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.”

MICHAEL SOTO

In light of the recent publication of the new church handbook rules regarding transgender individuals, we wanted to re-share Michael Soto's story.  Michael was kind enough to include some words of encouragement to our trans members and their loved ones…

"To my transgender sisters, brothers, and siblings, our families, friends, and community members:

Every trans person has so much to offer this world, society, and the church. I know this feels like a rejection and loss for us right now, but the truth is, it is loss for the church community – because, without us, the church community is not complete, is not reflective of the full glory and diversity of God’s love and plan – because we are a part of that plan and fully live within God’s love.

These handbook changes tell me one very clear thing: the church is still learning how to care for and love transgender people as members.  But the good news is that this is our opportunity as trans people and our families and friends, to teach about trans people so that someday the Church can minister to and love us.  We can show the church through our actions what truly loving trans people looks like. Let’s put our shoulder to wheel and do everything we can to help our faith community grow and learn more about God’s love for all human beings."

-Michael Soto

Michael Soto’s is a name widely known and respected in the LGBTQ+ equality space. As the former director and now President of Equality Arizona, and as a political consultant for over 25 years intrinsically involved in the LGBTQ+ movement, Michael has watched the ebb and flow and now crux of policy change. After the Marriage Equality Act passed in 2015, Michael felt the pendulum swing personally as, in response, a new cultural war specifically targeting trans people has ignited across red states, with recently proposed and passed legislation causing increased polarization. As such, Michael is eager to tackle his newest endeavor—later this year, he'll be helping launch the Equality Campaign which will work with other equality groups at a national level to increase conversation, civil respect, and equality. 

With his generous, hearty laugh and impressive grasp of legislative history, Michael feels uniquely qualified to reach across the aisle and have these tough conversations. It doesn’t hurt that he himself identifies as a trans man and queer individual who knows what it’s like to have grown up in a conservative regional and religious environment before the internet, when the right terminology to describe how he had been feeling since he could walk was not within reach.

Born and raised in Mesa, Arizona, Michael’s parents were converts to the LDS faith. Growing up in suburban Mesa in the 80s and 90s, Michael recalls the word “gay” was only used in a bad way or when bullying. Michael didn’t hear the word “transgender” until he was an adult, but he always knew he was different. Sunday mornings were a fight as his house as his parents tried to force him into a dress for church. He’d wail, “This is horrible! I hate this,” knowing he was a boy. He now laughs that his parents found it “cute as a boy, less cute when I got older.” School was rough, as gender divisions were part of daily life. He resisted having to step into the “girl line,” next to the boy line to walk to lunch or recess. “Girl things” were of no interest to him. When Michael’s mom bought him a Barbie dream house for Christmas, he remodeled it, installing tile floors and painting the walls; but after that, he was done with it. For as long as he can remember, Michael knew he wasn’t a girl and vocalized it in word and attire. He recalls how the women in his family would say, “Someday, you’ll grow up, fall in love with a man, have babies, and be a wife and mother,” to which he’d reply, “Heck no!” And they’d retort that he would change his mind. Now, he jokes with them, “I didn’t change my mind, did I?” 

After graduating from Red Mountain High School in 1998, Michael took his hard-earned scholarship money to ASU. He’s now working on his third degree--a PhD in justice studies, which was also the focus of his master’s program. In his fourth year of his PhD program, Michael plans to analyze what’s happening in extreme movements with the current right wing authoritarian culture wars targeting trans people for his dissertation. “It’s so important to have a playbook for this stuff. Whether it’s the trans movement, or Jews in Nazi Germany, or immigrants, we know how to beat discrimination—we just need to rally the forces and educate people. I see a better path forward.”

Michael had once planned to study medicine, but at ASU, was the first trans person he knew of, and he observed how the campus was not a safe place for people like him. He was harassed in classes, where professors refused to call him anything other than his birth name and otherwise belittled him. “It was not fun,” he says. Searching for a place where he might not be attacked, he decided to major in women and gender studies, which turned out to be a great fit. As Michael had navigated what he calls his “drag years” of junior high school through his freshman year of college and observed the cultural punishment and penalties for trying to be who he was, he now started to notice gay couples on campus holding hands He says, “I thought it was really interesting and terrifying, watching from around the corner—I thought, who are these people?” Eventually, Michael found there were other LGBTQ+ people like him on campus. He went to a social group where the woman leading the meeting was “very tall.” At 5 feet tall, Michael says most people are tall to him, but he watched as this woman came out as trans to the group and defined something entirely foreign to Michael until that point. “As soon as I met a trans person in this world, I knew that’s who I am. It was exciting.” 

But even in the LGBTQ+ space, Michael observed that trans was not a popular way to identify. He experienced backlash from some of his new gay friends who would tell him to “just be a butch woman.” Michael says, “It was not a convenient choice to come out and be who I am—I sacrificed a lot to be authentic and dealt with a lot of rejection from my university and friends, except my best friend, Brie, who always supported me (and is pictured in this post with Michael at her wedding). I had to pave my own path, and trust my own instincts and vision for my life. It has served me well to live a happy and authentic life. The best decision I’ve made was to pursue that medically and live authentically.”

While his family members initially struggled for years to understand Michael’s transition, he says, “They all get it now; it’s congruent and makes sense.” Michael’s mother (who he now lives with and helps care for) says she wishes she had had more resources back then so that Michael could have had a happier childhood without so much interior struggle. Michael says his mom is “so sweet and now can’t refer to me as anything but her son in childhood.” He credits his mom’s teachings and example of dedication, undying love, and hard work to making him the man he is today. He says, “I want to make a world where everyone can be respected for who they are; all should have the same protections under law. The same right to freedom. The things that make this country incredible in the course of human events include being able to be true to who you are and live life according to the dictates of your own conscience.” 

As a member of the LDS church, Michael also believes, “All should worship the way they see fit, and at the same time enjoy the same rights to live their lives as fully realized humans. I’m working to get us closer to the ideas that all deserve freedom and equal protections under the law. Those things make us stronger.” While he enjoys his work, Michael says it’s hard, especially in seasons like this one. “My own experience has served me well in that I know most Americans just want others to live their lives, go about their business, contribute to society, and be people. We don’t need to demonize each other because we look differently. Our various faiths, genders, who we love, our race--all makes us stronger as a community.”

Michael struggled to connect to the LDS faith as a youth as so many of the gender-segregated practices and goals taught didn’t connect for him. He says, “I knew my future wasn’t as a woman, and I’m not good at faking things.” But as a pre-transitioned 19-year-old, Michael faced a turning point. He says, “I needed answers, I needed to see my life for itself, and I just couldn’t envision a future at that time. It felt so wrong, like such a lie.” While in Italy at St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome, while praying near the St. Peter statue, Michael felt God’s love for the first time after asking what God wanted for his life. He felt God say, “I made you to be exactly who you are.” Michael says, “That was such a powerful moment for me, not to just be who I am but to also find my faith…I feel really lucky to be trans. It’s opened every door that’s led to my happiness—my career, being seen for who I am and loved by my family and community, by God—all of that came through being a trans person.” While Michael doesn’t talk a lot about the church as he works politically with religious organizations and feels his call to focus on governmental change will hopefully trickle down, Michael values how the church instilled leadership qualities and the importance of having a moral compass as a person of worth and character. 

He also says it’s fueled his fire for social justice work. Michael says, “I love the church, and I know it’s flawed. I also love our country, and also, it’s deeply flawed. People ask, ‘How can you affiliate with a church that’s not as affirming with its policies?’, and I say, ‘It’s about the journey.’ I also work in policy, and primarily with institutions who need to know LGBTQ+ people more specifically, so governments, churches, and universities can see our full humanity and incorporate kindness into making love more tangible.” Michael recognizes that local church leadership can largely determine the experience a queer member has, and is always hopeful the church will prioritize the commandments to love God and love others first. He says, “So many trans and LGBTQ people have so much offer this institution. It’s always my prayer and hope they’ll continue to honor our differences and appreciate the common ground… I have a lot of faith at the end of the day that God’s going to open the path to let LGBTQ+ people feel fully loved and valued as individuals.”

Michael identifies as queer and dates people “of any gender, race, faith, or walk of life in general.” He has been blessed to have had several loving partners who he says made him a better person, in the past, and says he’d love to find someone who shares his beliefs, and most of all, “knows themselves and is passionate about something in life.” In the meantime, Michael enjoys time with his pit bulls, FDR and Teddy (named after you guessed it), and his mom’s chihuahua, Tucker, who at 11 pounds is the boss of everyone at home. He also has close relationships with his two half-brothers’ and step-brother’s families, which include a niece and two nephews who he adores. “I have lots of wonderful family and family of choice who’ve become family.”

In his field, Michael’s studied that after society “bought into” the idea that gay marriages actually don’t weaken or devalue heterosexual marriages, the far right conducted some intentional messaging testing which revealed only about 23% of society knew they knew a trans person. “This created an opening for some of these groups like Alliance for Freedom and Moms for Freedom and Eagle Forum to organize together to chip away some of the legal advances the LGBTQ+ movement was making, and roll back and prevent future.” Michael quotes Brene Brown’s, “It’s hard to hate up close” when speaking of these fear-based agendas that often start with bathroom bills. “All these bills use the same language…they are part of an effort to roll back rights based on fears. Fear is a powerful motivator. But the best way to get rid of the fears is to open up. My life is an open book—it’s really boring actually. I work a lot, go to school a lot, spend time with my dogs and family. It’s not too exciting, but I find it great. Most of us, when you look at our lives—we’re just putting on our pants one leg at a time and making dinner for our families.”

Since 2019, Michael’s observed a trend of “we win one, lose two, then lose two, win one. The medical bans around trans youth and kids, the ‘don’t say gay’ bills… they’re kind of crazy. And they don’t stand up judicially, and are typically reversed for violating personal liberty, like the ‘Don’t say gay’ Florida bill was recently. But even when repealed, just seeing them pass is hard for a lot of people to cope with. LGBTQ+ people just want to live our lives; there is nothing harmful about our goals. We’ll get through it in a positive way, but we have to do the work.” And for those who are still living in fear, Michael affirms, “I don’t want anyone to be trans who isn’t trans. I just want trans people to be able to be safe, own a home, and have a job. These laws are trying to unnecessarily harm and it’s cruel in a fair civil society. It’s a scary moment, but we’ll beat this moment.”

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.”

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.”

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 

IESE WILSON

After earning two degrees in music performance, Iese Wilson, 30, now holds his dream job as a high school choir director. The conductor role he’s assumed in advocacy work has also proven a dream come true for many of his LGBTQ+ Latter-day Saint peers around the world who have benefitted from his efforts. 

But it first took Iese (pronounced eeYESeh) years of coming to terms with his own identity as a gay believer in his faith, which ultimately happened in a prayer in which Iese was told he was to come out to his family and to also help take care of the LGBTQ+ population at BYU Hawaii, where he was a student. At first, he argued with God, feeling this went against everything he’d been taught. But when Iese pulled out his patriarchal blessing “to prove God wrong,” he read words in a new light that confirmed his life mission would include full-time ministry work in this space.

It all started with a church talk he gave at BYU Hawaii in 2019, when he was 25 years old. While speaking about faith, Iese felt prompted to come out to his ward. Some students approached him afterwards about starting a support group, which led to him helping create the first LGBTQ+ support group for members off campus. Iese anticipated he might be bullied for these efforts, but that didn’t happen. Instead, he had people coming to him left and right, eager to confide and share the isolation they’d experienced, with desires to build community. “It was mind-blowing how many there were who needed to connect. I realized I had to do something about this.” 

Over a couple years, Iese says an estimated 200 people reached out to him for support from across campus and from around the world via social media, including those hailing from the Phillipines, Samoa, Fiji, Taiwan, Japan, Tonga, areas of southeast Asia as well as those in the United States. Often, Iese would agree to meet with the students in secure locations, as so many of them were experiencing intense fear under Honor Code policies. Iese organized these stories and compiled a summary of the experiences of 36 students (while protecting their identity), and shared the document with BYU Hawaii’s President, John Kauwe III. He was blown away by the university’s president support and desire to learn more. A globally renowne researcher on Alzheimer’s disease as well as a recently called Area Seventy, President Kauwe was someone Iese found highly impressive. Iese was further impressed as President Kauwe looped university VP Jonathan Kau into the conversation. Together, along with the support of Iese’s uncle and stake president Kinglsey Ah You, Iese was invited to organize the university’s first LGBTQ+-themed fireside.

Having seen their video about being supportive parents of a gay son (and BYUH alum) named Xian on the LDS church website, Iese reached out to the Mackintosh family of Utah to see if they might be willing to zoom in to speak at the fireside. They happily obliged. In the days leading up to the event, Iese was also asked to sit on the panel. As he shared his desperate plea for students and faculty to consider how they could improve inclusion efforts, he looked out in awe at hundreds of students, many of whom he recognized as closeted students who never anticipated feeling this kind of support at the university. It was a powerful moment for Iese, after years of navigating powerful feelings.

Though he didn’t have words for it, Iese first knew around age 10 he was different from his peers. After attending elementary school each day in Garden Grove, CA, Iese would join about 15 cousins at his grandma’s house, where he felt like the “odd one—the loner, the reader.” He’d listen as his older cousins and kids at school talked about their crushes, and wonder why he was drawn to boys. When he attended a summer camp for Hawaiian kids right before sixth grade, he was terrified to see he’d be expected to shower in a restroom with a “tree of life showerhead situation.” He begged his counselors to not have to use the group shower, horrified of what might happen. But he didn’t have a word for it until middle school, when Iese first came across the word “gay.”

It was around this time that Prop 8 ballot measures were surging in California. While his family was less active in the church, Iese absorbed that if he were to be the “good Mormon boy” he was trying so hard to be, he needed to adopt the homophobic rhetoric he witnessed some of his peers and youth leaders vocalizing as they advocated against gay marriage. He says that, “Seeing the protests in front of our temples was an outward expression by society of what I was experiencing as a gay person in the church. Around age 13, I decided that gay people were evil.” Then, a boy named Chance transferred into his school and joined choir. Iese was a senior, and new move-in Chance was a sophomore and had “the cutest face ever.” One day, Chance opened up to Iese about what had brought him from northern to southern California. When Chance had told his parents he was gay, his father became really angry and made sure it was “a really rough evening for Chance.” After crying himself to sleep, Chance woke up the next morning to find out his father had shot and killed himself. Later, his mom relocated them to Orange County for a fresh start. Hearing this, Iese opened his eyes to the dangers of homophobic rhetoric and behaviors—that Chance trying to connect with his parents over his orientation resulted in an undeserved outcome Chance would have to live with the rest of his life. “It didn’t seem right,” says Iese. “For the first time, I started questioning that maybe being LGBTQ+ was not evil.”

