen dated girls—a lot of them. But the majority of his dates were with girls from out of town, where it was easier to limit physical contact. He only kissed one girl in high school, often presenting the excuse he was preparing to serve a mission. On his mission, Caysen promised God he would be exactly obedient if God would make him straight. But like so many who have tried before, Caysen learned that perfect obedience does not undo what he’d known about himself since 12-years-old. 

As a tween, Caysen discovered that his attractions leaned toward males, but he convinced himself boys were just admirable and he wanted to be like them—buff, handsome, tall. He brought it to his parents’ attention at this young age, telling them he wasn’t sure if this meant he was gay. Caysen feels his parents “did the best they could,” but remembers his mom saying the day of that revelation was one of the hardest of her life. Witnessing his parents’ reaction, Caysen determined he never wanted to cause another person to feel that way, so “Mr. Perfect” was born—a young man who tried everything to not be gay.

In the plea bargain phase of his mission to New Hampshire (French speaking), Caysen only told three companions about his orientation. While respectful, they each responded with more of an apologetic, “Oh, I’m sorry.” While he didn’t struggle with morality issues on his mission, he would wake up after having dreams that brought on shame as well as the constant reminder he would need to address this. Caysen had already developed a love for Jesus Christ prior to his mission, but says on his mission was where he gained a relationship with God and learned to really follow spiritual promptings.

About three weeks before he returned from New Hampshire, Caysen asked his mom to pray for him because he knew he’d really struggle coming home. But he kept the reason discreet. When he arrived, he found himself feeling jealous and bitter of his family’s adoration for his younger sister’s boyfriend turned fiancée as they celebrated his birthday and their engagement. Observing how easy it came for his family to do that, he wasn’t sure he’d ever get the same thing in return, which would often put him in dark moods.

Thus, Caysen threw himself onto Mutual (the app), trying to date girls. He had his first girlfriend in college who he says was “an angel.” After four and a half months of dating, she told him she felt like she was a checkbox item on his to do list. He couldn’t argue that and thanked her for her patience as he’d told her he had some things to work through. He wasn’t ready to admit to more quite yet—even to himself. (She is now happily married and the two remain friends.)

 A short while later, Caysen met a fellow runner who he presumed was gay. He would try to coax it out of him on long runs, with questions like, “So… who are you dating?” One day, Caysen felt ready to tell him he was (also) attracted to men. Their short, simple friendship eventually blossomed into a relationship. Caysen says, “I remember kissing him and finally being able to understand why people want to date.”

Caysen battled complex feelings internally over the next year-and-a-half as he experienced both pain and growth. Passionate about humanitarian work and travel, in the summer of 2022, Caysen returned from being an HXP counselor in Hawaii. He had a heartfelt, bitter conversation with God the whole 40 minutes home, crying “What do you want from me?” Caysen needed an outlet but had told no one besides his bishop about the relationship with the runner. Caysen was called in to meet with a stake presidency member, and was sure he was getting excommunicated. Instead, the leadership shared they wanted YSA to serve on their high council and were considering Caysen to be ordained to a High Priest so he could serve in that capacity.

Struggling with the second part of the second great commandment, to “love thy neighbor as thyself,” Caysen’s self-loathing had soared. Yet he felt seen as the stake shared that the other person they had just called to the high council happened to be his favorite former mission trainer, who had always emanated a Christlike love for Caysen. While Caysen considered the call, he ultimately didn’t feel right accepting it due to the crippling shame he was battling. At the time, he considered how the Savior had possibly died of a broken heart. While he figured his own heart wasn’t broken in quite the same way as the Savior’s, he felt it had “cracked a lot.”

One Sunday, Caysen gathered with his family to witness his younger brother be set apart for his mission. Several family members asked about his new presumed stake calling. Caysen wasn’t willing to share it wasn’t happening. Instead, that night, he had made a plan to take his life as his bereft loneliness took its toll. His plan was to leave the family event to attend the viewing of a friend’s father who had passed, and while in transit, drive his car so fast, he could roll it and “pray it kills me.” As he walked out his parents’ door, Caysen looked back at them and had the thought that he’d hope they’d be ok. He was unsure if any of them had any idea of the pain he was enduring trying to be their perfect son.

 As he pulled out of the driveway in his car, Caysen heard his grandma’s voice say, “Caysen Marc, I’m coming with you.” While this was always the name his father’s mom had called him, she was deceased, and it was actually his maternal grandmother now stopping him in his tracks. She was barefoot and without her purse and still insisted on going to the viewing of a man she didn’t know with Caysen at that moment. And she wouldn’t take no for an answer. In reflection, Caysen knows she had help from beyond to keep him here. While standing in line at the viewing for an hour and a half, Caysen contemplated what his plan would have done to those around him, and decided “today is not the day.” His mom called the next day and suggested he should go to therapy.

Caysen spent eight months working with a therapist whose only agenda was for Caysen to find happiness. He went in saying, “I’m so hellbent on being straight, I’ll do whatever you want me to do.” Over time, he realized there were things he couldn’t change, including the attitudes of people around him. But he decided to live with grace and patience, recognizing, “It took me 21 years to wrap my head around this, so I’m willing to give others the time to get to the acceptance phase.”

Last summer, after serving as an HXP counselor in Africa, Caysen was housesitting at his parents’ Minersville, UT (near Beaver) home. While on the back porch one night contemplating, the dust settled and a weight lifted as Caysen allowed it to sink in that every detail of his life was crafted by God who had made him intentionally. Caysen realized, “He knew I was gay. I knew I was gay, and I knew God was at peace with that because He created me.” Caysen called his therapist to share the experience. The therapist replied, “I knew you’d get there.” They laughed and had a good conversation, then Caysen called his bishop who confirmed that was the path Caysen had been on all along.

 Having only told his sister at that point, Caysen then decided to come out to each of his family members, one by one—first his parents, then his brother and other younger sister, then extended family--an exhausting process with mixed results. While a student at Southern Utah University later that fall, Caysen boldly decided to honor the tradition to gather in front of the Old Sorrel horse statue and kiss someone to “become a true T-bird.” The person Caysen kissed this time was a man. His friends filmed the experience, and it was posted on Be Real. Caysen says, “You would have thought a bomb dropped, so many people came up to me and said, ‘Was that for real? Wait, you’re gay!?’ It was a shotgun way to be done with it and come out.” The news spread like wildfire in Beaver, and Caysen’s not sure his family appreciated that so much. But he figured, “What better way to say who I am than to kiss a boy?”

 Caysen marked last year as a year of miracles, with his Africa trip, college graduation, coming out and starting to date according to his attractions, finishing therapy, and finally understanding how God and the Savior really feel about him. He’s since had one serious relationship with a man and is now enjoying the dating scene while working as an exercise therapist at UVU and an American Fork hospital, helping patients recover from cardiac-based events, while he prepares to apply for med school. He also works as an onboarding specialist for an orthodontics company. Caysen’s ultimate dream is to pursue expedition medicine. As his patients are often much older than him, when he helps them get up to walk down the halls, shuffling their feet, Caysen often reflects how this is much like how the Savior helps us along.

Caysen’s often asked by coworkers how he navigates being LDS and gay. They prod, “If there was a button you could press that would turn you straight, would you?” Caysen has realized he prefers to “keep my Gethsemane,” this part of him that he has learned to love. Caysen believes in the idea that “the Savior kept his scars. That’s who he became.” He continues, “I believe in the Resurrection and that the Savior has the power to heal and fix every affirmity. If I get to the other side and this is taken away, who will I be? Who will I have come to love? I really don’t know what my future holds nor what my life will look like, day by day. But where I’m at now is where I need to be—a place where I have come to love myself, which has allowed me to more fully love and serve others.”