Years later, the power of story was what inspired Iese to take his peers’ distressing experiences to President Kauwe. It was never his desire to tell the university president (or the church) what to do, but to provide opportunities for increased understanding--an increase he himself had worked hard to gain—while letting the leadership know he trusted their revelatory processes. After high school, Iese worked a few jobs and went to community college before being called on a mission to Auckland, New Zealand, where he was excited to learn Samoan, the language of his ancestors. But instead of studying the language for hours a day as instructed, Iese recalls spending way too many hours searching the scriptures and church manuals to figure out why he was gay and how he could change it. Believing in President Boyd K. Packer’s admonition that “studying doctrine is more likely to change behavior than studying behavior will change behavior,” Iese convinced himself he could “study the gay away.” His obsession translated into a self-righteousness perfectionism in which he says he held others to unrealistic standards. It wasn’t until the end of his time in New Zealand that he met a fellow missionary who taught him by example how to finally find peace through Christlike love. A few years after his mission, Iese moved to Hilo, Hawaii, where he met a community of similarly loving members of the church who modeled pure love and gave him the tools he needed to become a more kind, caring human. This, coupled with an understanding bishop he’d had back in California who was a father of a gay son himself and helped Iese get into therapy, allowed Iese to undergo a process of “sandpapering away the levels of my pride and self-hatred. There were some rough, gritty sections, and some fine gritty sections, but either way, it was gritty and it took years.”

Iese recognized that heretofore, he’d been operating “like Javert from Les Mis,” with a rigidity that often created friction with others, including his two younger brothers. After his mission, when he came out to his family, he apologized for this behavior, and was met with a warm reception by his family, aside from an initial response by his dad at first trying to “fix him” by asking, “Have you really thought about this?” Iese laughed and replied, “Yeah, I’ve thought about this.” Iese was deeply touched by his mom’s response. An “impeccable human” who works as a concierge nurse and personal trainer, his mother tearfully opened up the day after he came out while the two were out for a walk about how much it pained her to think she never noticed how much her oldest child was hurting. She said, “You love the church so much and now life’s going to be so much harder for you and there’s nothing I can do about it… Was I so busy that I couldn’t see my boy was hurting and he couldn’t trust me to support him?” Iese says, “Here we were, walking the dogs and crying through the neighborhood… I never guessed my mom might feel that way. I thought it might be more of a ‘You’re ruining our eternal family,’ but no. My mom’s my hero. That was an A+ response.” 

The call to bear and ease the burdens of others expanded beyond Hawaii for Iese. Besides instigating the fireside, while at BYUH, he had the opportunity to be a guest on both Richard Ostler’s “Listen, Learn and Love” podcast and Ben Schilaty’s and Charlie Bird’s “Questions from the Closet” podcast. After graduating, he pursued his master’s degree at ASU where he continued his advocacy efforts and has been asked to speak at institute and various ally events. Besides leading a high school choir program, Iese is now also the choir director for the Tongan ward he attends. He loves this ward, who overwhelmed him with support and flower leis at his recent masters’ program graduation. Last fall, Iese was asked to be the opening speaker at Gather, and he is eager to continue his efforts to magnify the voices and stories of LGBTQ+ members of the church from all over the world.

Iese has also recently experienced the joy of human connection, as he is now in a seven-month relationship with his boyfriend, whose family is involved in the performing arts. Iese says he appreciates how the Greeks have different words for love, which he has now come to better understand: “There’s agape for brotherly love. In the church, Jesus speaks of the communal family model of love. There is flirtatious love, but I wanted to understand romantic love, particularly as a conductor and trained musician. Having studied music through the centuries, one of the most studied topics is love, and I would be remiss if I didn’t experience it in this life.” Iese says he had to do a little work to gain the support of his boyfriend’s Christian dad, who at first resisted meeting him. But Iese laughs, saying, “I won him over by talking football and Jesus.” His boyfriend attended an ally event that Iese was speaking at. Iese watched with joy as his typically shy boyfriend was flocked by attendees after the refreshments and ended up sharing his story with strangers. Iese thought, “Look at him go; that’s my boyfriend.” On the way home, Iese’s boyfriend said, “I didn’t know what you meant by doing advocacy work with your church, but now I see and I understand. I want to support you in this, however I can. I want to stand by you in all this.” As for their future, Iese says, “Time will tell; but for now, I’m really grateful.” 

SPENCER SMITH

This past week found Spencer Smith, 31, strolling through his favorite place on earth, churro in hand, as he worked his way from Big Thunder to Guardians of the Galaxy with a group of friends. “Disneyland is the only place I know of where a full-grown man can run up to a character and no one bats an eye.” For Spencer, it’s a welcome escape, and the “one place I can completely be myself, and no one even looks twice.”

Most weeknights, Spencer’s location is the new Spanish Fork, UT hospital ER where he works as the attending pharmacist, ready to administer whatever life-saving medicine may prove necessary for car accident survivors or “people who decide breathing is an optional activity.” It’s a job he loves. In his spare free moments, he can often be found in his epic game room, where over 300 board games from Settlers of Catan to Carcassonne line the walls. The one place he never thought he'd be, however, was at last year’s Gather—a Christ-centered conference for hundreds of LDS, LGBTQ+ individuals and those who love them. For Spencer, attending Gather at first felt uncomfortable—like taking something he had accepted but wasn’t happy about and celebrating it. His orientation was something Spencer had never envisioned could or would be celebrated within the LDS context.

But one day, his close friend Nicole forced him to pull out his phone and register online for the conference, promising she would go with him and telling him, “You’re doing this, even if you only go for an hour.” Spencer decided to volunteer for “all the jobs” at Gather that weekend, knowing that keeping busy might alleviate some of the pressure of being there. He was pleasantly surprised to see his mom also sign-up last minute to attend, which took away some of his stress and anxiety. Between his volunteer duties, Spencer absorbed words by speakers that finally gave terminology to how he had been feeling for years. He took in how many people were there, and realized he didn’t have to walk this path alone. While he says he didn’t come away from the conference with a ton of lasting friendships, Spencer committed to attending again this fall because he wants to be there this time and volunteer, and not because he needs to be distracted. He also appreciates how Gather opened up the line of communication with his mom, as they now have a shared reference point of language for him identifying as gay.

Spencer was born in Provo, a BYU baby raised in a family with a father who served as bishop and an uncle who served as stake president. A self-described “nerd,” which to him is a good thing, (“Nerds are my people”), Spencer says he was terrible at sports. Unlike his brother, he preferred reading, brain puzzles, “things that kept him inside.” His family lived in California during Prop 8, and while Spencer knew he might be gay by then (in his sophomore year), he pushed against it so hard during this time, constantly defending his church’s position on Prop 8 to hostile opposition by teachers and friends at school. He remembers thinking, “I didn’t know you could have a testimony and still disagree with something,” though he remembers a conversation with his dad about why the church was fighting so hard against the definition of a word. His father explained that while the church’s positions wouldn’t stop same sex unions, Prop 8 would protect the word marriage, saying, “We don’t care if they’re together; we just don’t want them to use that term, which is sacred.” Looking back, Spencer says he now recognizes the dissonance that unsettled him at the time for what it was: denial. 

Highly academic, Spencer majored in biology while attending BYU for a year before and the three years after his South Dakota Rapids mission – both experiences he loved. He says he never dated much compared to his peers, and he was glad he “got out of BYU when I did—so I didn’t have to deal with all the recent stuff,” indicating the polarizing LGBTQ+ policy shifts of the past few years. After doing a 12-page report on pharmacists during the 12th grade, Spencer decided it would make a great career choice and later graduated from pharmacy school in West Jordan in 2020, leading him to his current vocation. 

Around the same time, Spencer decided to finally come out as gay to a few friends and cousins. In early 2021, he started telling more friends, but continuously found excuses to delay telling his immediate family, saying that whenever the opportunity presented itself, he’d think, “Well I need to leave--bye!” And run. Though anxious, Spencer says he knew his parents would be supportive, but, “It was still terrifying to have that conversation.” That September, he pulled his parents into a bedroom at their house and came out to them. His mom was “not very surprised,” which Spencer says makes sense considering how he grew up, loving all things Disney and Broadway. He remembers his father’s first response being along the lines of “This doesn’t change anything; you’re still you and we love you.” Spencer texted his four younger siblings later that night, and says they handled it well. He was a little more nervous to come out to his huge extended family (his parents have 21 siblings between them), realizing that would minimize his ability to control the narrative. They, too, proved supportive, besides a little jocular teasing among cousins. Next, Spencer decided to post online, where he was met by overwhelming support, with some friends coming out privately to him in return. He was also touched to find out his mom and some friends were monitoring the comments his post received to protect him, but there ended up being no need. All were kind. 

When Spencer’s dad got a job transfer to St. George, his mother became distracted with her other kids’ needs and felt she had abandoned Spencer a bit until she received a prompting in the temple that “He’s going to be fine.” This reassured her she could be confident all would go well for Spencer, which he says was “awesome for her to hear, and for me to hear now. And I have been fine—it all worked out.” He appreciates how his father has also been there to support him every time he came out or had to take a step outside of his comfort zone, and has vocally defended Spencer and other LGBTQ+ people in many settings. Spencer says, “It is easier to trust myself when I know how quickly my family will get behind me if things go south.” Spencer also credits a great therapist for helping him gain skills and tools that have helped him decrease his sense of anxiety about what his future might look like. “Everything used to feel terrifying and overwhelming. Now, I don’t know what my life is going to look like, but that’s ok. I have the support I need.”

His original plan to stay single for the rest of his life, Spencer says he is now more open to the possibility of dating. He remains “very active” in the church, currently attending a mid-singles ward, “having reached the terrible age I can’t go to a YSA ward.” While he can almost blend in as “one of 900 other single guys in my ward,” he says it can be hard being in a church space where so much of the focus is on getting people married and building families. “Sometimes I think hmm, not everyone’s in that boat. Some are gay or just got out of traumatic breakups. Sometimes church can be a little tricky with people not intending to cause harm, but still making harmful comments.” When his orientation comes up when conversations turn to dating, Spencer finds himself wondering if his orientation will change how people interact with him. 

While he grew up always believing that whatever the church said was law, Spencer says he now realizes he doesn’t have to agree with everything said over a pulpit, but can still maintain a testimony. He says, “Overall the church is still a huge part of my life, and I don’t anticipate that changing anytime soon… But when my friends leave, it doesn’t change anything between us. I know who they are as a person… If I were to stop attending, I’d still likely have my testimony… I would never ask anyone in my family to give it up.” 

At a recent family wedding, for the first time, Spencer said, “If I ever get married, we’re doing (this) differently.” His mother turned and repeated that to an aunt, saying, “When Spencer gets married...” Spencer says his parents are reaching a point where they anticipate him dating men and have said they will fully love and support whoever he brings home. He also senses the eagerness of his aunts to set him up, as they often approach him with invitations like, “We have this friend whose son just came out and he’s super cute…” Spencer appreciates the gestures, saying, “My family’s been awesome.” 

If he could go back in time, Spencer says, “I did the dumb thing and tried to figure it all out on my own, presuming if I attacked it with everything I had, I’d be able to change who I was or figure out a world in which I could make it work.” But as he started to open up to people and build a support group, Spencer appreciated how he could fall back on his friends when things got hard and say, “I’m drowning; I need back up to talk through some of my thoughts.” Spencer has also started his own monthly Gather scripture study group, and attends another friend’s each month. As he’s expanded this social network to include the possibility of a wider net, Spencer says, “It sounds cheesy, but the Gather conference literally changed my entire life. It showed me there are other people like me, and that while church life isn’t perfect, it’s doable. There are always people who will help and support you. You just have to find them.”

THE JENKINS FAMILY

Content warning: suicidal ideation

Kathryn and Jare (rhymes with “care”) Jenkins had been married for eight years and were expecting their third child when Jare handed Kathryn an eye-opening letter. Kathryn opened it to read that the husband who she had met and fell in love with and married in the Salt Lake City LDS temple was now coming out to her as transgender. Kathryn was in complete shock: “It was a lot to process. I was emotional. It was a hard time for both of us.” Further complicating things, as soon as Jare (they/them) came out to Kathryn, they immediately went back into the closet, not ready to talk about it. 

That was in 2015, and the not talking about it continued for another five or six years. Whenever Kathryn would ask Jare how they were doing, Jare would reply everything was fine, they could handle it. But downplaying it only elevated Kathryn’s concerns. She says, “Jare was used to hiding a lot of things and good at playing a part. We were happy in many ways, but this part of our lives was always hard.”

Around 2021, everything fell apart. Jare let Kathryn know they had been battling suicidal ideation for the past several years among hiding other significant things throughout their marriage. Feeling that Jare needed to seek outside help and support, she asked for a separation and Jare moved out for awhile. Jare remembers this as a time they felt like two different people. Jare says, “I was happy with certain things in life, like my relationship and family. But on my own, I focused a lot on negativity, feeding on any negative articles and comments I could find. I felt a lot of resentment and anger.” Jare credits Kathryn as being an immense support, saying, "Even though my life was caving in, Kath really saved me during that time. We separated but she still helped see me through a mental health crisis as I had to face everything I had been hiding; she didn't give up on me."

Having grown up in a conservative, southern California, LDS household, Jare had experienced a lot of shame with the way they’d felt since age three or four when they first knew they were different but didn’t have a word for it. There were a few instances in Jare’s youth when they dressed up in feminine clothing or attempted to deal with body parts in a way deemed socially unacceptable, and it was made clear through comments from family or church members that it was not okay to identify as LGBTQ. Instead, Jare threw themselves into sports to throw people off, “trying to be the best athlete possible so no one would ever realize I was transgender.” Their efforts resulted in Jare in fact becoming a national punt pass kick champion, and their team won the Little League World Series against Venezuela. As a teen in the ‘90s, Jare saw a Jerry Springer episode about transgender people, and even though the trans guests were not talked about positively, it was helpful for Jare to know they were not the only person in the world experiencing these feelings. But when Jare told a few close friends as a teen about their feelings, the friends never spoke to Jare again.

While coming of age, Jare says, “I figured I had three choices: 1- to take my life, which I considered a number of times; 2- to run away--leaving my old life behind and letting go of past relationships, and transition, or 3 – to hide and not let anyone know, which is what I tried to do.” Because of all the shame they’d suffered as a child, Jare never considered a fourth option as even possible: to come out and be accepted.

While it took some time for Jare to talk about it with Kathryn after that initial letter, because of the couple’s love for each other and their four sons, they came back together after their separation to try and work it out. They would go on long walks each evening, in which Jare opened up and shared earlier life experiences and all those pent-up feelings of shame. These conversations gave Kathryn time to listen, ponder, and process. She says, “I saw how much pain there was going on underneath, and just how long Jare had handled this alone… Jare was also responsive to me—how hard this was to have a relationship with someone who had lied for over 15 years in our marriage about what was going on. But still, we shared a lot of love and wanted to be together, which is why we are.” Kathryn says now they focus “a lot on the day to day, making the right decisions for us now, and knowing there are a lot of things we don’t have full control over. We’re working our way through that.”

As the parents of four young boys, two of whom are on the autism spectrum, Kathryn felt it was important to increase conversations about inclusion and kindness. In 2016, she had started her company the @inclusion_project, to not just shine a light on LGBTQ inclusion but toward anyone living with differences. This afforded her opportunities to participate in PRIDE parades and get to know those in other marginalized. She and Jare have adopted three mantras to guide their household: 1- Love should lead. 2- Be a good human. 3- Be careful who you hate; it could be someone you love. Embracing these themes helped their kids come to terms quickly with Jare’s identity, which at first was deemed “a little weird” by one of the boys, but now the Jenkins say their kids are very accepting and loving and they all talk openly about it. Jare appreciates how all the fears and worst-case scenarios they once had about how things would go if they came out have turned out to be much easier than imagined. 

Most Sundays, Jare attends sacrament meetings with Kathryn and the boys, but goes home after, while they stay for their classes. Jare says, “I’ve had a complicated relationship with the church over the years--how things have been taught and the shame it brought me, especially in my youth. It was hard for me to see the differences between my relationship with God and His feelings about me, and with the church leaders and policies I’d hear. I felt God must hate me to have made me this way. But now, I’m working through these feelings. Now I believe that if there is a God, He loves everyone. I’m able to feel much more love now that I’m able to be who I am and how I feel.”

Kathryn’s spiritual journey is one that brings her to tears when she considers how “Heavenly Father loves me, and He equally loves Jare.” While she has a calling at church and says she gets something out of it often when she goes, she feels, “It’s not a safe place for everyone. I’ve had to adjust how I participate to preserve my relationship with God and my family.” Doing this has allowed her to have a lot of empathy for those going through difficult things and to give hugs to many at church as she realizes, “We’re all going through hard things—but there’s a lot I have questions about.” 

One youth leader from Jare’s past who was “pretty awesome” made a real difference in their life, and was one of the only people in 2021 who Jare came out to, besides family. Many of the both Jare and Kathryn’s extended family have also been “incredibly kind and accepting,” though there have been some who haven’t been so supportive. Jare came out publicly last New Year’s Eve on Kathryn’s Instagram account, and the couple watched in trepidation after they pressed post. They were pleasantly surprised to see a steady stream of supportive comments, without anyone saying anything negative. Jare dresses differently now to match how they feel and they do participate in some gender affirming care that they say has helped a lot, but they haven’t fully socially or physically transitioned at this point. At church and in their neighborhood, Kathryn says they feel the eyes on them, and are nervous about sensitive questions some might ask about what this means for the Jenkins’ relationship, but feel they have mostly been met with kindness during Jare’s coming out.

In their ward, Kathryn says more people reach out to her to ask about Jare than to Jare directly, but, “In all fairness, Jare is very shy. They might get a little nervous about how best to approach.” Kathryn feels the weight of this and wishes sometimes she could just be Jare’s partner, a role she loves, rather than feeling like she has to be an educator or advocate all time. But those are also roles she owns as the mother of two kids with autism—she often wants to lead with introductory information, so people don’t say something offensive first. It helped when Kathryn and Jare recently recorded their story on their Spotify podcast; the link is available at their bio on their @inclusion_home IG site.

While Kathryn and Jare were worried about what Jare’s public coming out would look like, they have both felt “an incredible peace that has been freeing,” says Kathryn. “Seeing Jare as someone who is loved, who matters, who has these feelings and can still be valued, has also allowed me a chance to love and receive love and support from others.” Kathryn continues, “Even if it hadn’t gone well, we both feel giant relief and were able to take a deep breath for the first time.” For Jare especially, it’s been a long-awaited deep breath.

XIAN MACKINTOSH

On occasion, Xian Mackintosh is also invited to share his side of the story at firesides and speaking events at which his LDS parents, Scott and Becky, are asked to keynote. As referenced in last week’s story, this is something all three appreciate. Both sides of this parent-child dynamic acknowledge their journey has been one of growth, but most of all, love. It’s an impressive consensus as their lives currently look a little different from each others’ and from how they once thought things would go.

Growing up, Xian (pronounced See-an) was very aware of his parents’ expectations for their son: earning his Duty to God award, attending Primary, Young Men’s and seminary, serving an honorable mission, an eventual marriage in a temple to a lovely young woman, followed by fatherhood, callings, and all the other things in alignment with the LDS faith. So when as a young child, Xian started to recognize that he felt more attracted to people of the same gender, he wasn’t quite sure what that meant, but knew it was something he needed to keep to himself.

As a teen, Xian struggled with what he now regrets most—that he wasn’t able to really be himself. Of those years, he says, “I listened to the music I thought I should, and had the friends people thought I should befriend. Every part of my life was focused on not letting people know what I was really feeling.” Xian was convinced he’d take his secret to the grave as he was so worried about disappointing his family. He acknowledges, “I have incredible parents who always made sure we knew we were loved. But I’d seen an older sister give them a harder time and didn’t want to be a burden on them. So I chose to deal with things myself and just handle it. I was always good at that. But it comes to a point where you can’t hide it anymore.”

After realizing his plea bargain to God, the same so many others attempt while serving a mission, didn’t pan out after returning from his honorable Detroit, MI mission and realizing a few months after, as hard as he had tried, “it wasn’t going away,” Xian chose to move to Hawaii. There, as a student at BYU Hawaii in the Social Work program, and later while receiving his master’s degree from the University of Hawaii, Xian was able to let down his guard as the dating pressure was less prescient than in the Utah culture in which he’d been raised. He says, “It was a huge weight off my shoulder when I went to college, but as I was still at BYU, I wasn’t able to be open. I was still closeted.” He only returned home for visits a couple times a year for a holiday or quick visit, minimizing his exposure to the inevitable and relentless “Who are you dating?” questioning.

During his senior year of college, he realized not being able to tell the truth made Xian feel like he was “internally killing myself. I had done all the praying, fasting, begging, scripture reading, trying to stay on the path to get rewarded. I was dealing with a lot of internal sadness, but it wasn’t what I portrayed. It got to a point where I realized I couldn’t do this my whole life.” One day, he decided to change his plea to God. He says, “Instead of praying for this to be taken away, I started changing what I was praying for. I started asking, ‘Am I ok?’ And I felt so much warmth and happiness with that simple question. I felt a, ‘Hey Sean, you’re ok.’ From there, I didn’t really look back. I knew I have a Heavenly Father who loves me, and He’s ok with me. I may not know all the answers, but I know Heavenly Father knows and is ok, so I don’t need to worry.” Xian then began to feel how amazing it felt “to be me and not worry if I’m good enough. It didn’t matter what others felt. God knows, and he’s fine with me, so it’s ok some of those teachings didn’t line up.”

This led to Xian coming out to one of his classes at BYU, and to the night often recounted by his mom. Xian saved his confession to his parents for the last night home at the holidays. While out saying goodbye to some friends in SLC, Xian sent a private Facebook message to his parents. Under the level of anxiety and stress he’d been dealing with, he knew it would not be good for his mental health to physically witness what he anticipated would be an intense reaction. Feeling it was better for all, he typed words along the lines of, “I’ve really been struggling to share this for a long time. Nothing’s changed about me, I’m still your same son, but I am gay.” Xian was able to see via read receipt that both parents saw it, but his dad did not respond. But his mother typed back the words, “Ok, but you need to come home now.” He replied he wanted to talk about it, but wanted the time to say goodbye to some friends first. His mom made it clear she’d prefer him come home now. Xian had borrowed his mom’s car for the night, and later, on the way back, he ran out of gas which resulted in him having to walk over a mile to a relative’s house to get help with gas. “I was worried they’d ask questions; it was kinda an ordeal.”

Xian finally entered his parents’ living room around 1:30am, where Becky was ready, hands clasped. The first words out of her mouth were, “So what are we going to do about this?” The hours passed with Becky assuring Xian she loved him and was there for him while also suggesting having Xian’s testosterone levels checked, the various ways they could keep this news quiet, and perhaps he could still marry a woman. Replaying in Xian’s head were the birthday wishes he’d silently made as he blew out his candles every year since the age of 5—with every wish, he’d plead to have being gay taken away from him. While Xian felt his mom was listening that night but not really hearing him, he did not resent her response. He says, “It took me 20 years to be okay with myself. This was her first time hearing it, so I couldn’t expect her to just know how to handle it. She was raised in the same setting I’d been.”

His patience continued every time his parents would send him scriptures or life advice afterwards that he didn’t exactly find helpful. “It took several years, but eventually they got it. They were just in fix-it mode.” Immediately after, Xian says Becky wanted to tell her oldest son, and Xian senses it was because as the “golden child,” he felt this brother would back up his parents’ religious perspective on things. But Xian wanted to tell his siblings all at once. Eventually, Xian got a call from his oldest brother while out with friends, a call that had “a bit of a funeral vibe.” Subsequently, Xian wrote an email to all his six siblings at once, not wanting to make phone calls that “would have taken a lot of out of me.” Within 24 hours, all his siblings had called him to express their surprise but for the most part, love and support. One call still hurts Xian to this day, as he remembers the words of one of his siblings: “Why are you doing this? Our family is not an eternal family anymore.” Xian replied, “I’m sorry you feel that way, but I’m still the same person. This isn’t a choice I’m making or something I’m just deciding to do.”

After a decade spent watching his six siblings all marry, it was finally Xian’s turn a few years ago. After having a couple longer term boyfriends who were always invited to family events, he eventually found a man he wanted to marry. As the day approached, the same sibling expressed a few days before that she would not be bringing her kids to the ceremony or joining the rest of the siblings in participating in the wedding party. It surprised Xian that his sister was still struggling, but during a heart-to-heart conversation on a park bench, he decided he wasn’t going to be mad at her for it, trusting that she was trying her best. He let her know he loved her and cared about her, and he feels she does love him in return, though feels their relationship is not what it once was.

When Xian was in grad school, he’d still attend sacrament meeting with his Catholic boyfriend at the time, but then would “say peace out” after that first meeting. But when the 2015 policy came out, Xian felt devastated—not because he wanted his future kids to be LDS, but that when he went back to the second Article of Faith, which preaches “men should be punished for their own sins and not for Adam’s transgression,” Xian couldn’t reconcile how if his kids chose to get baptized, they wouldn’t be allowed to because of who their parents are. He says, “It didn’t sit right with me, that Heavenly Father would allow that.” He and his boyfriend at the time went to dinner with his parents to talk about it, and Xian’s parents concurred they felt horrible about it all. While the policy was later reversed, Xian says, “I can only get stabbed so many times before saying I can’t get stabbed anymore. I needed to be healthy and stepped away. I don’t feel upset. I have so much more peace now than when I tried to fit in that box. I still use prayer, it’s a part of my life. And I feel closer to my Heavenly Father, and am more at peace with who I am.”

While Xian no longer believes in the LDS church as the “restored true church,” he says he has no anger with his family members for their beliefs, and would never expect them to change, as they wouldn’t try to make him change. “I try to love them for exactly who they are. If that brings them joy, who am I to take that away? I have so many aspects of my life that are positive from how I was raised. Also, some negative… but I try to compartmentalize and not focus on contention I don’t want with my family. Whether our beliefs are the same or different, we love and care for each other. My family has done a good job at that.”

The Mackintosh family now reflects a lot of diversity, and Xian says his mom Becky has credited his coming out to her ease at appreciating all the differences and “opening her mind to a world that wasn’t what she always thought it was.” Xian says he’s “super proud” of his parents who’ve been such a great help to many others. He appreciates how his mom recently apologized for things she said when he first came out, to which he replied, “I have no resentment. I knew you were doing the best you could at that time.” He loves how his parents both “did their best, which wasn’t great, but ever since, they’ve been learning and expanding. A lot of people don’t do that. Mine did want to understand and were willing to listen. They’ve constantly built on their love and capacity. They hold a LGBTQ FHE at their home, and my mom’s spent thousands of hours chatting with LGBT individuals. She’s come so far from the mom who first wanted me to get my testosterone checked.”

A lover of all things outdoors, Xian is self-employed, building and selling cold plunges. Now living in a home he purchased in North Salt Lake, Xian is healing from a difficult marriage and divorce, and taking the time to “focus on me”—as well as the numerous pets he cares for, as a lifelong avid animal lover and now, also a beekeeper. Xian owns High Mountain Frenchies, LLC and breeds rare Long Haired French Bulldogs. He loves how the pups he has at his house get along well with the very different (hairless) Sphynx cats and also the quail he raises. For Xian Mackintosh, it’s a coagulation of diversity and beauty in creation all under one household, values his entire family has worked to cultivate together as they’ve come together in increased love and understanding. 

EVIE MECHAM

Emma “Evie” Mecham laughs that she grew up in a one gas station-town, as in, there was nothing else to do besides go to the gas station. In Firth, Idaho, official population of 539, there were no restaurants, no Walmart, just that fuel pump and a couple mechanic shops. “Most of the parents were farmers or teachers. For entertainment, kids mostly just hung out with their friends.” Though Evie recalls that if she went to her friend’s house, “We’d usually have to help her dad by moving pipe before we could do anything fun.” Students from small neighboring towns melded in to complete Evie’s graduating high school class of 51 students, and her father, a former teacher and librarian, is now the principal of an elementary school of about 250 kids. Yet Evie praises the strong library system and athletic programs of her youth as foundational. She grew up reading, which likely led to her love for writing poetry and other creative writing projects (IG: @theknownpast). When her history teacher begged her to join the varsity soccer team he coached her senior year because they needed a goalie, Evie agreed to do it as long as he didn’t make her run. Holding true to his word, Evie didn’t have to do extra running and says, “We lost every single game, but we had a lot of fun.”

Her home life was somewhat quiet, with her only sibling a brother eight years her senior, so Evie often felt like an only child. He now lives with his wife and four kids about ten minutes away from her parents in Firth. Growing up, it was a joke that Evie was always a lot more like her dad, while her brother was more similar to their mom. Evie loves her family, and says they are always learning how to try to understand each other better, even as Evie has recently come out as gay. In turn, she knows her family loves her and says, “Everything good about me came from my parents.” (Including her nickname “Evie,” a hybrid of her grandmothers’ names Emma and Virginia).