THE GUSTAV-WRATHALL FAMILY

Many know John as the former president and first full-time executive director of Affirmation. With Erica Munson, he recently cofounded Emmaus, a non-profit that focuses on promoting better ministry to and alongside LGBTQ individuals and their families in and adjacent to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Church leaders everywhere from SLC headquarters to his home stake in Minneapolis, MN have consulted John as he freely shares with them the realities faced by his peers likewise walking the LDS-LGBTQ path.

Imagine visiting your parents and agreeing to attend their ward in Springville, Utah. There, people know things about your family, about you – including the fact that you’re gay and have been married to your partner for over a decade. Imagine sitting in Sunday School while a man we’ll call Bob rises to declare that the gay rights movement was inspired by Satan and “wo unto those who call evil good and good evil!” You want to leave -- of course you do, but somehow you stay through the rest of the lesson with your parents. Your white-knuckled mother suggests she can leave with you if you need to, but you have tapped into that inner voice -- that familiar presence in your life who has continually beseeched you and brought you yet again to this point. In fact, the Spirit has clocked you again this time as you received yet another prompting like the many, many before that have kept you coming back. The Spirit tells you: “Bob doesn’t know you. They don’t know you. But I know you and I am proud of you. You’re where you’re supposed to be.”

This is what it feels like to be John Gustav-Wrathall, a man who humbly endures the quagmire of knowing what it feels like to be LGBTQ in an LDS tribe, and vice versa. He’s endured many experiences like this over his 58 years and he fully acknowledges that the church is not always the healthiest or safest place for people like him. John first recognized his attractions in the fifth grade. At 14, he looked up the word “homosexual” in the dictionary and knew it applied to him. He quietly tried to process this. It was the 1970s, so he turned to Spencer W. Kimball’s book, The Miracle of Forgiveness, in an attempt to “overcome his sexuality” – a hope that lasted for many years, and ultimately proved harmful, when he realized he couldn’t actually change this part of him. John came out for the first time to God through prayer at the age of 23, where in a divine experience, he felt perfect love, understanding, and acceptance and was told there was nothing he needed to change or overcome. Shortly after, he came out to his parents. Their initial reaction sent him back into the closet with them. Then in 1988, at age 25, John committed to a life of complete integrity and came out publicly. Sharing who he was with all who mattered was “a profoundly spiritual experience” that helped drive him to write editorials in Minneapolis-based papers, and to become an activist at the University of Minnesota where he helped organize and run the campus association of LGBTQ+ student organizations. John researched and wrote monographs on LGBTQ history that analyzed historical sources on the gay experience, one of which was published in the Journal of American History. His book, Take the Young Stranger by the Hand, a study of the gay male experience in the 150-year history of the YMCA, was published by the University of Chicago Press in 1998. John laughs, “So you could say that from my late 20s, I was pretty much out to the whole world.”

In 1986, John was ex-communicated from the LDS church; but in 2005, he had a powerful spiritual experience in which he felt the Lord calling him back. By this time, he had been married to his partner Göran for 14 years. Together the two, who both work in the legal field, fostered a gay son from the age of 15 who was placed with them by a foster care agency that hoped they could be positive role models for him. It was actually Goran (who is not LDS) who encouraged John to follow the promptings that led him to a place of greater integrity in relation to his testimony of the gospel. John recalls he had an “argument with the Lord that lasted about a month as he tried to explain to the Lord why he couldn’t come back;” but ultimately, he gave in. Göran did worry about John’s mental health, as he had been suicidal during his last year of prior activity in the church... Göran also worried the church might try to drive a wedge between them. But John was embraced by his bishop, who welcomed him back while also maintaining full respect for John’s family situation. He let John know he was there to support him in his growth as a child of God and disciple of Christ and “he encouraged me to live as much of the gospel as I could within the constraints placed upon me,” John recalls. John is not able to partake of the sacrament nor have an official calling, but otherwise has been quite active in his ward, as all his bishops and stake presidents since have likewise encouraged. While Göran might not be the biggest fan of the church or organized religion in general, he loves John’s ward members, who have embraced them both.

“I struggle because I totally understand why people feel the need to leave – I’ve heard so many really awful stories of how people have been treated. There are different ways you can be in a relationship with the church. My way works for me. None of my bishops have seen me as any less.” In fact, several high-ranking church leaders have invited him (and Göran) to their offices on multiple occasions to inquire about the realities he and others in the LGBTQ community face as they try to pursue their spiritual paths. And John tells them: “This is why people leave… this is where the pain is… why people just can’t do it.” John says, “I don’t tell them how to do their job, but I try to provide as much information as I can. They genuinely want to know. I think sometimes it falls on us to do the work, and this is one way things in the church might change.” John recognizes the unique strength it takes to fill his role and has worked to make his a ministry that helps all along their path, wherever it may lead.

John says, “For me, being out of the closet as a believing Latter-day Saint is every bit as much a matter of integrity as being out of the closet as a gay man. Göran understands that and nothing brings out the papa bear in him more than when members of the LGBTQ community have attacked me or criticized me because of my engagement with the church…” While it hasn’t always been easy, John recognizes how each of his life experiences has led him to this point. Including that encounter many years ago with Bob. John did stay in that Sunday School class, and went to priesthood meeting after with his dad. He is grateful he did as he says Bob himself actually delivered a priesthood lesson that changed John’s life: “Bob said, ‘It takes a half hour to perform all the saving ordinances available in the restored gospel, but it takes a lifetime to truly become Christlike.' That lesson became a road map for my life. I realized that even if I could not receive the ordinances now, I could work to become more Christlike. The Lord kept me there for that lesson. And I learned it from someone who I thought hated me, and didn’t understand me. The Lord told him to teach this to me.” After church that day, John’s father said he was going to have a talk with Bob. John agreed that might be a good idea, but to “make sure you tell Bob how grateful I am for his lesson…” Fast forward two years. John again visited his parents’ ward, and again, who’s the teacher? Bob. But this time Bob’s message was different. With tears in his eyes, Bob taught, “We as a church have failed our LGBTQ members. We have a lot of work to do. We need to listen to and understand them, and we need to let them know they belong.” John recognizes that kind of change in perspective happens from a number of life experiences and interactions over a long period of time. Perhaps the conversation his dad initiated had something to do with it. Perhaps Bob had a moment when he recognized that many people like John stopped coming altogether -- or that a few people like John kept coming back to imperfect congregations so that they might also tap into the feeling of perfect love as embodied by the Savior - a love that is equally theirs. John recognizes it’s extremely difficult to tolerate the (former) Bobs of the world, and also, that it takes a lot of work to consistently tune into the communication channel with God so that hurtful comments don’t drive you out. But he knows that he belongs in the Lord's Church, that he needs to be there for the same reasons as everyone else.

 John Gustav-Wrathall will never forget the day he came home from school at age 15 and his mom greeted him at the door with tearful words: “President Kimball has received a revelation.” It was 1978, and even now when John re-reads the Official Declaration 2 of the LDS church that finally removed all restrictions regarding race, what most resonates with him is its acknowledgment of the impact of the faithfulness of Black members like John’s friend and mentor Darius Gray, who helped organize the Genesis Group, an official outreach of the Church that supported black members of the Church both before and since the 1978 revelation on priesthood.

Now seeking to minister to and with LGBTQ individuals and their families over four decades later, John draws inspiration from the opening words of the aforementioned declaration: The Book of Mormon teaches that “all are alike unto God,” including “black and white, bond and free, male and female” (2 Nephi 26:33). John feels the only way for him to do this work is by “going in through the front door.” Though he has frequently met with Church leaders — including bishops, stake presidents, seventies and even an apostle — to discuss with them the realities faced by LGBTQ members of the Church, John doesn’t lobby church leaders to change doctrine. Rather, he believes that if change is to come about, it will come as he and other LGBTQ Church members exercise faith, and gather and serve with their fellow Saints.