Firth was also a town with a predominant LDS population and conservative mindset—one in which people did not speak of gay people often or with affection. Evie deduces that that, coupled with body image perception and feeling like “not many people pursued me romantically anyway,” led to her putting a pin into coming to terms with her sexual orientation until adulthood. She says, “If you told me I was anything other than straight in high school, I’d have been like, ‘What? I like guys too much.’ And it’s true—but I really like guys as friends--you know, hanging out with guys. But I don’t want to kiss them, or do anything more with them. Romantically, sexually, they’re not my thing.” Since coming out, Evie has found her relationships with her male friends have become more relaxed and fulfilling, simply because the pressure to be anything more than friends has been removed. 

Her upbringing also afforded Evie leadership and speaking opportunities in Family Career Community Leaders of America, where she would do Eagle-scout scale projects, one being to design an incentivized reading program for children with the participation of the fire department. “I had a great FCCLA advisor who took this weird little freshman and turned her into a state champ and national runner up.” Evie had always dreamed of attending BYU in Provo, Utah and was accepted—four times, to be exact. She went straight out of high school, but some mental health struggles and other “weird stuff that got in the way of being able to attend” happened, including the pandemic, leading to a start-stop path that required she reapply four times, but, “each time, I got in!” Evie turns 26 in May, and is now “taking it slow” studying psychology at UVU, where she has also loved working in the mental health training clinic for the past two years. She’s also active in her LDS ward, and considers her inherent belief in God and natural faithful mindset a spiritual gift. Evie says, “When I get frustrated with church things, I think ‘Ok, let’s say I left tomorrow, what would I do?’ I’d still be a Christian. I can’t deny God is real; I’ve had experiences with Him. The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints makes the most sense logically to me within the framework of God being real… He’s all loving beyond what we know. My least favorite person is probably still going to heaven, and I love that. I have a strong testimony of God’s love.” Being a devout member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints is a core part of Evie’s identity.

Evie loves the world religions class she is taking, and says if she weren’t LDS, she might want to study Islam, as she’s fascinated by other devout religious lifestyles. She feels, “It’s beautiful to believe in something, even if it’s not the same thing I believe in. I think it’s a sign of integrity to believe in whatever it is you do and to be earnest on that journey.” Evie is considering becoming a chaplain, as she finds the relationship between religion and psychology to be so powerful. She has appreciated having kind leaders in her faith who have shown her love and support. She’s come out to two separate bishops while in college, one by accident after “the Holy Ghost snitched first,” the bishop concurring he already knew. That bishop then called her to teach Relief Society, where she has also felt impressed upon occasion to share her real experiences. That bishop went on to become her current stake president, and Evie has offered herself as a resource to her new bishop, with the caveat, “I don’t rep all gay people ever, but if you have a question about the queer stuff, let me know, and I’ll try my best to help” Evie is the first to recognize it can be new territory for some.

While in college, Evie started to wonder if she might be asexual. “I would think, if I don’t like guys, maybe I don’t like anyone,” wondering if in her vast love of music, this might be why she had never connected with love songs. But at the end of 2022, she was attending an activity and hanging out with a girl from her ward, and recalls, “It sank over me—this is something different. This is someone who I want to be more than friends with. This is a CRUSH! It rocked my world. I wanted to be with her, and not just in a lusting after her body way, like we try to boil attraction down to. She was so cool and funny. I’d met guys I thought were cool and funny, but this was an attraction.” Evie says it had never clicked mentally before, but now that it did, she didn’t know what to do about it. It took Evie a long time to approach the topic with God, assuming if she prayed about it, she’d hear a response like, “You’re not gay, pull it together, go date men.” It took some time for her to work up the nerve, but one day she allowed herself to read her patriarchal blessing through the lens of being gay. She says, “When I did, it was like holy cow, everything fit into place and made so much sense.” She finally felt ready to pray and asked, “Hey Heavenly Father, did you know I’m gay? I am.” She immediately felt a response: “Of course I knew. I knew before you did.” Evie then describes feeling overwhelming love, and then a sense of, “Ok, now you know we’re on the same page, let’s get to work. Let’s do this thing.” Evie credits this as being one of her biggest catalysts for spiritual growth, because she no longer had to hide anything from God, realizing He knew since even before she was 13 and got her patriarchal blessing. “He knows, and that’s the point—He did this intentionally.” 

Recognizing there are a lot of lessons to be learned on her journey, Evie says her path is “sometimes lonely, and sometimes good.” But she believes there is good to come. Since coming out on social media in January, she says she hasn’t had any big negative experiences, “no ‘you’re going to hell’ sliding into my dm’s, no slurs.” But she says the sense of loneliness she feels might partly come from the difficulty of people assuming that once you come out, “it’s going to be all rainbows and then I leave the church… I don’t want it to seem I’m like white knuckling it by trying to stay in a church and posting all the time about it. I don’t think anyone cares or thinks about it a ton, but I do. My religious identity is a huge part of me, and I don’t ever want it to come across as if I’m being fake or dishonest about what I believe in, just because I’m gay.” Evie continues, “I haven’t yet found a community where I feel my devoutness to both church and my gayness are fully embraced and loved and understood the way I would like it to be. I haven’t found a place where both are well-held and balanced yet, except with maybe my therapist.” Evie loves that her LDS therapist has been both faith-affirming while also helping her explore her sexuality in a healthy way.  

Regarding relationships, Evie says, “I’d love to explore going on dates with someone I’m attracted to, but I’m taking it one day at a time… I probably need to work more on myself now before I could consider really going on dates. I’m not sure I’d be a great girlfriend right now.” She also expresses that she wishes it didn’t have to be such a big conflict over whether she dates or not. She says, “I wish downloading a dating app wasn’t a huge deal… It’s hard in the church regarding mental health… I don’t know if people understand this is a wrestle every queer member of the church has had to deal with: do I want to live gay or die straight?” Evie says while her mental health in other areas has improved over time, “In relation to the gay stuff, it’s gotten worse.” Upon contemplating the teaching in the temple that it’s not good to be alone, she’s had to consider whether that means friendship or a relationship for her, and “What’s the bigger sin? Dating a woman or killing myself? Thankfully, we don’t view suicide as a terrible, taboo sin anymore, but it’s still obviously not the choice our Heavenly Parents want us to make. I’ve read the church handbook in these sections over and over, and I have thought, if I took my life, I could be buried in my temple clothes, and if I married a woman and passed away peacefully, I couldn’t, which is hard because the temple means a lot to me. It’s a very real wrestle I’m not sure others understand.” 

As she considers her own future, Evie often turns to poetry and music to navigate her thoughts. Her favorite “informal love language” is making playlists for people. Evie loves all genres of music (she’s even starting to warm up to country), and is excited about her concert tickets to Hans Zimmer’s upcoming North American tour. A Twenty One Pilots concert is also on the horizon, and always a favorite. As Evie contemplates the heavier questions of her future, she’s reminded, in the words of Twenty One Pilots, “Life has a hopeful undertone.”

AUSTIN PETERSON

Austin Peterson’s Spanish Fork, UT upbringing was one in which he believed what he was taught, and he often faked what he didn’t feel to fit in with the other guys who surrounded him. He convinced himself that the draw he felt toward some of his male peers in middle and high school was presumably because he was envious of them. When friends would ask which of two actresses was worthy of celebrity crush status, Austin would respond, “They’re both fine.” 

After high school, Austin did all the things expected of him and more. He went on an English-speaking mission to Accra, Ghana, where he also learned various tribal dialects and ASL. Always a top student, he graduated from BYU in linguistics and also studied for a year in Germany. A few years ago, he was on a Terryl Givens kick, reading all of his and Fiona Givens’ books. One day, Austin tuned in to listen to Terryl being interviewed on Charlie Bird and Ben Schilaty’s “Questions from the Closet” podcast. This opened a whole new dimension for him. One podcast turned into a binge fest in which Austin turned up the volume and his inner awareness as he heard the anecdotes of two active LDS, gay men who had experienced many of the same thoughts and feelings Austin had always pushed away. Austin recalls, “Theirs aligned so closely to my experiences, I felt like they were reading them.” But Austin had always believed being gay was a choice, and since he had not “chosen” to be gay, therefore, he couldn’t be.

As time passed, Austin crossed paths with Ben on several occasions as they shared mutual friends. One night they ended up at the same movie night. Ben made a comment about the attractiveness of one of the male actors, and it shook Austin. After stewing awhile, he reached out to Ben, and over lunch on BYU campus, at age 26, Austin came out for the first time ever--to Ben. Shortly after, Ben linked Austin with a friend who was also queer and looking for a place to stay, and Austin’s new roommate became the second person he ever confided in.

Austin recalls, “Gradually, I became more comfortable in my own skin and with queerness in general, and I began to let more people into my life.” He had already built a close friend network of those who would be supportive, and they were. Austin’s younger brother is gay and had been out for about ten years, so Austin found his family to be both comfortable with and supportive of his news. Austin felt a bit more anxious, though, about opening up to his ward, as he had recently been called in by the entire stake presidency and asked to serve as second counselor in the bishopric. At the time of that interview, he did not feel ready yet to share he was gay, but a few months later, when it was his turn to conduct December’s fast and testimony meeting, Austin felt compelled to open up to the ward family he loved all at once rather than in multiple phases. At the podium, he shared how difficult it was for him when some people say “the gospel is not a buffet where you can pick and choose what works for you,” because “being a gay member of the church, some of the doctrines don’t fit with me as a person.” An avid scriptorian who hosted a weekly Genesis study night, Austin continued to share how much he loved the story of Enoch in the Pearl of Great Price in which God weeps and switches the two great commandments to emphasize the need for people to choose to love. Austin concluded his remarks by saying that was his priority and the “one thing I know.” 

After that meeting, some complaint calls were made by ward members, with one stating he should no longer be allowed to work with children and youth, and another saying, “I don’t know if I need to talk to the bishop or stake president, but this needs to be fixed.” Luckily, Austin’s entire bishopric were good friends who knew him well and proved fully supportive. The executive secretary, a close friend, conferred with his own kids and the deacon’s quorum with which Austin had served to make sure none of them had a problem with Austin continuing to serve. No one did.

A member of the stake presidency had been on the stand when Austin came out. At the next quarterly stake leadership training meeting, Austin’s Orem stake president took some time to pass along several teachings he had apparently heard at a training with some general authorities that advised that any youth who identified as trans needed to be visited by their bishopric so they could read the Family Proclamation together in their living room. The next month, Austin filled in for the bishop at a meeting with the stake president who again spent 45 minutes belaboring the point that youth identifying as bi or trans should not be believed, and that the statistics of increased mental health risks and suicide rates for LGBTQ+ youth were false. He continued to say youth identifying as trans should not participate in any gender specific activities or the temple unless they were presenting as the sex assigned at birth. His final counsel was that the handbook would clarify anything else, making “difficult things no longer difficult,” and that “no blessing would be denied to those keeping their covenants.” Austin walked away feeling this was pretty heavy counsel to give to those identifying as LGBTQ+.

Shortly after, Austin found himself falling into a depression. For several weeks, he struggled to sleep, focus, or fulfill his work duties as a business analyst. In questioning the source of his emotions, he traced their timing to the training with the stake president. He had loved working with the youth in the church and serving as an advisor capable of planning a night of activities like crab soccer for fun and fellowship while also giving advice about school and how to build healthy connections. Austin weighed how leaving the church would hurt his abilities to make a meaningful impact, but also knew it’d be painful to stay. “It was a balancing act to determine which would hurt more,” he says. “As long as it hurt more to leave, I chose to stay.”

And then, he attended another devotional. Last June, thousands of YSA around the globe tuned in to hear the counsel of President Dallin H. Oaks and his second wife, Kristen Oaks. In the discussion, President Oaks spent the first half praising all things marriage, young marriage, and the happiness that comes through marriage. He then pivoted to direct the second half of his remarks to expressing the need to “love” and “respect” LGBTQ+ people, while using us vs. them language and reading a letter by a young adult woman that Austin felt painfully othered the LGBTQ community in a way in which many likely left feeling the overall message was, “You can only find happiness in marriage, but if you’re gay, it’s not for you.” 

Austin had already witnessed the fallout from Elder Jeffrey R. Holland’s “musket talk,” one delivered at a time in which he was still closeted but observed several friends express their hurt and extend comfort to each other. But after President Oaks’ YSA address, in the mental state he was in, Austin decided he just couldn’t do it anymore. It was a difficult choice to leave the church, as he had been looking forward to serving as an FSY counselor again that summer, something he had enjoyed doing the year prior. But Austin considered how as a member of a bishopric, one has to maintain a temple recommend which includes sustaining church leaders. While he was able to rationalize how sustaining can mean wanting the best for a leader or being willing to hear and obey them, Austin decided he was no longer ok with anyone believing he sustains some of the harmful rhetoric that was shared.  As his recommend was up for renewal that month, Austin quietly let his bishop know, without getting into too many specifics, that he would need to find a replacement, as much as he had loved serving in his ward.

Austin also requested a meeting with his new stake president just to let him know how damaging his predecessor’s words had been. As Austin had at that time been volunteering behind the scenes fielding the emails for the “Questions from the Closet” podcast for about a year, he was able to share widespread feedback and best practices. The new stake president took notes from their conversation, asked follow-up questions, and proved to be “amazing.” Austin respects how that stake president took a proactive rather than reactive approach to LGBTQ+ issues, preparing himself for what might come so he could be a positive support to future young people like Austin craving spiritual support. A couple weeks later, the stake president honored Austin’s wishes and released him. Austin was wrapping up his final month of conducting and assigning speakers and musical numbers and now jokes that “because I can be dramatic,” he scheduled himself to play the same piano medley he had played at his mission farewell, a medley of “Consider the Lilies” and “God Be with You ‘Til We Meet Again.”

After Austin’s release and stepping away from the church, he still honored the arrangement for the youth to use his apartment’s pool, and he still regularly goes to lunch or dinner with friends from the bishopric. He also still teaches piano lessons on the side to several youth and adult ward members, with whom he has remained friendly. While Austin says he once spent a lot of time in councils trying to dissuade people from leaving or “calling in lost sheep,” he is now more a proponent of the mindset that if people want to leave, it’s good to give them the freedom to do so, knowing their ward will be there for them if they decide to come back.