Emmaus, the ministry he founded a little over a year ago with Erika Munson, was inspired by the story found in Luke 24 in which two disciples are joined by a man along their walk to Emmaus, as they mourn the loss of Jesus after the crucifixion. They invite the man to dine with them, whereupon they recognize him as the resurrected Savior. “We see our ministry as a journey in which gradually our eyes are opened, and we see the Savior in our midst,” says John. Emmaus focuses on fostering better ministry in the church with a two-part mission: 1 – to support individuals in exercising faith and living the gospel to the best of their ability; and 2 – to work with church leaders and members to foster the best possible ministry to and with LGBTQ individuals and their families in and adjacent to the Church. This means helping people to understand the harsh realities faced by LGBTQ members, including why most leave as well as why some choose to stay. He says he’s never met a church leader not interested in having that conversation.

Far too often, Church members, intentionally or unintentionally, ostracize LGBTQ members. But John feels every ward can and should be a safe and welcoming place for LGBTQ individuals, whether in or out of a relationship, whether or not they’ve transitioned. When John began attending his ward in Minneapolis, his bishop took the approach that his responsibility was to help John live a more spiritual life, to become more Christlike, regardless of his relationship or membership status. His bishop didn’t see his role being to tell John what to do or what decisions to make, but to be a friend and a resource to John in his efforts to be a better disciple.

“It is so crucial to be fully supportive of LGBTQ people wherever they are,” says John. “I understand why many choose to step away from the church. I did myself for almost two decades.” But at this point in his life, while still living with his husband of 30 years and also showing up each week at his local LDS congregation, whose members he says fully embrace him, John says, “I believe the way things change in relation to LGBTQ stuff is that those of us who are LGBTQ Saints live our faith to the best of our ability, stay close to the Church, and share our light, doing the best we can within the constraints placed upon us.”

A new development John has observed in the past year has been how many leaders at all levels are showing greater interest in the problem of faith crises in general. John has studied the science of faith development, with a particular interest in how the challenges of faith development play out in the lives of LGBTQ individuals as they become aware of their sexuality or gender identity and then as they make sense of and incorporate it into their identity and social relationships. 

“LGBTQ youth are raised in the same world, but their experience will be different than those in a hetero-cisgender society,” says John. Referring to James Fowler’s classic study, Stages of Faith John explains, “Both LGBTQ and heterosexual individuals initially express faith in the ‘authoritarian conforming stage' by trying to conform their life and belief system to what authority tells you. Many live comfortably in this stage of faith development for the rest of their lives. But for a variety of reasons, many people reach a point where this doesn’t work for them, and they begin to consider the ways that their beliefs might be different from their peers. They question authority. This ‘individuation’ stage is critical to developing a mature faith, because it’s the stage where you really make your testimony your own. After that, there is an ‘integration’ stage, where we take all the things we’ve learned on our own, as free thinkers, and integrate them back into the community. We see the value of our individual experience and we also see the value of Church doctrine. With that awareness, our desire is to serve the community and strengthen the whole.”

John continues, “In the church, we do really well with the ‘authoritarian conforming’ stage. When individuals then enter the ‘individuation’ stage, there’s a tendency to assume people are losing their faith. But really, they are deepening their faith. They are strengthening it. It’s in questioning that faith becomes tried and true. We tend to ostracize folks in this stage, because we see it as rejection of the faith. If you’re LGBTQ or a family member of an LGBTQ individual, this individuation ‘faith crisis’ often coincides with the coming out process. That intensifies it and creates even harsher disconnects with the community. But this stage of faith development doesn’t need to become a crisis. We don’t need to lose people at this stage. Really, this is the stage where faith gets really interesting My hope is we can figure out ways to nurture people through those phases without having to cut ties from the church. A faith crisis shouldn’t have to by synonymous with people leaving the church.”

What are the best tools for LGBTQ members to stay? Affirmation did a 2016 study under John’s direction in which they surveyed 1400 people identifying as LGBTQ or as a family member of an LGBTQ member. They found that before the 2015 policy, about 50% of the people they surveyed were active in the church. Of those who were active before the policy, about 50% more left after the policy. A month after the policy, John met with his bishop who estimated that 60% of his ward were struggling as a result of the policy. In looking at the data gathered in the survey, while John understood why many were leaving the Church over this, he wondered why did those who stay, stay? John said, “In the study, if we looked at those who had stayed, we found that about half of them expressed some level of mistrust in church leaders. But 100% of this group characterized their relationship with God as ‘very strong’.” John’s takeaway was that if you have a relationship with God, it gives you a kind of resilience in dealing with Church. Leaders can be imperfect and lose our trust, but it won’t be a decisive thing for you to leave.

He also found that individuals who trusted themselves, who believed in their own goodness and in their ability to make good decisions in their lives were also more likely to stay in the Church. “It can’t be the Church vs. Me, and the church wins out, and I suppress who I am. If we do that, we can’t have a healthy relationship with the Church. You have to affirm yourself and believe in your own goodness. You have to believe God is there and have patience. I have a mental practice where if I pray about something and don’t get an answer, I teach myself to wait. Be still my soul. Hang in there. Eventually I get my answer. But I have to maintain that connection…” John says, “So often over the years, I’ve observed people come out. They and their families do a painful dance with church, hoping for more love or support, hoping for change. And then, a year or two later, they leave. I don’t know if it’s possible for people to stay. But if there was any way for them to do that, and to do it with faith and patience and hope, those individuals and families become sources of light for everyone. The good news is it doesn’t take many of us. 9 out of 10 could leave; but if 1 in 10 stay and follow principles of loving self and loving God – if it inspired them to love their neighbors even when they’re unkind, even when they lack understanding, then that 1 in 10 could make a real difference.

 “What if we could give LGBTQ people the right kind of support, so instead of experiencing trauma as they enter that stage of individuation and questioning, they could experience growth as valued members of the community?” John asks. “I don’t know what the future holds. I don’t know exactly how God is going to work all of this stuff out. But I know that it will work out, and I want to be there when it happens. And we all deserve to be here. Actually, the Church can’t be everything that it is supposed to be without us.”

SHANE CARPENTER

Content warning: suicidal ideation, depression

On social media, Shane Carpenter radiates a bright smile, a generous heart, and buoyant enthusiasm. His posts are vulnerable, poetic, wide-reaching. One even went viral within 30 minutes as on March 23, 2019, on his IG @iamnotashaned, he was the first person he knew of to come out as gay online while actively serving as a missionary for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. It was an impression he felt inspired to follow—to offer others hope. 

In contrast, Shane Carpenter’s high school journal collection reads like a depressing anthology. The notebooks were his means to survival. The one place he could deposit his constant self-loathing just enough to take the edge off in order to keep going. When he revisits those pages today, Shane’s quick to close the books. He almost doesn’t recognize or even remember the person he used to be. It’s painful.

As a member of a family with a robust history of neurodivergence and mental health struggles, including extreme ADHD, Shane has to work hard to retrieve memories of a time before the depression invaded the driver’s seat. He recalls recognizing at age 8 or 9 that he felt a unique attraction to a childhood male friend of his and his twin brother. “He was beautiful; even as a child I recognized something I was drawn to. I was not particularly drawn to other kids, especially girls.” For Shane, there was no aha moment in his youth where he determined he was gay; he says he “just always knew.”  

Heading into high school, Shane and his twin brother were friends with the other LDS youth in their Texas town. But he knew better to vocalize the attractions that only increased as he observed the friends around him becoming more entrenched in dating culture and asking girls to dances. Shane says, “There was little to no appeal for me in going other than having a good time with friends. I also never considered the idea of wanting to have an experience that would validate my feelings, because I didn’t see any reflections in my social life or on TV and media that showed me the feelings I was having could be real.” Shane adds there was no Disney romance or character in which he saw himself; at the time, he didn’t even know any members of the LGBTQ+ community. 

As he got older, Shane became more entrenched in a depressive cycle, feeling unworthy of others’ care and in general, unsuccessful in life compared to other kids. His mom (who has shared her story in this forum before) says this is the time she lost her son because Shane was “more or less a different person.” He became very secluded and antisocial, and more than once considered how taking his life seemed very appealing. But that just made his guilt worse as he’d realize, “I didn’t have abusive parents or anything. I had such good family and friends, and my ward and charter school were fine for the most part as I had no clear bullies.” The fact his life seemed pretty good on paper made Shane even more depressed, as he'd think, “Why do I hate myself when there’s not a good reason to? Why do I want to die when there are so many reasons to live?” But he felt blinded by his self-loathing as to what exactly those reasons were. Shane now says he has tens if not hundreds of journal entries from that time he calls a depression manifest. It feels like a blur.

During his senior year, Shane’s dad lost his job which required the family to move to Utah to be closer to family and new tech opportunities. While he knew he’d miss his childhood home, Shane appreciated the chance to start fresh among a sea of people who didn’t know the Shane he loathed in the world he left behind. He met one friend that year, the one girl besides his mom he was able to open up to. She replied that she absolutely already knew he was gay and that and it didn’t make one bit of a difference to her. Shane felt a relief that he could now take up more space as himself, as he said he had tried for so many years to remain secluded and quiet because he felt he was “always kind of flamboyant, even if I didn’t want to be.”

When Shane graduated from high school, his depression followed him to college, where at BYU Idaho, during his second semester, Shane decided to come out of the closet. His mental health had plummeted even worse as he was no longer venting in his journals and expunging some of the darkness that pervaded him. The suicidal thoughts increased. But he now had a new friend and support system. In his first semester of college, Shane had walked into his new apartment and met one of his five roommates who had a quality that felt familiar. “Munchy” was sitting on the couch and during their first interaction said, “Hey, don’t take this the wrong way but you remind me so much of Sam Smith.” Shane definitely took that as a compliment and immediately knew he’d be able to be himself around Munchy. The two shared a love for Mario Cart, anime, books, and their shared religion, and ultimately, the two came out to each other. Both admitted neither was surprised. Shane says, “Neither of us was into each other; there was no romance present, but we both now had a friend who, despite having very different life experiences, could relate in this one life-changing way.”  

Shane considered a mission, as those at BYU Idaho do. Drawing from his undeniable faith in God’s love for him that he’d acquired over the three years he saved money to go to EFY, Shane knew he wanted to share that love with others. It was at EFY that Shane gained a weeklong witness that he was known for who he was and not a mistake but was intentional and that God was real and loved him,. But he knew he only wanted to serve as “all of me.” All the experiences Shane had had in the closet were miserable, except for his time at EFY. After relishing being able to be himself with his high school female friend and Munchy, he knew he didn’t want to go back into hiding. He drove home one weekend to Lehi to ponder on this and while listening to Demi Lovato’s cover of “Let It Go,” Shane had a powerful experience in which he knew it was time to shed his self-hatred. He felt and consumed the words, “You can be who I know you can be. You’ve always been that person; it’s just a matter of loving that person.”

After four hours of crafting a post he absolutely did not intend or want to share, Shane followed the prompting to come out publicly, knowing deep down that while it made him uncomfortable to do so, someone out there needed him to say it. He says, “Me coming out was not a surprise to anyone. But it was cool to get quite a few messages from people I knew who said my post made them feel seen and gain the confidence to love themselves or come out, if they felt they needed to.” 
When he met with his bishop to start his papers, he was touched how neither his bishop nor stake president viewed his orientation as a road block to serving. He recognizes many experience negative interactions with leaders lacking that proximity, but when Shane asked his bishop whether he should serve as an openly gay missionary, the bishop’s response was, “Why should we consider the idea of you not serving? It makes no sense. You want to increase your relationship with Jesus Christ and help others; I don’t need to think too much about this.”

It took six months for Shane’s paperwork to process, which turned out to be another blessing as the new mission president and his wife of Shane’s Anaheim, CA mission were the parents of a gay son themselves who’d been mistreated on his mission, causing them to commit to doing everything in their power to support, love and lift any LGBTQ+ missionaries in their field. All of Shane’s companions except two were supportive and kind about his orientation, and Shane was given numerous opportunities to help other missionaries around the world who reached out wanting advice for how best to communicate with LGBTQ+ friends wanting to hear more about the church. 

One day during their scripture study, Shane’s companion, who was his second trainer, felt impressed that they should pray to ask Heavenly Father to inspire them with the ideas and resources they’d need that day. Shortly after, Shane had an impression he needed to make a video about his experiences. He pushed this aside immediately, but the prompting lingered a second day, and his companion concurred if it was a prompting, he should follow it That was the day of Shane’s January 10, 2021 Facebook post that went viral within 30 minutes in which he introduced himself as an openly gay missionary. Within an hour, after thousands of views, Shane’s mission president called and said he had no problem with the video, but to give them a heads up so they could make sure to protect Shane if his safety became threatened.

“That post provided me the most incredible experience of my life to this day,” says Shane, who subsequently received messages from places including Japan, Canada, Brazil, Germany, and Thailand, from people who wanted to solicit his help in teaching their LGBTQ+ contacts, as well as closeted and/or prospective missionaries who were able to use Shane’s post as motivation to either come out themselves or to have the conversation with a church leader that they were indeed allowed to serve despite identifying as LGBTQ+. “Those first six months, I had more virtual meetings with LGBTQ+ individuals around the world than I did with the people I was teaching in person in California. That was everything to me.”

Two years post-mission, Shane is living with his family in Colorado, working as a wedding photographer and trying to save money for a place of his own. He serves in his YSA ward as an EQ teacher where he has on occasion shared relevant stories about being gay now and then. He also speaks at Northstar events and is always open to connecting with anyone who may be seeking a listening ear. Unsure of what his future holds, Shane maintains the faith that one day eternal blessings will make sense for him, though they don’t right now. He also feels that, “If the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is meant to be for everyone, it really needs to have a pew for everyone… I’m of the opinion that attending church is not just about my personal relationship with the Savior; but me attending and being vocal is maybe one small contribution to the church being able to grow and improve in regard to inclusivity. If everyone (like me) up and left, church would be pretty boring and dull. There’s a value to be found in LGBTQ+ individuals showing up on Sunday mornings and loving those around them, and showing we are meant to be there. Because Christ wants every single one of us to be there with Him. For me right now, that’s enough reason to go.”

THE MCCLELLAN FAMILY

Marion and David McClellan were initiated into the camp of parents who just go with it with their firstborn. Their oldest child, Anna, stomped around in moonboots and Yu-Gi-Oh t-shirts playing Pokemon and that’s just how things were, so they let her be her. Marion says, “The minute I wasn’t dressing her in floofy pink dresses anymore, she was instantly in basketball shorts and graphic t’s.” The McClellans operated off the assumption, “We just thought kids are however they came out.” So nine years later when their young son Ford was wearing Wicked Witch of the West costumes and aqua glitter butterfly flip flops or ruby red slippers, Marion says, “We just went with it.” Little did they know that decades later, Anna would discover the word “nonbinary” best described her gender identity, which immediately made complete sense to her husband, parents, and everyone else who has known and loved her over her 32 years. Anna being Anna paved the way for Ford’s journey when he later came out as gay in 2018, at age 16.