Anticipating his first Sunday home to be difficult, Austin arranged to go on a long bike ride around town to distract himself. But he was surprised to see that for the first time in months, he didn’t feel angst and he was able to gently move on, just enjoying nature. He also enjoys skiing, pickleball, binging “bad teen dramas like Vampire Diaries, Teen Wolf, and other shows unrealistically cast with 30-year-olds,” and he occasionally gets on Minecraft. At 28, while he’s dated a few guys, he’s mostly just gone on a bunch of first dates and considers himself “single and open.” And now, when asked what advice he’d give his younger self, Austin marvels at the capability some young people have to be open and allow themselves to actually consider their options and choose their own beliefs. He remembers once being shocked to hear someone say he believed gay people should be able to get married in the temple. He thought, “You can believe that? We’re allowed to think outside what we’ve been taught?” 

As a youth, Austin had never entertained the mindset the church might not be true. It was a seismic shift for Austin when he finally came to terms with being gay and considering his options to either “do everything the church teaches and die a little each week with no relationship, or die and marry a woman and have offspring for eternity, or be gifted to one of those people as a servant.” He rationalized then that, “If the church was true, I could do the alternative of living by my own values and choosing the life I want, then die and go to the telestial kingdom with the rest of the gays and have a party. For me, with the church’s Plan of Salvation, it still felt better for me to leave than subscribe to it if it was true.” A long-time historian who once considered majoring in ancient studies, Austin is now enjoying this period of open-minded discovery--of studying and respecting others’ beliefs. Of learning to form his own opinions and trust his own path.

TOM CHRISTOFFERSON

Tom Christofferson deems it a good day if he can take out his bike for a long ride in the Phoenix, Arizona sun, the place he has called home for the past six years. “The older I get, the more I need that dose of sunshine,” he laughs. Tom also enjoys travel, reading, cooking, writing, time with friends and family, and is a great conversation partner when it comes to Oscar-nominated movies and binge-worthy TV shows. He deems it a cinematic success if a film or show keeps you thinking about it two or three days later. (For instance, he found “The Chosen” episode on forgiveness centered on Peter and Matthew to be profound, and the portrayal of Mary and Martha choosing the better part “pitch perfect.”) His viewing repertoire has also contributed to his original nickname for his current ward, “The Schitt’s Creek Ward,” referencing its eclectic mix of people all trying to get along and see the good in each other has become “The Zion Ward of the Phoenix East Stake. Tom’s journey in the church has been as long and circuitous as some of his bike trails, but right now, he says he wholeheartedly belongs to “The Church of Jesus Christ of the Gateway Ward—because it really is a true and living church of people who care for and care about each other.”

This is a ward that notices if Tom misses a week showing up. A place where he teaches Sunday School, and where he appreciates how a variety of opinions can be safely shared and grace freely given when comments might not always land as desired. He says it’s the kind of ward where people send a “missed you today” text and they mean it, a gesture he appreciates. While he credits many friends and family members who help keep his life full, Tom says, “In my life, which can feel lonely at times being here by myself, that makes a difference, and helps when dating is awful and unproductive.” 

Stepping back into the dating world has been a more recent choice for Tom, who after having a partner for nearly two decades, had taken a long hiatus from relationships after he decided to get rebaptized and reevaluate what the right path might be for a gay man seeking full church activity. But he has found the current dating world to be one that makes it more difficult to maintain a temple recommend with its requisite “Do you keep the law of chastity?” adherence. Tom says, “The current ethos seems to be that ‘I need to find out if we’re sexually compatible, so I know if it’s worth spending time to get to know you.’ It may be the same for my straight, single friends, too. But that’s the opposite of what I was used to, where that was the icing on the cake, but not the cake. That would come farther down the line for me—after I determine if this is someone who’s heart, mind, and soul I’d want to know deeply.” 

While Tom says he’s met a lot of nice guys, “It can get old fast reciting your life story and feeling like you’re auditioning.” He’s given up on the dating apps and prefers to meet someone “in real life. If it happens, it happens.” For now, he acknowledges with feet in two camps, “It can be really uncomfortable to straddle the divide of being gay and dating while also being LDS and active. I want both in my life, though maybe 100% at all times may not be possible. Part of my journey is finding my own path.” Tom, who has enjoyed a long and fulfilling career in institutional investing, laughs that he does indeed have a “shopping list” and is grateful for referrals of potential partners. On his wishlist? Tom would love to find someone who is kind, has a sense of humor, is smart, a good kisser, and is a friend of Jesus, though he has broadened his dating pool to also include some Muslim and Jewish men and respects how they also value religion. Basically, Tom would like to find someone who would welcome praying together as an important part of a deepening relationship.

The decision to wade back into dating is of course always personal, though it’s garnered some chatter in Tom’s world as he is the brother of LDS apostle, Elder D. Todd Christofferson, and famously penned two books with Deseret (That We May Be One: A Gay Mormon’s Perspective on Faith and Family and A Better Heart: The Impact of Christ’s Pure Love). While Tom concurs he owed no one an explanation, before he posted publicly on Facebook a couple years ago about his decision to reenter the dating world, he first consulted with his brothers and some local leaders. The predominate feedback was to take it slow and be cautious. The message he was most grateful to receive was, “The Lord trusts you, and so do I.” From various conversations, Tom appreciated the takeaway that all learning can be consecrated for our good and Tom believes that we should “counsel with the Lord to seek correction as well as direction.” He also loved how one of his local leaders offered, “Tom, you know the temple recommend questions as well as I do. I can’t answer all your questions, though I wish I could. I don’t know how this all turns out, but I love you and care about you, and am here for you whenever you think I can help.”

Similar sentiments once expressed by a New Canaan, Connecticut bishop are what first welcomed Tom back to church after he’d initially stepped away decades earlier. While he first sensed he was “different” around the age of five, Tom didn’t have the language to understand he was gay until age 12. Raised in a faithful LDS home, he followed the common prescribed path in the 1980s and plea bargained with God through prayer, went on a mission, attended BYU, and married a woman in the temple, thinking at some point, these “righteous” actions would surely drive away even the notion of being gay. But when his parents questioned why his very short marriage was being annulled, Tom simply responded, “Well, I guess it’s because I’m gay.” Shortly after, Tom requested to be excommunicated, a more routine practice at the time, feeling he couldn’t reconcile his homosexuality with his membership in the Church. Of that time, Tom says he didn’t leave the church because he didn’t believe in it, but because he couldn’t see any place for him to live his life in it.

Some years later, Tom found a loving partner who was embraced by both his family and that New Canaan ward they both eventually started attending until the church’s actions around Prop 8 caused Tom’s partner to question whether the perceived loving behavior of their LDS friends was genuine. Yet Tom’s parents perfectly modeled how to set a tone of love and inclusion in their home, when his mother gathered Tom’s family members around and said, “I’ve realized that there is no perfect family, but we can be perfect in our love for each other… The most important lesson your kids will learn from the way that our family treats their Uncle Tom is that nothing they can ever do will take them outside the circle of our family’s love.” Tom’s parents continued to honor his partnership, offering them a room upon visits home, and the two joined the rest of the brothers and their wives at many a live General Conference sessions, including the one in which Tom’s brother became an apostle. When the exclusion policy of 2015 was announced, Elder Christofferson expressed to Tom that he would understand if Tom felt a need to distance himself from him, but Tom returned his mother’s unconditional love and said, “You have never distanced yourself from me, and I’m sure it hasn’t always been comfortable for you. I’m not going to back away from you in any way.” 

Around 2007, Tom became more involved in the church, choosing to get rebaptized in 2014 with his partner’s support, although this did later contribute to the heartbreaking end of a 19-year relationship. Tom recalls, “He had reason to feel I had chosen the Church over him, and yet he was willing to support my decision despite its cost in his life. I can think of no higher tribute to pay to his selflessness and love.”

Tom also credits his parents as the template of Christlike people who listen to, trust and support their child and keep the lines of communication open. He says, “If I’d felt my parents knew all the answers and would be unhappy until I had come to the exact same answers, I would have felt less inclined to counsel with them… The way is to act and not be acted upon. My parents were always loving, engaged, and full of grace, like our Heavenly Parents—which we feel whenever we’re willing to turn to them.”

Very much aware of the friction at the LDS-LGBTQ+ intersection, Tom says at least one reason for the Atonement was so Christ could know all the experiences we would have and could succor and be with us in our journeys. In turn, Tom says, “Allowing ourselves to rub against the rough edges of each other is painful, even hurtful, but if we can allow it, the experience can also help us to see the pain of others that drives their behavior.  That understanding can, hopefully, be consecrated to greater empathy for those with whom we assume we have little in common. which might build bridges of understanding and unity.” At the same time, Tom recognizes the reality of the experience in his own life, and for others as well, in allowing yourself space or distance as needed from places or situations in order to rebuild strength and peace. Those experiences, too, he feels, can be used by the Lord to teach us how to share the journey, and the wounds, of those around us. 

When it was proposed by a friend that he apply for the VP of Inclusion role at BYU several years back—a university whose students he loves but grounds he can’t help but feel uncomfortable on after the dissonance he experienced as a student there in the 80’s, Tom thought “Not me, it should be someone with a deep love of the institution.” Yet, Tom says he can still appreciate the work being done there as an institution of higher learning, and tries to lend his voice when he can, if it might be helpful. After the “musket fire” talk given at BYU in 2021, Tom joined Patrick Mason on a powerful Faith Matters podcast to express why some of the words shared were so painful for so many in his community. While Tom has long loved and deeply admires the speaker of that message as one with “a magnificent heart and mind who has worn out his life serving the Lord,” he is quick to wish the speech could be allowed to recede into history. Tom says, “I hope we all can keep focusing on ways to frame our desire for unity in a way that engages everyone, which I think was the ultimate intent of that address.” 

Tom is the first to recognize his path is not a prescription for anyone else’s, and never wants to impose the direction he’s feeling as the right way for anyone else. He is cautious about certainty, and careful to acknowledge his belief that personal revelation is “what God says to me at this time about my life,” and carefully adheres to his own three rules for inspiration: 1) Don’t tell the Lord what He must say, 2) Don’t tell the Lord what He can’t say, and 3) Keep to myself about what He does say. “My prayer is always that the Lord will help me to have a mind and heart ready to accept anything he’s going to say. As the body of Christ, we can all approach it that way, seeking more light and knowledge, but I’m not the one to tell Him how to do it.” Tom says, “This ‘I’m not finished yet’ is not just a statement about this life; I suspect it’s eternal.” Tom loves Holy Week and the chance to think about the events that took place each day. He says, “When I consider the triumphal entry a week later followed by the crucifixion and resurrection, there are peaks and valleys in my life, too, and I love that feeling of connection to Him. I know I don’t understand all He’s trying to teach me. But I love Easter and the new beginnings we get every Sunday with the Sacrament, and every morning with prayer.” Tom expresses gratitude for those who allow his journey to continue, never assuming the story is finished. “That’s what makes life interesting. We’re not static and never finished, and that is what gives me the greatest hope for eternal progression. I can’t imagine we would ever want to stop growing.” 

JAMEE MITCHELL

**CONTENT WARNING: suicide attempt / suicide ideation**

Several years ago, Jamee Mitchell stumbled upon the wedding video from her first marriage. Someone watching the video told her that, “Your body language clearly indicates that you didn’t want to be there.” And most would agree, Jamee looked quite different back then. Jamee was raised and known for most of her life as James, the son of an active LDS family with deep pioneer roots in Bountiful, Utah. From her earliest memory, Jamee felt different, but didn’t have the vocabulary to define the way she felt.  Her family was amused that she played dress-up and loved pink until these things were no longer considered age-appropriate.  Her parents took her to a church therapist at age 11 where she was told that if she would serve God faithfully, that “it would all work out.” 

Despite her misgivings, Jamee worked hard to do everything right and was eventually called to serve a mission to the Philippines. The mission was her first exposure to a culture that experienced gender differently—in the Tagalog language, there are very few gender pronouns. People have a child, not a daughter or a son. People have a spouse, not a husband or a wife. Jamee says, “I loved their beautiful language and how reflective it is of the culture.” While Jamee had no experience in accounting, her mission president called her as mission financial secretary, a rare assignment for a young elder. But this is where Jamee learned the accounting skills that would become her trade as an enrolled agent who now owns her own accounting firm, The Tax Company, in St. George, Utah.

After returning from her mission, Jamee continued her education in accounting. She mostly avoided dating but enjoyed attending institute activities. It was at one such activity that she met a kind but strong-willed girl who seemed determined to get married. That girl later wrote about the experience, “James seemed like the happiest and most carefree person I’d ever met. I wanted to find a way to date him. He had everything I was looking for!”

When the topic of marriage came up a few short weeks later, Jamee succumbed to societal pressures. She regrets not telling her first wife about her gender dysphoria until about a month after their wedding, thinking those feelings would go away. That announcement was understandably difficult, but they decided to stay together and try to work things out. Jamee finished school and they moved to St George, Utah where they began couple’s therapy. When that didn’t help, Jamee decided to throw herself into a life of work, church, and community service, and ignore the feelings she’d been experiencing all her life. Jamee served in the church, became a delegate for the Republican party, president of their HOA, and started her own business.  

Living in St. George, the marathon was in Jamee’s backyard, and she had a visceral reaction her first time watching a friend cross the finish line. Jamee poured her sorrow into the distraction of running race after race, which over the years included close to 60 marathons, several ultra-marathons and even a full Ironman triathlon. One year, Jamee took on the challenge to run all six Utah marathons in the same year. A few years later, she did the St. George Marathon twice in one day, running from the finish line to the start and back again.  She says, “I would run until the physical pain outweighed the emotional pain.” Her spouse hated the runs, and Jamee admits she neglected her spousal and parenting duties as running became her drug.  

This led to a marital separation in 2010 which was kept secret from everyone, including the kids.  In an effort to save the marriage, Jamee enrolled herself into conversion therapy which “was horrible.”  And it didn’t work, to which Jamee adds, “The success rate is negligible, if at all.” Jamee had always been a fun-loving person, but the impossible challenge of changing an unchangeable part of herself led to her wanting to take her own life.  

On one occasion she pulled her car into the garage and closed the door with the engine still on. While waiting for the end to come, she got a voice message from a friend who said, “I’m not sure why I’m calling you, but I feel inspired to let you know that you are a special person and that I care about you.” Jamee says, “To this day, I don’t think he knows that he literally saved my life.”

After that experience, Jamee received a priesthood blessing from her stake president. The takeaway was that the sin was not in being trans, but in harboring shame. Jamee felt the impression that, “You didn’t do anything wrong by being trans, but what you did wrong was to hide your struggle. Stop fighting it.”  Shortly thereafter, Jamee’s first marriage dissolved in a bitter divorce. With four kids including three teenage boys still living at home, Jamee did not want to transition while the kids were still in high school. Instead, she got involved with North Star, where she was able to be more able to be herself and focus on her children without transitioning.  