It happened one night while sitting on the couch listening to his mom’s playful prodding about the importance of getting his Duty to God award plan in place. Ford—typically the “most compliant and sweet kid in the universe who showed up a half an hour early every week to prep the sacrament”—snippily turned to his mom and said, “Mom, I’m gay and I don’t want to be Mormon anymore!” Marion says “stunned” and “shocked” are not strong enough words to describe the feeling that coursed through her body. Her first coherent thought was, “We couldn’t have a gay kid! We have FHE every week!” Marion had believed everything she was taught about gay people—that it was a choice. But somehow, she was able to harness these emotions with a force “that must have been from God.” Gentle words informed her reply: “We love you. We’ll walk with you on whatever path you choose. Your dad loves you. Do you need anything else because I need to go whip the cream for this party we’re having in 5 minutes?” Ford later confirmed that he premeditated the timing of his delivery, knowing his mom couldn’t completely lose it with company coming over.

Ford ran downstairs “like a cockroach” to be by himself, and Marion went into the kitchen to whip the cream (while bawling hysterically) for the party of people now approaching in four minutes. Somehow, she kept it together and later that night, approached her son to check on him and ask if he wanted to tell his dad or if he wanted her to do it.  Ford gave her permission to tell his dad. 

That night, David walked into their room to find Marion staring at the wall like a zombie. She blurted out, “Ford is gay and doesn’t want to be Mormon anymore,” the latter part of this sentence holding the more troubling truth for her. David replied, “Are you serious?” The look she returned confirmed it. David’s facial reaction made Marion glad Ford wasn’t in the room with them. But that night, David went through the entire grieving process, while Marion took an Ambien and went to sleep. They both woke up with the same conclusion—that they had a lot of work to do to become the parents Ford needed them to be. 

While David tends to be a “thoughtful, slow processor,” Marion says she’s never been considered an “underwhelming” figure and prefers the firehose approach to life. Thus, she jumped right in the deep end with resources, the next day consulting with a trusted friend who was already a Mama Dragon and mother of two queer kids. She came home with a link to the Mackintosh Family’s story on the LDS church’s website, and The Family Acceptance Project. David and Marion met with Richard Ostler in her first week of learning and soon after found Encircle. As she shared these resources with David, they both came to the same conclusion that their sweet Ford, “as close to perfect as you could get,” did not choose this and had not been “swept up in lascivious lies.” 

Marion jokes that the church’s fatal flaw was teaching her that she could talk to God and God would talk back. An extremely devout member of the LDS faith who had served in “all the callings,” Marion says, “The same voice that gave me counselors names for presidencies and had been talking to me all my life said, ‘There’s nothing wrong with your son, he is exactly as I created him.” While this was somewhat of a relief, it put Marion—and her husband who had the same impression—in a really tricky spot with their belief system. She now says, “It’s interesting that most of the parents in the support groups we’ve been a part of heard the same thing about their kids.” 

The McClellans still live in the cozy gingerbread house in which they raised their six kids in Payson, Utah. It was the home David’s grandparents had built and lived in, and Marion loved the Brady Bunch-esque idea of living in the same home forever, so after David’s grandmother died, they bought it. After the whiplash of an immediately onset faith crisis, this home became their enclave, as church—once their second home—quickly became tricky territory to navigate. Marion began to hear all the messages the way her child must have—as a10-year-old in Primary singing songs about eternal families, and realizing none of that was for him. As a young man being taught that homosexual behavior is a serious sin. “But at age 12, breathing and washing dishes are human behaviors.” Marion now reflects that a tween isn’t able to differentiate exactly what “behavior” indicates, leading to self-loathing and shame. She says, “Fortunately, he didn’t absorb much of that; he knew he didn’t choose this, so it couldn’t be a sin. And we are very lucky because a majority of parents in our community find out their child is queer AFTER a suicide attempt. Fortunately for us, he wasn’t in that category.”

But still, Ford was not yet ready for others outside his family to know he was gay, so his mom encouraged him to keep attending church to avoid suspicions. She now says, “I don’t regret many things in my life because if I could have done better, I would have. But I regret that I didn’t have him stop attending church immediately and stay home with him. I wish I knew how dangerous it was for him to continue attending, even with his resilience.” Marion says most of the parents in this space she’s befriended share that regret. As she continued to see the harm in policies—especially as she had to explain the 2015 exclusion policy to her perfect child, Marion’s world unraveled. Church became a minefield, as she fearfully anticipated what people might say each week. She started bringing a second set of keys and there were only two Sundays that whole year she didn’t leave early, crying. After going to church, it took Marion nearly an entire week to recover before the Saturday dread and Sunday trauma would return again. But at this difficult time, Marion still felt fortunate to work in the temple with David. That first year after Ford came out, they were in the temple weekly, and for Marion, often daily, as there, she could quiet her mind and seek clarity. 

In the temple, she remembers being fascinated by Eve, and how she was “exactly correct.” Marion continues, “In the church I grew up in, there were only ‘Adams’ allowed. We were expected to be obedient with exactness, not to look at a commandment and choose something differently.” In the temple, she heard words come to her clear as day that said, “You were never meant to be an Adam. It’s time you start acting like the Eve you were always meant to be.”

But after a lifetime of daily scripture reading and memorizing handbooks, embracing a nuanced mindset was virtually impossible. It took half of her six kids deciding to stop attending church, some painful therapy sessions with David, and a silent meditation retreat for Marion to examine her personal integrity before she experienced the clarity she was seeking. She says she came to a realization that she would never associate with any organization that taught what her church taught about queer people; so was it the right place for her to remain? For Marion, the decision was no. She knew this decision would not be popular in their heavily LDS, Payson, UT community, but she had also watched how her straight kids had concurrently been so warmly embraced by the LGBTQ+ community they had begun to interact with at family events at Encircle and the Augenstein family’s frequent ally events. Marion knew they could still find community; it might just look a little different. 

One day she asked one of her straight sons if he was ok “going to all the gay stuff with us.” He replied, “Yeah, the gays are a lot more fun than the straights.” While at Encircle, Marion also sadly observed how many LGBTQ+ people had lost their families after coming out and weren’t even allowed to be around their younger siblings anymore. She saw how quick they were to embrace her family. While her faith deconstruction had proven to be the most painful thing she’d ever experienced, Marion says, “When people say the lazy learner thing about people like us who have gone through this, I want to punch them in the face. There’s nothing lazy about what we’ve gone through.”

The McClellans have deeply felt the agony that comes when you step away from a faith community that’s not exactly trained to know what to do with you. After having been in the same neighborhood where they served their ward and stake families diligently for 30 years, Marion says there is a painful void.

All that being said, Marion feels, “Having a gay kid is the greatest blessing I never knew I wanted. I would never change any of it, even with the pain and strangeness. Our lives needed to change… But I would never change him. I love him and his partner.”

Ford, 23, now lives with his partner in Midvale and works as an engineer for a soil tech firm at Hill Air Force Base. Marion loves observing his happiness. She reflects how once upon a time, she put qualifiers on parental success based on whether her kids were “on the covenant path,” but now she’s grateful to observe them from a vantage point where she can just step back and appreciate how all six of her kids are “the most amazing humans. They are such good people – so compassionate, so thoughtful, they love our family. Before, I just had a limited ability to see.”

DR. GREG PETERSON

Dr. Greg Peterson spent the first month of this summer in an empty house, sleeping on an air mattress, and shopping at Kohl’s for his day-to-day wardrobe needs to start his new job. He didn’t know when he moved to Salt Lake City that he’d be arriving a month before the moving truck with all his belongings. But he chooses to look on the bright side, saying: “We’ve got air conditioning, running water, Wi-Fi, a couple barstools, and we’re together. It will all work out. It’s an adventure.”

It's a life the Greg Peterson of ten years ago never anticipated possible: living in a committed relationship with a man he loves in Utah, where he has recently been named the president of Salt Lake Community College. The new job position surprises few, considering Greg’s longtime academic career passions and success. But a self-described “late bloomer in the love department,” it wasn’t until Greg’s late 30s that he allowed himself to finally explore the need to accept his orientation and pursue a relationship.