All of that changed in 2016 when Jamee was training for the Wasatch 100-mile endurance run.  She dislocated her hip and just like that, her coping mechanism was gone. Within a year she made the decision to start hormone replacement therapy (HRT). The changes were gradual, and Jamee began presenting more and more as female. 

Jamee’s legal name change came about once it became awkward to go to the doctor or bank and people questioned her ID. Once, she got pulled over by a police officer who looked at her driver’s license and said, “I take it you don’t go by James anymore?” Originally, Jamee had chosen a different female name for herself but as she started presenting as female, her friends just naturally started calling her Jamee. The unusual spelling is Jamee’s way of honoring her mother who was always proud of her firstborn’s given name. By keeping as much of the original name as possible, it gave homage to her parents. When Jamee was younger, she was never close with her mother, but now she says they’ve become remarkably close. Her dad still struggles, as do her brothers. At their last family gathering, Jamee was able to forge a bond by talking about cars with her brothers, who softened a little. Jamee reasons that, “It took me over 40 years to accept myself. If it takes 40 years for them, I need to give them that grace.” 

Jamee remains very close with her best friend and sister, Jenny, who she once played dress up with, donning their grandma Arlene’s dresses as young children. Jamee loved her grandmother and later took her name as her middle name (instead of keeping her grandfather’s), feeling Arlene would have affirmed her and loved that honor. When Jamee turned seven or eight, she was told she could no longer dress up and do fashion shows in her grandmother’s closet. She didn’t understand why. Over this last Christmas break, Jamee teased Jenny for not having picked up on her gender dysphoria back in high school, saying, “How could you not have known? I worked at a formal-wear shop, had big curly hair, and was so effeminate.” After Jamee’s Grandma Arlene died, her jewelry was divvied out to her granddaughters, but being pre-transition, Jamee didn’t receive any.  Once Jamee came out, Jenny brought over a care package for Jamee with some of Arlene’s jewelry as a gift, which Jamee says meant the world to her.

Three of Jamee’s four children still do not affirm or talk to her, but one is supportive. Her 26-year-old son who has autism lives with Jamee, identifies as gay, and is dating a trans man and is best friends with a trans woman. As this friend struggles to afford affirming care, Jamee says she uses her privilege (having had the funds to pay for medical procedures and the ability to change her name and gender markers on her birth certificate) to help people newer and less supported in their journeys.

A few years back, Jamee reconnected with a friend from high school named Susan Tolman. Susan showed interest in dating. It broke Jamee’s heart to have to tell her that she was trans and wasn’t attracted to girls. Jamee cried for about an hour over the second round of lost love until, to her credit, Susan said, “I don’t love the outside, I love the inside.” Shortly afterward, Jamee went to lunch with a friend who is the parent of a trans child and explained to Jamee she was likely pansexual, saying, “You love hearts, not parts.” Jamee now concludes, “If you have to put a label on me, that’s probably it.” While neither Jamee or Susan identify as gay (both say they’ll turn heads at an attractive man), Jamee says Susan is her best friend and they both realized “certain things are just better when you’re married.” At their wedding on 4/20/2020, Jamee says she “let Susan be the bride” as she had never been married before. Jamee presented as male at the ceremony but wore a black dress in some of their photos.  The two love to laugh and have fun together.  When Susan frets over her looks, Jamee jokes, “As long as you’re with me, honey, no one’s going to be looking at you!”  

After spending decades building her tax business in St. George, Jamee feared she might lose clients after transitioning, but was pleasantly surprised when only four out of thousands of clients left. Her whole office staff still supports her as senior partner.  She laughs, “I’m the girl boss, and I know this because no one listens to me.” Jamee does work hard to make her voice heard in her board role with Pride of Southern Utah. As a still active member of the LDS church, she acknowledges her presence as a trans woman makes some members feel uncomfortable at church; and her involvement in church makes some members of the PRIDE community challenge her loyalty. Jamee says she is an equal opportunity offender and that’s how she knows she is on the right path.  Her relationship with the church is much like being presented with a form asking if you’re married or single. Her best answer: “It’s complicated.” 

As someone who has served in bishoprics and stake presidencies, Jamee believes there is much room for change in the church—though it may take decades. To the “haters on the right and left who say, ‘God doesn’t change,’ I ask if they’ve ever heard of baptism for the healing of the sick?” (An ordinance that was performed in temples until around 1922, in which sick members were dunked in the baptismal font until the church learned about the sharing of germs and discontinued the process.) “To say the church will never accept gay or trans members--I can’t rule that out.”

Jamee recognizes the need to “be patient with others’ reactions and beliefs as we recognize experiences don’t have to be wrong or bad, just because they’re different from our own. Why do we have to have a mold? How shameful is it that there is a mold in the first place? Can we not have diversity? God made lots of different colors and types of people. Why are we trying so hard to homogenize?”

Recently, Jamee was a guest on the podcast of St. George’s ultra conservative city council member, Michelle Tanner, and both were surprised by the amount of backlash they each received from both sides for talking with someone with such different views. One of their interchanges included Michelle saying she doesn’t think people should have to honor trans individual’s preferred pronouns, to which Jamee replied, “Yeah, I could go around and call you Jerk Tanner but that would be rude, and I wouldn’t do that.” After the podcast aired, Jamee got comments from people on the far left accusing her of “being in bed with the enemy,” and notes that often, it is the allies and not LGBTQ+ people themselves who offer the harshest criticism.   There were also comments from the far right calling her to “repent and turn from sin.”  Much of the podcast episode was centered on Jamee and Michelle’s attempts to explain their respective sides, which was the goal of the episode and Jamee’s mission to try to listen better. Jamee appreciated when a prominent Utah politician assured her that “If you’re getting hate from both the left and the right, you’re probably on the right course.” Jamee says she’s strong enough to enter the fray, but there are many who aren’t, and she tries to do the outspoken work for them as much as possible, saying, “I’ve received so much grace—from my family, colleagues, coworkers.” 

One of Jamee’s closest friends and first allies was her secretary. “She pierced my ears after I came out,” Jamee gushes. Recently the two were talking about the phrase, “Be careful who you hate; it might be someone you love.” Jamee says they deduced, “Hate can be an unreliable weapon. It cannot be easily aimed. It can go all ‘Elmer Fudd’ on you real fast and you can end up blackening the face of someone you love and care about. Put that weapon away; never let it see the light of day.”

THE COONS FAMILY

Achievement and distraction. These were the coping techniques that have proved both useful and life-saving for Dr. Kristine Coons, who has struggled with gender dysphoria for as long as she can remember. Now happily married to her wife of 20 years, and working as an internal medicine physician at a hospital among supportive coworkers, Kristine has found her stride.

Growing up in western Washington in the ‘80s as a middle child of five was especially complicated for Kristine. An older brother had contracted HIV from a bad blood transfusion, and as it was the height of the AIDS crisis, Kristine’s parents frequently moved jobs and homes to get their son the care he needed while trying to give all their kids enough fresh starts in new schools that they could overcome the stigma of being “the family of the kid with AIDS.” Kristine, who with Laura is now a parent of four kids ages 18 to 8 (Ben, Rachel Lizzy and Alex), marvels at all her parents endured. 

As a young child, Kristine sensed her parents didn’t need one more thing to worry about, so she tried to lay low and battle her gender dysphoria alone. But every day, she experienced an intense quandary of wondering why she felt like she was a girl in a boy’s body. She says it felt “like a pressure cooker in which you’d stuff your emotions, lock them in place, and watch as the steam built to the point you felt like exploding.” Not wanting to cause trouble, she worked really hard in school while also striving to minimize the static coursing through the headphones of negative self-talk she endured. Sometimes the static is louder than others, sometimes softer, but Kristine says, “Never being able to take off those headphones with the constant noise drains you. It’s absolutely exhausting.”

Kristine’s hard work in school paid off, and she went on to a semester at BYU Provo where she met her future wife, Laura, before leaving for her mission to Phoenix, Arizona. While serving, she and Laura faithfully wrote to each other; the two married shortly after Kristine returned. Of their marriage, Kristine says, “Laura’s amazing, we are head over heels for each other. I love my wife.” As a newlywed, Kristine quietly negotiated her dysphoria, rationalizing something might fix it or make it go away—she trued prayer, fasting and study. She even attempted herbal remedies she’d heard might dampen the emotions, but found no fix. Alas, she threw herself into what she knew best—hard work.

While Laura and Kristine started having children, Kristine graduated in food science with minors in chemistry and business. She then entered medical school. Though she promised Laura they would not return to Phoenix after her mission because of the heat, the Coons moved back so Kristine could attend the Arizona College of Osteopathic Medicine. They eventually moved to Ohio for her to continue her training and residency. There, Kristine balanced working 24-hour shifts, moonlighting on her one night off at an urgent care, serving as chief resident which required scheduling duties and teaching interns, and helping rewrite training manuals once it was decided the osteopathic and medical world would merge. Kristine now calls this harried time “a perfect distraction from myself.” On their rare down time vacation, the Coons would take road trips during which Kristine would insist on driving so she could keep her mind focused on the road and elaborate math problems or mind games she’d play so her brain stayed busy—distracted away from the gender dysphoria.

As Kristine’s graduation day approached, it hit her that all the distractions she created were about to disappear. With a pending fresh schedule and new start, Kristine would have to face all she’d been battling and it scared her. In March 2014, standing alone in her kitchen, Kristine recalls an overwhelming spiritual impression wash over her. She felt the words, “Have you ever considered accepting this as part of yourself?” No, she hadn’t. Instead, Kristine says she’d spent years trying to pray, fast, wish, read, and study her gender dysphoria away, hoping it would just disappear. While the idea of acceptance had seemed foreign thus far, suddenly it felt right, even intentional. At that moment, Kristine had the strong impression to go confide in Laura—right then.

This was terrifying, as the few times her parents had found her cross-dressing as a child had been very bad experiences, as had reading what happened to relationships with a transgender spouse. Laura found Kristine on their couch, shaking and trembling as Kristine admitted she couldn’t keep up the secret any further. She had to tell someone—for the first time ever, at age 32. Laura listened patiently as Kristine shared two very important truths: 1) that she wanted to follow God as much as possible, and 2) she didn’t want to do anything to hurt the family. Those confessions opened up communication lines between the couple, as they both aligned with wanting to keep their family together, continuing their relationship, and working together to figure out what were the right next steps.

Kristine did not transition right away. Instead, this was a time of the self-reflection of navigating a difficult course. How does one manage gender dysphoria, maintain a marriage relationship, follow guidelines arranged by The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and interact with a world and community? For Kristine, abruptly transitioning felt drastic and even overwhelming, but she knew it was important to work it out. The course of understanding herself and her family relationships required a significant amount of thought, prayer, and communication with Laura about what felt right and what didn’t. As the Coons moved to Spokane, WA for Dr. Coons to start her first official job in the fall of 2014, she began hormone therapy. She fondly remembers Laura saying it felt like Kristine had finally come alive, suddenly more present and engaging with their children and family life. Kristine concurs that this awakening allowed her to feel more authentic and able to bond with those in their family. In the midst of these transitional years, Laura was thoughtful, loving, kind and patient. However, Kristine’s transition still had its difficult moments for the relationship. In the end, they found working together and with God helped them most in navigating uncharted waters. 

Starting hormone therapy has its physical side effects. As Kristine wasn’t trying to work toward transition or reveal herself to the world yet, it became necessary to hide the effects of hormone therapy under a daily uniform of baggy scrubs at work. There were occasional glances from co-workers Kristine noticed which made her wonder, “Do they know?” One observant nurse suggested maybe she should get her hormones checked, while another patted her on the back in a way she could sense the nurse was checking for a bra strap. Kristine laughs, “Yep, she found it.” Over time it became harder and harder to hide the effects of hormone therapy. 

After coming out to Laura, Kristine and Laura slowly expanded the circle of who she told. Laura needed someone to confide in and share her feelings and Kristine needed to work to overcome her fear. Sensing they would be the most accepting, Kristine opened up to Laura’s family first, and they proved supportive. She mustered the courage to eventually tell her parents via an email and was grateful to have her parents accept her. After receiving the email, her dad called immediately and stated, “First thing, we love you.” Eventually, Kristine, with the support of Laura by her side, explained her gender dysphoria to the bishop and stake president. During these initial encounters with church leaders, Kristine stated she was trying to do her best to balance her reality with the recommendations from church policy (which currently prevent transitioned individuals from holding the priesthood and entering the temple). Unfortunately, that attempt at balancing turned into a “massive list of do’s and do not’s.” The constant worry of potentially doing something wrong intensified and depression led Kristine to a dark place. “I felt trapped. I felt stuck between a rock and a hard place with the pressure of maintaining policy and trying to be myself.” The pressure and depression became so intense she considered taking her life. She recalls, “The thought came, ‘There is a way out, why don’t you take it?,’ which scared me as for so many years I’d prided myself on never getting to that point.” But the feeling became palpable one day while dressing for work. In her closet, Kristine found medication from a past surgery and thought, “All I had to do was take those pain meds and it would all go away.” She lay there looking at the medications, thoughts racing. One of the things that helped her finally get up was her patients in need at that very moment.

As Kristine worked through her morning shift, the floods of thoughts of all the other people who would be affected entered her mind--her wife, her family. She realized something needed to change. She went out to her car, “cried a lot,” and tearfully called the suicide hotline. She says it was a very encouraging call that led her to go home and talk with Laura about what had happened and figure out how to make this work.  Kristine continued to get help from her doctor, and her mental health improved. Both Kristine and Laura knew some things needed to change. Through continued work together and through prayer, there were intense spiritual experiences that offered Kristine assurance. “I sensed He knows me, sees me, and that my task was to continue to try as hard as I could to negotiate this pathway; and that through the spirit, it could work.” In 2022, with the help of Laura and spiritual guidance, Kristine decided to transition. The morning after she made this decision, Kristine woke up feeling a “huge weight off my shoulders.” The mental clarity allowed her to think and feel; gone were the suppressed emotions of anger, happiness, and sadness. Kristine says, “To start feeling those emotions and have them mean something was incredible.” Kristine stated she knew the struggle would continue, but this was her first glimpse at feeling real. 

Kristine began the process of changing her name and markers, and lauds her medical community of bosses, coworkers, and patients who have in all but one or two cases been extremely kind and supportive. When she walks into a hospital room, she says, “Most patients don’t even bat an eye.” Using her medical experience, Kristine became curious about her own genetics and obtained a whole genome sequencing study. Using prior abnormal hormone levels before transition along with journal articles linking abnormal congenital bone growths, leading to eight hip surgeries, Kristine was able to link a diagnosis of congenital hypogonadotropic hypogonadism to her gender dysphoria, with the help of her primary care doctor. The results fascinated Kristine and she delved into an intense study of our genetics and human development. This work demonstrated gender dysphoria and even intersex conditions don’t always derive from one gene. Often, it’s multiple genes working in concert in a massive orchestration of hundreds of genes that lead to a clinical effect.

As Kristine has expanded her research, she started joining online forums where people discuss gender dysphoria, transgender concerns, and intersex conditions. She has even helped others study and decipher their own genetic testing. At the forefront of her mind, Kristine teaches that the problem is not that a child is born intersex or with gender dysphoria, but how do we care for that child so they can grow and be respected and loved in a way that’s meaningful? Kristine now regularly gives presentations to medical students, residents, medical schools and conferences. She shares her own story with colleagues and church members, educating others about our incredible genetic makeup and development that leads to an amazing human diversity to be loved and respected. 

Because Kristine works every other Sunday, she tries to be as active in her ward as possible, where she is called “Sister Coons” (as is Laura). Kristine serves as ward organist. She says, “My prior spiritual experiences have helped me navigate muddy waters, and they are muddy. I find some policies hurtful, but I also know I need to keep going. My faith has grown as I see so many who have been wonderful, kind and thoughtful. I am grateful for my stake president who has said he’s seen a huge change in our stake just from me being present. The vast majority are open and curious in a good way.” 

The Coons family lives near many relatives who they enjoy spending summers with, boating on the lake or skiing during the winter. Kristine says, “My kids like to brag they have two moms. Laura goes by ‘mom,’ I go by ‘madre.’ My kids are amazing. They stand up for me. I stand up for them. We have a great family.” All four of the Coons’ children are on the autism spectrum and Kristine says, “Their spirituality differs from what you’d expect from many other people. They believe in God and know their Savior… whether they keep going or not, I think they’ll navigate that while having a relationship with Christ.” Kristine has become involved with the political scene in states like Florida and Utah among others, contributing her medical research and opinions to policymakers. Because of laws in certain states, Kristine has been hesitant and even fearful of traveling to other states where things are not favorable for the transgender community. But she asks, “How do you negotiate or interact with a group of people who are fighting against you? The perspective I’ve found to be the most successful is to just do the next right thing. One step at a time. A lot of work, a lot of change – one step at a time, along the way – will have positive outcomes. I have to be hopeful with this, look for next right thing, and stand up for what’s right.”

“My work and efforts aren’t finished. I’ve been Kristine Coons now for two years, and I feel and love myself. I love me, I love seeing me, and even more importantly, I love helping others to see themselves.” At work, Dr. Coons has observed that “for some reason,” she is often assigned the transgender patients. “I wonder why,” she laughs. “But every time I interact with these wonderful humans and see what they go through and have to fight for, the more I want to share and work to make sure we have a voice and can stand up for those who don’t.”

SYTSKE WOODHOUSE

Looking back, much of Sytske (“seet-ska”) Woodhouse’s life can be sorted by the before and after of one major life event that initiated an awakening. Before the last of her four sons was born in 2011, Sytske was a dutiful Latter-day Saint defined by titles: supportive wife, nurturing mom, housekeeper--roles she had fallen in line with for about 10 years. Roles for which she’d been well trained. As a child, Sytske’s Sandy, Utah-based family of origin was absolutely dedicated to the LDS church. Her father worked as President of Ensign college for 17 years where he frequently met with general authorities. He also served as a bishop and stake presidency counselor throughout Sytske’s adolescent and young adult years. Her family was the type who read The Miracle of Forgiveness as a togetherness activity, as her four older brothers were preparing to “date to marry.” 

A product of her upbringing, Sytske now recognizes it was her personality to be a bit scrupulous. She remembers a childhood outlook of strict obedience to the point of self-righteousness and intolerance of the “sinners outside the church doing the things I didn’t agree with.” She also recalls struggling to understand why her high school friends would have to go to the bishop’s office to speak with her father on repeat about their weekend activities. She now laughs as she remembers thinking, “What is wrong with you people; what is so hard about keeping the law of chastity? I didn’t get the whole dating and romantic relationship thing. I had no feelings like this until my first year of college and then I thought, ‘Oh, now it all makes sense’.” Only it was women, not men, who Sytske felt drawn to. Still too observant to recognize it for what it was (“I didn’t even know what the phrase same-sex attraction was, let alone gay or homosexuality”), Sytske just thought she was a “really, really good friend” who would go out of her way to look out for her female friends and make their lives easier, seemingly “because I loved them. I’d get jealous when they had boyfriends. I still didn’t know I was gay,” she laughs.

Sytske was instead focused on the checklist she’d been handed—one she felt would give her structure, identity, and purpose. As a Mathematics major at BYU, she’d go to the temple to perform baptisms every Saturday morning. She found a man to marry in the temple and they got started right away on having kids. “I was just going through the motions; this part of my life was a blur. I wasn’t really alive, but just doing all the things a good, Mormon mom does.” Looking back, Sytske realizes she was missing out entirely on trying to get to know and become herself, instead following the edict: “If you do all the things you’re supposed to, you can create this perfect life of how things are supposed to go—missions, college, temples, kids.” 

And then, in 2011, her youngest baby was born. Sytske and her husband began to notice their son, around the age of one, was not developing quite like the others had. An early intervention specialist came to evaluate him and surmised he was on the autism spectrum. “This blew up my entire construct of how I thought life was supposed to go,” says Sytske. Realizing her son might not serve a mission or even live on his own really changed Sytske. “I started asking questions I’d never asked before that had answers different from all the ones I’d been given since Primary. Questions like ‘what does life look like for him? How does he grow and become celestial’?”

Sytske’s older boys, who were 12 and 10 at the time, would say this was “the year mom changed.” The self-described helicopter, controlling parent stepped back and considered her kids for the first time as individuals with their own ideas and potential, not as people to be programmed to fit into a mold. “When I went through that experience and saw the box-checking I’d been doing, a voice went through my head that said, ‘You didn’t come here for this, to just fall in line and go through the motions’.”

Sytske credits this as the moment she decided to really get to know her kids and herself and uncover the shame she had not yet allowed herself to feel for the past 20 years. Sytske felt ready to deal with it. And it was a lot.

Three years later, in 2014, Sytske finally felt ready to acknowledge the attractions she’d had since those early college days. She came out to both herself and her husband. But she wasn’t ready to acknowledge her feelings publicly for six more years. Behind the scenes, Sytske and her husband sought marriage counseling for problems they were finally able to identify more authentically, and they both eventually concurred the marriage was not salvageable, though it took Sytske longer to get there than her husband. At the time, she was also battling the constant impressions she was receiving that to fully heal, she would need to explore the future possibility of dating women. “It was a wrestle because I was a very faithful member, and the shame kept eating at me.”

After she and her husband separated, Sytske asked for a priesthood blessing from her best friend’s son who had just returned from his mission and thought of her as a second mom. In it, he paused and said words Sytske sensed were divinely inspired, especially as she had not mentioned her private wrestle aloud to him. He said, “It’s difficult for us to be seeking for an answer and not find one, or not accept an answer that is given to us.” With this, it hit Sytske that it was indeed God telling her to date women. As she still struggled, feeling like she was fighting between what’s right and wrong, Sytske would reflect on Elder Uchtdorf’s quote: “We can block the growth and knowledge our Heavenly Father intends for us. How often has the Holy Spirit tried to tell us something we needed to know but couldn't get past the massive iron gate of what we thought we already knew?” Eventually, Sytske surmised the gate was now wide open, and she was able to clear her mental block and accept dating women without feeling it was wrong.

Sytske attended Northstar in early 2022, which was the first time she put herself out there in the LGBTQ+ space. At her first meeting in March, she met a woman named Angela. In May, Angela opened up and shared that she had experienced a similar life path as Sytske—marriage to a man, motherhood, and trying to do “all the things.” The spirit nudged Sytske to go talk to her; the two have been a couple ever since. Angela has since moved from Iowa to Utah with her children to be closer to Sytske, and the two go back and forth between their homes, their children now friends. Sytske has since found her spiritual home to be most comfortable with the LGBTQ+ affirming LDS group, Emmaus LGBTQ Ministry, who shortly after she started attending their FHE online group, invited Sytske to join their board. She loves working alongside founders, John Gustav-Wrathall, Erika Munson, and Valerie Green, to prepare devotionals and finds this to be her self-appointed calling, as her current ward has deemed her role as a single mother to a high needs child as busy enough. (Shortly after they divorced, Sytske’s ex-husband passed away, so she now has full custody of her kids.)

While at dinner on her oldest son’s 16th birthday, Sytske told him, “I have something I want to tell you. I’m gay.” He casually replied, “Oh, cool. I’m straight.” Sytske recognizes his nonchalance as a likely product of the fact that they had moved from Utah for a few years to a more progressive region in Oregon, where her kids had several friends at school with two moms or two dads. She also said his easy acceptance might not have been the same back when they were younger and Sytske was not the same mom. “Because I had spent so much time over the years getting to know my kids, they reciprocated and were very accepting. We talk openly about things; it’s in their nature to be open-minded.”

When Sytske started to come out to her Oregon ward, the bishop called Sytske just to check on her, with no attempts to discipline, which she thought was nice. She’d taught Relief Society for four years, and while the RS President was fine with Sytske mentioning her orientation in class, the bishop said he’d prefer she do a special fifth Sunday lesson on LGBTQ+ rather than “spring it on unknowing people in the ward.” This didn’t happen in Oregon, and while Sytske felt somewhat silenced there, when she moved back to Utah, she was touched by her new bishop’s warmth. Upon coming out to him, he said, “I’m so glad you moved into our ward; will you help me teach a fifth Sunday lesson?” In Provo, she says she’s felt not only included, but needed. Angela and Sytske take turns attending each other’s wards, where they feel welcome at both. Sytske honors her ward dynamic as something that “supports me instead of something I have to feel like I show up to ready to defend my community.” 

While Sytske’s parents are now in their 80s and “it’s been a slower process for them to understand,” she credits her coming out as a state of self-acceptance that has transformed family gatherings from a space that once brought her anxiety to now being one in which all of her siblings, nieces, and nephews (some of whom are atheist and many of whom are nuanced LDS) can talk about hard things and disagree, but still love each other no matter what. Sytske says, “I used to blame my family for feeling I didn’t belong, like, ‘Why are they like this?’; but once I became myself, I started to feel I did belong and could love them more, because I now felt more like myself.”

A lover of volleyball, snowboarding, and playing the guitar, Sytske relishes activities that help ground her body and make her feel alive, much like how living authentically has done. “It’s so weird how I now finally feel peace, doing things I was told only lead to misery. I’m a huge advocate of following personal revelation, because no one else will know what your path is besides you, Jesus, and God. I often tell people to really get to know God and Jesus, because I think the ideas we have of them are not always accurate.” Sytske is grateful to have shed the days where she feared rejection and condemnation and instead got to know Them. “Whatever we know Jesus’ character to be, God’s is even more loving and inclusive. They’re not on opposite spectrums. I am no longer ashamed of myself and afraid to approach them, I can feel their presence. That’s why I’m able to go on, do all the work I do with Emmaus, and participate in church functions even when it’s hard to be in spaces I don’t always feel belonging and acceptance.” She continues, “I encourage everyone to ask God how He feels about you – you won’t be let down.  We have so much turmoil in mortality, but there’s a peace that wipes that all away when you’re able to receive the love and grace that is freely poured into you.” 

STEVEN PERRY

“Dear Friends, In the interest of relating to people I love, I do have something I’m sharing with people one-to-one, no big Facebook announcement. I’ve had a strong spiritual prompting the last year and a half to start coming out to people—so that’s what this note is, me coming out to you as a gay person.” So began the personal letter that Steven Kapp Perry felt compelled to share with close friends, after 35 years of marriage to his wife Johanne. Knowing there’d likely be obvious questions, Steve’s letter addressed them: “(It’s) something I’ve always known since nearly my earliest memories, but sort of squashed down as something to deal with later as I grew up. I do happen to be happily married to the only woman I’ve ever loved and had some attraction for—we can’t explain that—maybe just a miracle? So, nothing is really changing for us, but it has become important for me to invite people we love into our circle...”

Steve was relieved his letter was largely received by friends with grace and love. While some may question his need to come out after all this time, and especially as he was choosing to stay married to Johanne, for Steve, it was imperative that people he loved fully know and love him. 

An award-winning playwright, songwriter and broadcaster, Steve now works for BYU Broadcasting as the host of the “In Good Faith” podcast and as an announcer on Classical89.org. Many have benefitted from the musical talents of his family line, and Steve affirms that his mother, renowned composer Janice Kapp Perry, is “just as sweet as you think she’d be.”

Growing up in the Perry’s very musical home, Steve sensed something about him was different and wondered why it felt painful to go on dates. “I think I just buried it; some things felt too hard to know back then.” Steve was born in a different time, within just a few months of the moment BYU’s President at the time Ernest Wilkinson delivered his infamous quote admonishing anyone with homosexual tendencies “to leave the university immediately” so that others may not “be contaminated by your presence.” Ironically, the building named for that president at BYU now hosts the Office of Belonging, where Steve consulted for creating an inclusion event for LGBT student employees and their supervisors at BYU Broadcasting.

As a youth, Steve understood being gay as something not to talk about, that it wouldn’t be safe to share.  He’s grateful for moments when God spared him the shame so many others have felt while reading past teachings and edicts. Upon reading President Spencer W. Kimball’s The Miracle of Forgiveness at age 16, when Steve came to the chapter where the author calls homosexual people “abominations, perverts, crimes against nature, etc.,” Steve says, “a little voice in my head spoke up—not audibly, but just the way there is suddenly knowledge in your head that you didn’t put there?—and it said, ‘He doesn’t understand, and this is not you’.” 

He again heard that voice when the exclusion policy was announced in 2015. Steve says, “The minute I heard it on the radio, that same voice or knowledge was there and said, ‘This is wrong and it will not stand.’ So I tried not to worry about it and was relieved when it was altered in 2019.” Steve explains, “Since our leaders don’t yet have any doctrine about why God sends us LGBTQ people to earth as we are, that the Lord sometimes sends his Spirit to save us from harm, even if well-intentioned.” 

Steve is ever grateful for the guiding hand that nudged him toward marrying Johanne after several years of close friendship. In the coming out letter Steve shared with friends, he says, “When we did fall in love after years and years of friendship, I think I naively thought that I was just a slow bloomer, but while our love is very real, my same-sex feelings never went away.”