Growing up in Oregon City, Greg was always an academic. As a young student, he loved to sing, draw, play soccer and most of all, read. When Greg entered adulthood and became a first-generation community college student, he had an opportunity to teach ESL to adults who’d migrated to the States and saw up close how much they were able to improve their lives because of language acquisition. Greg’s eyes opened further when he worked in a furniture warehouse for a summer, “which was horrible but I had to,” and met co-workers who would have been doctors and professionals in their home countries but were stuck in difficult, menial jobs. These bonds inspired him to try to provide opportunities for all, with education as the change agent. Greg felt this could best be done by pursuing a career in the community college space. 

Greg went on to earn a bachelor’s degree in English from BYU, a master’s in adult learning from Portland State University, a doctorate in educational administration from the University of Texas Austin, and an MBA from Kaplan University. As he studied, he initially worked as an ESL teacher, but gradually began to move into administration roles. Selected as an Aspen New President Fellow and recently recognized as East Valley Man of the Year by Positive Paths, throughout his career, Dr. Peterson has led key efforts in student learning and success that have impacted over 100,000 students through developing transfer partnerships and college promise programs at various institutions as well as launching the first community college Artificial Intelligence program in the nation.

Now recognized in his field, there was a time when one of Greg’s superiors noticed things weren’t going so well. While employed at Long Beach City College, Greg was battling dark emotions and trying his best to keep his personal life separate from the professional, as he’d done for decades. Feeling deep duress and isolation one night in which he was contemplating taking his life, he decided to call his parents. He wasn’t able to voice the source or extent of his despair on the phone, but the time and nature of the call concerned his parents and he felt it. “The worry I would hurt them if I were to do something made me think differently. That was a turning point to accepting this part of me.” Greg’s boss at work had also noticed something was off, that Greg wasn’t the happy, open person he’d once been. Greg says, “I came out to him, and he was really supportive.” That led to the beginning of Greg’s coming out journey. 

Throughout his many years as a rising academic, Greg had been used to “living in my head,” so he had heretofore turned off his emotions and tried to stay there to avoid it all. He says, “I tried to be as obedient and as Christlike as I could be. All that emotion—the natural man—I tried to keep it locked away.” He recalls times in hiding in which people would ask him how his morning had gone, and he’d shut down and find himself debating whether it was safe to say what he’d had for breakfast. “I was managing everything, so worried about people finding this out about me and how bad I was.”

Finally one day, Greg decided to turn to God, and says he “really prayed.” In return, he says he felt God’s love and the divine confirmation that he was ok. After coming out to his boss, Greg wrote a letter to his parents, then told a couple brothers, then a couple friends in a “really slow process” in which Greg says, “I felt like I needed to know all the answers so I could answer all the questions I might get asked. I didn’t want to get pinned down and not know where I was, nor do or say something that would be held against me later or harm others. It took me longer to accept that where I am today might not be where I am tomorrow. I felt like people wanted me to be static, but that’s not how life works.”

The past few years reflect the opposite, with active changes for Greg. He remembers taking a survey at last fall’s Gather conference in which respondents were asked if five years ago, they knew where they’d be today on a scale of 1 to 5. Greg says he was in the 1 territory of never anticipating he’d be in a relationship or moving to Utah. But now, he’s in a wonderful live-in relationship with his formerly long-distance partner after making the move to accept the promotion at Utah’s top community college. It was a job interview process that also revealed how far things have come, as Dr. Peterson was able to openly talk about his own personal relationship as he expressed his commitment to honoring the best interests of the diverse student population at SLCC as both gay and a member of the Church.

Greg also stays active by working out at the gym almost daily, and he still loves to sing. The former college where he worked offered a Broadway music solos class that Greg took a few times both to observe student perspectives and for a chance to sing onstage himself. At one semester-end concert, he took on “You’ll Be Back” from Hamilton. Over the years, Greg’s also loved to sing in church, saying, “It’s one of the things I like best about going.” 

While Greg maintains a belief in God and trusts the church is “a tool of our Heavenly Parents to guide us back and feel their love,” he says, “I don’t know that the church knows where I fit or has a place for me right now.” To expound, Greg says, “The church wants me, but not the full me. There’s an expectation I’d have to sacrifice parts of me to become like the Savior, and as a disciple, I believe this is true, but I can’t draw nearer to my Savior by sacrificing this authentic part of me. I can’t do that.” For now, Greg is most interested in focusing on walking with the Savior, day by day.  Similar to the patience he embodied while waiting for the moving truck with his furniture to finally arrive (and it did), Greg says, “I can’t think about where I fit in the eternities in our church, but I do know that my Savior will provide a way for me, and I don’t have to have all the answers. I’ll just keep moving forward, trusting Him as I navigate where I feel His love, and where I need to be.”

THE DAVIS FAMILY

“All great spirituality is about what we do with our pain. If we do not transform our pain, we will transmit it to those around us.” This was the Richard Rohr quote TeriDel Davis opened with at a recent presentation at an ally night in her Gilbert, AZ hometown. Joined by her husband, Tad, TeriDel then passed the mic to their 17-year-old trans daughter Kay to expand on the pain she thought she’d be able to bury until after high school, when it might be a better time to “figure it out.” But Kay explained, “This didn’t work out very well for me, as the only way I could bury the pain was to try and make myself numb to (it).” Citing Brene Brown, she continued, “When you numb your pain, you numb your joy.”

The desire to teach their kids to pursue rather put off joy is what has propelled the Davis family to share their journey. 

For TeriDel, the import of the call to be Kay’s mother started while she was pregnant with her oldest and being set apart for a calling. After the standard calling-related language, TeriDel was given specifics about the child she carried, that she would “find being his mom hard because it would be very difficult, but if I raised him unto God that he would then bring me the greatest joy I would ever know.” Anticipating her child would be born with severe special needs, TeriDel was surprised when Kay was born a healthy, happy newborn. As a toddler, Kay proved to be quite advanced, demonstrating high intelligence. But as she continued to grow, TeriDel says it was indeed difficult to raise and connect with Kay. The Davis family learned Kay was autistic, which propelled TeriDel to adjust her parenting style so that she could better connect with and teach Kay. 

When Kay was baptized at eight years old, her parents felt immense joy and gratitude that despite the challenging years, they had gotten to a good place and that Kay was “a kind, loving, smart kid who had proven very dedicated to pleasing her Heavenly Father.” About five years later of growth opportunities for the family, which now included younger siblings Gibson aka “Gibby” – now 16, Langston aka “Badger”—14, Cliff—12, Lilah—9, and an older foster child, Cynthia, Kay asked if she could talk about something that had been weighing on her. She wanted to know if TeriDel thought her younger brother Gibby had ever shown signs of being gay. TeriDel initially was upset Kay had asked this, thinking Kay might be agreeing with the school bullies who had been teasing Gibby for some time. She firmly replied that they’d had many conversations with Gibby and his therapist and that he wasn’t gay and that these kinds of questions were hurtful to Gibby.

The conversation initiated several months of heated conversations between TeriDel and Kay about LGBTQ issues, until one day, Kay approached her mother and again asked the same question about Gibby. Upset at her persistence, TeriDel turned from the dishes she was washing to scold Kay but saw a pained look in her eyes. TeriDel replied she needed a moment before she could answer. She went to her room to pray, where she was prompted that Kay was asking these questions about herself, and that TeriDel needed to become okay with Kay being gay or transgender very quickly and go talk to her about it. TeriDel says, “It was made very clear to me that Heavenly Father would not be okay with me doing anything other than loving Kay and supporting her.” 

TeriDel called her husband Tad at work, who concurred. She then called Kay into her room and point blank asked her if she was gay. Panicked, Kay mumbled in return that no, but she was experiencing feelings of gender dysphoria. TeriDel had to ask what that meant. Tad explains, “It’s like you don’t even know the questions to even ask until you have to.” He explains that over the next several months in their research, things would come up that proved unsettling to his theretofore reliance on binary, black-and-white church doctrines. “It was unsettling in the sense I thought I could put everything in the right place on the bookshelf. But this was like someone had knocked over the whole shelf, and some of the books on the floor I didn’t need anymore, and I realized I needed some new books, too.”

While this was the first time they were able to talk about it as a family, Kay had been quietly battling complex thoughts and emotions for sometime privately. When returning from a family party with cousins on her 13th birthday, Kay sat in the back of the family van pondering her reality and future. Asking herself questions about how she might avoid typical teenage pitfalls and drama, Kay identified that she’d never felt an attraction to boys and thus must not be gay, nor did she desire to get into a romantic relationship as she felt “I’m not very romantic, impulsive, or charming.” A new question emerged: “Am I trans?” A sense of dread settled in as Kay realized she could not say no to this, as she had never been comfortable being labelled, grouped with, or seen as a boy. She preferred to be known by other labels such as “smart, creative, kind.” This new thought induced terror as Kay presumed her firmly conservative Christian family would hurt her mentally or emotionally if they found out—which is why she shrouded her initial questions about the topic as a concern about her brother. But Kay says, “Without any guidance, I could never come to an answer.” She had searched on social media, but struggled to find anyone who likewise didn’t see being trans as a testimony-breaker. As the sun set in the horizon outside the van, she knew it was time to pray and ask God her question: “Am I trans?” The answer she received was “not a declaration of my identity but just a comforting message that, ‘either way is okay’.” Kay says, “It was in that moment that any worry of God’s judgment or wrath dissipated, and while it didn’t answer my original question, it released a weight I didn’t realize I was carrying. It seemed like my inner conflict was much more manageable with the knowledge of God’s love for me.” 

The new knowledge of her daughter’s identity and struggles opened TeriDel’s eyes to a heightened awareness of how she had been getting all her information “from straight people” and “somehow thought I had an accurate view on what would cause gender dysphoria.” She also realized how hard church can be when harmful rhetoric about the LGBTQ+ community is shared. While in the temple and privately she relied on the spirit to personally guide and direct her to a state of joy and enlightenment in her journey, it became difficult to hear comments like that of one woman in Sunday school: “The fastest growing tool of the devil is suggesting that having tolerance and love for other people means that we should be supportive of people who don’t follow the gospel. We need to rid the church members of any behavior or persons that prohibit us entering the temple.” 

While Kay has not gone public with a social transition yet, not wanting to deal with the social or political consequences, she has found herself in many uncomfortable situations in which she has struggled with anxiety, deep pain, and fear of rejection. Even after initially telling her parents, Kay says she didn’t really know how they felt for a while as it took them time to be more open to talking about it. “They didn’t know how painful it was to sit and wonder who I was all by myself, especially because it had been much easier to ignore and sideline it.” She has also experienced a state of stasis and abstract dread, as if feeling stuck in a swamp. Even her favorite hobbies like art projects can feel like hopeless wastes of time. Kay credits conversations with her mom and an excellent therapist for helping pull her out of these funks. 

TeriDel says with her new lens, church has become a hard place for her with the “random comments and misguided lessons.” She’s uncomfortable in any calling other than serving in the nursery, and is grateful that having a relationship with God has remained the priority of Kay, saying, “Hopefully we’ve helped her understand as long as she has that relationship with God either in or out of the church, we’re ok with that.” Tad often finds himself reflecting on Joseph Smith’s adage to “teach them correct principles and let them govern themselves,” deferring to prayer and personal revelation and his belief that God judges us on a curve tailored to us. 

Church can be unwelcoming at times according to Kay, “though our ward does its best to be welcoming and respectful, which is appreciated.” It meant a lot to Kay while attending seminary last year that she had a teacher who was inspired to gently answer the prescient question, “What should I do if I feel what the spirit is telling me and the teachings of the church contradict?” The teacher said that when Kay is conflicted, she should continue to make that a conversation between God and her, and to continue to pray about it until she feels peace. Kay says, “I think it’s hard for my seminary teacher to understand how much his answer meant to me. That answer allowed me to let go of my mental image and went leaps and bounds in allowing me to feel more comfortable in seminary. It even meant that when the lesson turned to the topic of how we must treat LGBTQ individuals with kindness even if we don’t approve of them, that I could at least be in that space and rely on my own personal answers to prayer.” Kay continues, “Even though it stings to hear that I am the person they don’t approve of, I believe that at some level my seminary teacher believes that God knows me and accepts me as I am.”

 When their son, Gibby, recently asked why the nature of God seemed to change so much across different books of scripture, Tad explained that explaining the grand plan of God would be like explaining all the complex levels, tricks, lore and Easter eggs of his favorite video game to his five-year-old cousin and expecting her to understand. TeriDel says, “That is what God is dealing with. He has this amazing, beautiful, complex, and fulfilling plan, and then he goes to his children (who are metaphorically five-year-olds) and tries to explain things to them and then has to deal with whatever they thought they heard. So it’s not surprising that God might sound a little different over time. God is limited by us.”

While Kay remains grateful for her reliance on personal revelation in discovering her own identity, TeriDel is increasing appreciative of a Christ-centered perspective and the grace and love that has come into her life by “not worrying about all of that stuff and just focusing on the very basic principle of showing love to those around me. In the end, God’s plan is just love.” Tad appreciates how their close-knit family, in which their kids are all each other’s best friends, can now have healthier conversations about the long term because they trust Kay to make good decisions for herself. He says, “Kay is such a good kid and has always wanted to be a good person and do her best to make her Heavenly Father and Savior happy. I’ve realized I needed to take a backset and trust she’ll make good decisions. She’s proved us right.”

SEAN EDWARDS

Being voted out of your tribe is rarely the goal. But sometimes when difficulties arise, people elect to leave on their own. Such was the case for amiable, Provo-based elementary school principal, Sean Edwards, whose recent stint as a contestant on CBS’s Survivor Season 45 was cut short when he nominated himself to leave early after just four episodes. Originally a player on last fall’s most defeated tribe in Survivor history, the “Lulu Tribe,” after some initial setbacks, Sean moved to the opposing “Reba” tribe where he admitted he was ready to be done with the game at tribal council. While Sean later expressed regret at his decision to leave prematurely, he remains a huge fan of the show, and now with hindsight, honors the initial intention he had as a competitor looking to reclaim lost time—time he used to spend trying to be something he wasn’t.

Sean grew up in New Jersey, the son of a Chinese mom and a Caucasian dad. He greatly admires his younger sister, Krista, and his older sister, Elaine--who has autism and cannot live independently. As such, the family moved from their western state roots to settle in the Princeton, New Jersey area for his father’s work and the excellent healthcare facilities for neurodivergent individuals. 

Growing up, Sean always relied on the solid foundation of trust he had with his parents, believing they had his best interests at heart. But he was terrified in high school to tell them he was gay, especially after an LDS friend from California he’d met on Myspace revealed when he shared the same news with his parents, they’d kicked him out of the house. But Sean’s mom quickly assured him they would never do that. She promised they would “figure this out together,” and Sean felt willing to follow her lead. While she expressed her love, Sean remembers two emotions surpassing the others that day as he could tell she felt sad and worried. He asked that she be the one to tell his dad, who Sean was afraid to disappoint, as the only son in the family. Rather, Sean recalls his father didn’t overreact, saying, “He is pretty pragmatic, but it took him time to process.”

The three decided to keep Sean’s news just between them as they considered the best next steps. His parents dug into what limited resources there were at the time and came back with a solution: conversion therapy. Or seemingly, therapy that seemed promising as it was led by an LDS man who claimed he had “overcome his gayness through a particular process.” Sean says, “As someone who’d grown up living the typical LDS lifestyle, I wanted more than anything to be straight, so I tried it, beginning at age 17.” He endured the therapy off-and-on for another five years, which he says ultimately engrained in him “that I needed to change a fundamental part of who I am to be considered good and kind and accepted by God and others. It messed with my mind, trying to seek approval from God by trying to change who I am.”

BYU Provo proved to not be a cultural fit for Sean. He was called into the Honor Code Office at one point and put on probation for a year because someone had snapped a picture of him at a gay club in Salt Lake City, where he would go dancing. “I needed that community of people like me so badly.” That trauma resulted in him swearing off all gay clubs in Utah out of fear. He remembers another time of being especially hurt when, as his ward’s gospel doctrine teacher (a calling often assigned to people like him working toward teaching degrees), he found out a selection of his peers came to his class and sat in the back just so they could make fun of his charismatic mannerisms and animated disposition. He had experienced something similar before – having been bullied in middle school and high school where people called him the f slur and one time, threw a garbage can at him and called him “gay trash.” But now, at “the Lord’s university,” it felt like his tribe had spoken. Sean says, “It was really unfortunate to think that people who were part of my community were attending my Sunday School class to make fun of me.”

Back home in Jersey, his two best friends from high school, Ivana and Shannon, had the opposite response when, after his freshman year of college, Sean came out to them. “They were so supportive of me being gay, but when I told them I didn’t know what direction this was taking me because having been raised LDS, I wanted to do that path, they were like, ‘Why? You’re gay; be authentic to who you are’.” Sean says, “It was such a diverse perspective from the first time I’d come out to my parents. I was glad they didn’t have the LDS lens so they could help me understand the full spectrum of support I needed.”

As Sean proceeded with his schooling, which culminated in him graduating from BYU and then, while simultaneously being a high school vice principal, earning a doctorate degree from the University of Utah where he did his dissertation on LGBTQ+ students and perceptions of connectedness in school communities, Sean realized that his experiences being marginalized had also led him to developing resilience, empathy, true compassion to others, and had provided him a growth mindset in which he could choose to be confident while also looking out for others who suffer along their way. They are all gifts that have helped Sean buoy the young students who now walk the halls at the school where they call him Dr. Edwards, their principal. 

“Living in Orem and working in Provo as a public-facing person can be tricky. There have been multiple occasions where people have called the school secretary to express their concerns about their kids having a gay principal. It’s difficult because I love the students I work for and want them to have incredible experiences learning math, reading, STEM, all those great things. It’s hard to have people question my integrity.” Because of this fear, Sean didn’t come out to his professional peers until after he was working in an administration position.

Nowadays, Sean sees being gay as a huge blessing. Not only did his life story of navigating the challenges of being LGBTQ+ in a conservative religion contribute to him being selected to be a contestant on his favorite show, but he appreciated the fresh air Survivor island gave him to completely be himself and meet new people in a context in which he didn’t have to assume they were going to call the office on him. He says, “Even though it’s a competitive environment, the humanity is still there. I made really meaningful connections.” The bonds he created with all the players still linger via a vibrant, 18-person text chain, and Sean laughs that one of his closest friends from the show, Sabiyah, is a lesbian and Black former Marine turned truck driver from the south. He says, “We’re worlds apart in life experience and upbringing, but she became my #1 ally and best friend out there.”

However, the greatest gift being authentic has allowed Sean was meeting his husband on Facebook back in 2016, because “Who meets in real life these days?” Sean laughs. Matt also grew up in the LDS faith tradition, one of seven kids from Draper, UT. The two instantly connected. Their first date was a scary movie, and one of their initial connection points was their shared love for you guessed it: Survivor. (Matt had auditioned previously.) After a year of dating, Sean made it clear that he’d be ready to get engaged, and Matt proposed not once, but twice—the first time via a scavenger hunt around Provo guided by meaningful clues leading to places that meant a lot to the two of them, and then, very publicly onstage at a Naked & Famous concert in Aspen, CO, where Matt had pre-arranged with the band to be called up for the big event. They were married August 1, 2018 in Orem, and bought their first house together a year later. Matt now works for the U as a researcher for K-12 issues across the state, where he crosses paths with many professors from Sean’s graduate program. 

While the two no longer participate regularly in the LDS faith, Sean loved his Las Vegas mission (where he had the opportunity to connect with several members of his dad’s side of the family), and will now occasionally attend a friend or former student’s mission farewell or homecoming church service. He says he and Matt are “very consistent” in their daily prayer: “Having a strong relationship with our Heavenly Father and Jesus is important to us.” Affected by the positive and not so positive influences of the church community within which they were raised, they choose to bring aspects of their faith into their relationship, though try to create a safe space with their spirituality. At 5’6, with “not an athletic bone in my body,” Sean remembers not fitting into his ward youth group’s frequent basketball nights. If he could pass along any lived experience to church members and leaders, Sean says, “I wish church leaders knew how to love LGBTQ+ people. I’ve heard so many say that the decisions I was making were wrong or bad, much more than I’ve heard the message, ‘I love you’ or ‘The Savior loves you’. As LGBTQ+ people who grow up LDS, we know the church position on LGBTQ+ topics; we don’t need leaders reminding us again and again. What we need to know is our leaders and Heavenly Father and Jesus love us. I think because they tell us how we live is wrong or bad, they think it’s an expression of their love for us, but I want to be so clear in saying it’s not. You might think that, but if it’s not being received in that way, it does not resonate and is not a message of love.” 

Luckily, Sean and Matt are able to fill their lives with the friends and family they love and who love them, which are plenty. Living so close to Matt’s family, who Sean says he adores, they see many local family members often. Sean believes he will also frequently continue to see members of his Survivor family. “I absolutely loved my Survivor experience. It was fun, inspiring, complex, challenging, beautiful—every emotion wrapped into one experience… What’s so interesting though is how it became this great metaphor for my life in general. I had prepared for years and years and wanted it for such a long time, since I was 11 or 12, but never had the confidence to try. Then, in 2020, I started submitting applications and after three years, got on. I had all these dreams of what might happen, but my tribe lost nearly every challenge and I did not win the game. And that’s life, you have all these expectations and convictions of how life will go, but it can go the opposite. Even though it’s not what you might have thought it would be, it can be beautiful. I wouldn’t be who I am today if I didn’t go through all the experiences I did, and it's the same with Survivor.”

Sean admits that he wishes he could have approached the moment of his departure differently, but after not eating anything but coconut and papaya (having no fire) and experiencing difficulty sleeping for nine days, “I wasn’t firing on all cylinders.” He concludes, “Sometimes we’re human, sometimes we make mistakes, and sometimes it’s on a national platform. I didn’t have to leave; I could have lived out my dream. But instead of allowing regret to drive me, I need to find a way to own it and learn valuable lessons from my mistakes. We must have the resilience to move forward.”

While he may not have ultimately won at Survivor, Sean was asked to emcee this June’s Utah PRIDE parade, where he recruited his husband and sister Krista to join him. As part of his celebration, he went to a Salt Lake City gay club for the first time since his BYU days, which he says, “felt like a reclamation. I’ve decided, I’m going to do me.” Having recently turned 36, Sean says if he could go back a couple decades to that teenage boy who dreamed about being on a reality competition show, he’d give him some valuable advice: “Prioritize connections with people who matter; find your tribe. You will be successful, happy, and you’ll find partnership and companionship. You won’t be lonely. It’s ok to take risks, try new things, and embrace failure. Who you are is beautiful.”

Photo credit CBS 

Photo credit Robert Voets/CBS 

Selected photos courtesy of CBS and Robert Voets/CBS, as noted above