The two met as performers in BYU’s Young Ambassadors program and spent many long hours bonding on bus rides across the nation, and while performing together in firesides and in Steve’s family’s musical, “It’s a Miracle.” They married when Steve was 28 and Johanne was 24, and had their first baby within a year. Steve and Johanne have since raised their four children (Emily--who is now married to Skyler, Jason--who is married to Marisa, Alex and Ben) in Utah, and now enjoy two grandchildren. They also laugh that their youngest child, Ben, has continued the musical legacy having received his Masters from the Boston Conservatory at Berklee in Choral Conducting, after also once being their child who shouted, “Everyone stop singing! There’s too much music in this house!” In their young adult years, Steve came out to his kids individually at a time that felt appropriate, and says they were all great about it. He was touched his daughter-in-law said, “This doesn’t change how I feel about you,” and knew he was safe with his son-in-law, who was already an open ally who had marched in Pride parades in Salt Lake. Only one of the four Perry children is still involved with the LDS faith, but Steve says they all are respectful of his and Johanne’s continued activity in the church.

Leaders have fluctuated in response over the years as Steve has felt comfortable opening up about being gay. The first bishop he told, about 15 years ago, immediately released Steve from his calling in the Young Men’s presidency in his ward, saying he couldn’t be around children. Steve says, “I’ve since learned that this is a common misunderstanding, but knowing they thought I was a pedophile triggered years-long major depression. This was especially hard since at the time I had my three boys in the YM program or just about to go into it.”

Since then, he’s witnessed progress. When he and Johanne moved from Cedar Hills back to Provo in 2016, he told his new bishop who only replied, “Ok, fine, but will you accept a calling?” Six months later, that bishop called Steve as one of his counselors. Later when he came out to his stake president, he thanked Steve for trusting him and said, “We are so lucky to have your experience on our high council.” While Steve is often tapped to help with the music, which has included directing a regional choir for general conference, Steve has most recently served in his ward’s Elders Quorum presidency and with Johanne as members of their area Communications Council.  When asked to teach an Elders Quorum lesson recently, Steve felt prompted to come out, to which he thought “that’s weird.” But heeding the counsel of the stake president who had that very morning said the stake needs to do better at understanding LGBT members, Steve opened up to his quorum. He’d given his quorum president a heads up, and the president opened the meeting reading the lyrics to the primary song, “I’ll Walk With You.” Steve says this “rolled out the red carpet and just felt right” for the rest of what he shared. Since, he’s had people thank him for his vulnerability and had parents come to him for advice with their own kids.

Steve shares that his need to come out more widely was a life-saving, or at least mental health-saving decision. Several years ago, he began having anxiety and panic attacks at church, and only church. He explains, “Like I’d be in bishopric meeting and suddenly I knew my body was going to stand up and leave the room, so I made excuses as I left and stood outdoors in the breeze and loosened my tie and just breathed… This was causing me to be dangerously depressed, more than the usual low-level depression I’ve always dealt with—not hard to guess why, now that I think about it. So, Johanne and I with a counselor decided that since the box I felt around me was slowly shrinking, that I would just step out of the box.”

The panic attacks stopped as soon as Steve started to come out to close family and friends, and eventually to people he worked with, one by one at a time that felt right. He says, “It’s not that they needed to know, but I needed to know that they knew and that we were still good.” Steve often hears the phrase, “You can never know you are truly loved until you share who you truly are,” repeat in his mind, and also wanted to add his voice to the movement that visibility and representation matter. He feels, “Both our society and our church need to know just how many LGBTQ people are in every congregation and every class and quorum and know that it’s not ‘Us vs. Them’ somehow, but that there is only ‘Us’.”

Eventually, Steve took the initiative to organize an LGBTQ inclusion event at BYU Broadcasting in 2021, during which he introduced a panel of students and employees who are out who all shared their experiences. It was a packed crowd with an overwhelmingly positive response, something that once seemed impossible back when Steve was a Young Ambassador student on that very same campus. 

Every time Steve shares his story (which he has also done on Richard Ostler’s Listen, Learn and Love podcast), he and Johanne are quick to recommend that others don’t take their mixed-orientation marriage as a prescription of how to live, recognizing “that usually leads to disaster and broken hearts in about 70% of the cases, from what we’ve read.” But whenever he shares his personal experience, Steve reaffirms that he and Johanne “married for love and are staying married for love. Each of us has offered the other to dissolve the marriage on different occasions, if that was the best thing for the other's happiness, but neither of us has ever wanted to take the other up on that offer. We just are each other’s person.”

(Join us next week when Johanne Perry shares her side of the story.) 

CLARE DALTON

As a child, Clare Dalton would watch her dad go off to teach seminary or institute and ask if she, too, might be able to do that one day. His answer was no, as back then, the church encouraged women to stay home with their families. “That made sense,” Clare says, considering all she’d observed at the time. But after growing up in Arizona, Clare would pursue many opportunities. She served an LDS mission in Barcelona, studied linguistics at the University of Arizona while coaching high school girls’ basketball and a variety of middle school sports, worked at a group home, used her bilingual skills to teach driver’s ed, did door to door sales—which she says is everything they say it is (lots of money, lots of crazy), then ultimately ended up back in her parents’ basement, wondering what was next. One day, her father asked her to substitute teach a seminary class. This time, there was space for a woman in that classroom and Clare had an awakening—finally able to combine her two passions of teaching and working with kids. Clare spent the next eight years being called Sister Dalton in Gilbert, Arizona high schools where parents and students regularly asked for their kids to be placed in her seminary class. That is, until she came out as gay. 

Clare had known since she was a child she was different, most consistently feeling “like an alien.” It wasn’t until the pandemic in 2020, at age 32, that Clare finally felt the courage to ask God: “Hey, this SSA stuff I’ve been researching and keep finding my way back to… this topic? Is this me?” She felt the affirmative answer she received didn’t need to be anyone else’s business, and fought God hard on that. Clare laughs, “God and I are good at fighting. I felt strongly prompted by God to come out on social media, and it took us months of back and forth to get me ready to take that leap of faith.” She was perplexed by the timing of it all, and taken aback by the immense outpouring of people in the space seeking connection. “People were starving to be seen and heard, as this affects so many lives.” 

Soon, Clare understood the urgency of her prompting to be more open. A former seminary student reached out and said that on the day they planned to take their life, a friend had forwarded them a screenshot of Clare’s post, which ultimately proved life-saving. They told Clare her example made them realize, “This could be a part of my life that might not ruin everything. Maybe I can stay here.”  Clare says, “That gave me added perspective of what God means by the invitation, ‘Come, labor in my vineyard and be an instrument in my hands.’ Now, I feel called to this space. It’s worth standing here, even if it feels lonely, to hold space for others coming along so we can make the space even bigger.” Clare credits Charlie Bird, Ben Schilaty, Meghan Decker and Tom Christofferson as some of the pioneers who first helped open that space publicly.  

After her public announcement, Clare immediately noticed a shift in her seminary classes. Some students and families started behaving differently towards her. She started hearing secondhand conversations about her, initiated by parents and local leaders who had never actually met her. She says, “It hurt that those with accusations and even just questions didn’t have the courage or integrity to talk to me face-to-face. As a religious culture, we believe in the phrase ‘to stand for truth and righteousness.’ So when we feel we’re on the moral high ground, we like our faces to be seen. But when we don’t have that, we turn into middle schoolers and tattle up the chain to take care of uncomfortable situations we don’t want to face ourselves.” Clare saw “really awful” emails and texts that were passed around about her as she was accused of horrific things that were utterly untrue. She offered to meet with parents, to no avail. “The things I was accused of have left scars, and they’re from parents who had no valid ammunition—just fear. The scary problem is that they don’t need any. I didn’t have to ever actually do anything wrong to be perceived and painted as a threat. Just being gay was enough.” In contrast, Clare will forever remember how some families reached out and some colleagues stepped up to show how much they needed someone like her in this space—an LGBTQ voice who’s connected with God and the church. 

Clare wanted to continue to help people, but started to feel the pushback and belittlement as if “I was being patted on the head, like, ‘You can be here, but don’t make any waves.’ But I kept seeing parents and students who were hurting and who didn’t want to come into a church building because of their experiences. The seminary and institute programs have done so many amazing things for years and can be helpful, but I can’t unsee the broken hearts who don’t fit into that system. Who’s helping those kids and families?” Clare says her faculty would look at the lists every year of students not registered or attending, and consider the tools they were trained and instructed to use to “rescue Israel.” But, “Those tools can be perceived as weapons to people who don’t fit in. Tools like, ‘Let’s go over to someone’s house and invite them to seminary and to read the Book of Mormon.’ What does that tool feel like to someone who was called a slur by someone in their seminary class, and they step into our building and hear that slur again? Or a person of color who studies 2 Nephi and their class discussion isn’t nuanced or sensitive? And in class, when we double down on weaponizing the Family Proclamation, are we gathering Israel, or inflicting wounds that lead to hemorrhaging faith and testimony? People say, ‘We need LGBTQ people in the church,’ but it is so hard to stay when everything from the overt to the subconscious message is ‘You don’t belong here’.”

A lifelong athlete, Clare’s sports brain recognizes the best change can come if we recognize that humans do feel the difference between being “allowed” and being “needed,” or between feeling “welcome” versus “essential.” She likens it to a team on which a coach says, “Here’s a jersey, get used to sitting and watching” versus, “We need what you have. We’re going to build this team and offense around you.” Clare decided that since God had called her, she didn’t need to just sit there, she needed to do something. And if that space didn’t exist, she needed to help create it. She credits many others as being part of the “explosion of people right now wanting to create spaces (books, podcasts, support groups, etc.) with God that haven’t been created before. God isn’t just allowing it, God is inspiring it,” says Clare.

Now on the advisory board for the Gather conference, Clare says it’s been so eye-opening to work in a space without a manual; just a connection to God in which one can ask, how can we do this? With this newfound flexibility, Clare’s been able to tap into part of her spirit that she says has felt dormant to channel the Christlike attribute of creativity. She says, “When we move into the unknown with God, we sample what it’s like to be a creator. We get to accept the invitation to create with God.” Along with a committee of four (including Allison Dayton, Ben Schilaty and Austin Peterson), Clare is now developing the Gatherings curriculum (the free curriculum is available on gather-conference.com under “Gatherings”), a companion study for Come, Follow Me, designed for “the population of those who might find church to be unrelatable, painful, or unsafe. It’s for those who may nervously anticipate General Conference, awaiting the next ‘you’re no longer welcome here’ stone to hit. The team hopes that with the Gathering curriculum, someone can jump into scripture with a different perspective and find themselves in the sacred text … and say, ‘Oh, I’m more like Nephi than I thought’.” Clare reasons, “Constantly deflecting stones from friendly fire takes such an emotional toll and can be a barrier to spiritual growth. When you’re ready for a blow to come, it’s hard to have a soft heart that can be receptive.” 

Reflecting on the recent inaugural Gather conference in which she was the second speaker, Clare says she arrived two hours early, stepped into a giant meeting hall with 1200+ chairs waiting to be filled, and had this moment of, “This is unreal… I didn’t even know to dream on this level. No part of me as a little kid was like ‘I want to get up on a stage and talk about the thing that makes me different.’ But I had this moment of awe—how good God is to be able to move so many things and people. I was able to stand at one of those connection points where so many lines come together and connect you to everyone else. That’s what Gather was—seeing people friendly, happy, smiling, using different pronouns or clothes or for the first time, trying something they had not been able to before. And we all fit in the family of God, in a future that had been described with so much uncertainty for us…” Clare continues, “It doesn’t take away our problems, but it does give us a foundation so we have a place to stand for all the things to come. That’s what I see and want; that’s what Gather is doing… It’s a beautiful sentiment to feel we’re not just taking up space in Zion, but that we literally cannot build Zion without this essential part-us. As we move closer to the Second Coming, God’s moving more and more people.”  

A self-proclaimed introvert who is a voracious reader of fantasy and YA fiction, Clare is now happily dating her girlfriend and figuring out what their path in the church looks like together. They are active in their local ward, and Clare says that living the gospel for them is “more focused on trying to become like Christ and less focused on checking all the to-do boxes. While I hope every week that Sacrament meeting and second hour will be the sacred renewal that I crave, there are times that I have to leave the church building and find that connection with God elsewhere.”

But Clare says, “What gets me out of bed and keeps me going is faith. I don’t know how else to say it. It’s the first principle of the gospel. We have too many cultural patterns that have become patterns of fear. And God is trying to root out that fear. In order to do that, we have to check our patterns, assumptions, and mindsets.” Clare says she did all she could to live a life where she “moved within those patterns and fit in and looked really good on paper, but that wasn’t where God was guiding me. I hope that every member of God’s family remembers that God invites us to talk to Them and find out our individual purpose together with the divine.” As for Clare right now, she is focused on the gathering to come.

THE GILES FAMILY

The crux of the LDS-LGBTQ+ dilemma is most frequently characterized by the perception of three limiting life paths when one comes out as gay: 1) Stay in the church and live a celibate life. 2) Enter a mixed orientation marriage. Or 3) Date and allow yourself to fall in love according to your attractions, and necessarily leave a church you may still love and value. But what about when none of these options feels like the right fit? What if you choose to carve out your own way by entering a same sex marriage while still showing up to your faith community of choice, even when its underlying teachings seek to minimize your union? For Liz and Ryan Giles of Yakima, WA, that is the exact path they’re navigating right now, and their new Instagram account @the.fourth.option’s rapidly growing following suggests many others are also intrigued by this option.

Like much of their relationship, Liz and Ryan’s wedding was off the beaten path—literally. In August of 2021, about 100 of their close friends and family joined them in the Washington wilderness at Camp Dudley—a summer camp Liz had been involved with since 2009 as a camper and later counselor and teen director. Ryan had always felt typical wedding receptions were “boring,” so they offered their guests the option to go boating, rock climbing, ziplining, and do archery during their special weekend. After their ceremony, Liz and Ryan stole 15 minutes for themselves, and stepped away from the crowd to a secluded place on the shore to pray together and have their own form of a covenant making ceremony in nature, an experience they loved. 

It was the perfect setting for former high school English teacher, Liz—25, who now runs year-round outdoor education programs for fifth graders. Ryan—28, and originally from South Jordan, UT, is an EMT and was just accepted into an occupational therapy program after which she hopes to work in pediatrics helping kids to navigate the emotional and physical connectivity of their health. Together, the two love to do puzzles and play board games like Parcheesi and Scrabble, as well as go rock climbing, explore parks, and “chronically rewatch TV shows” like Schitt’s Creek, the Fosters, Gilmore Girls, The Good Place, Jane the Virgin, and Grace & Frankie. Currently pup parents of dogs Kevin and Casper, Liz and Ryan are currently finishing up their home evaluation to become foster parents. They say they would love to foster-to-adopt sibling pairs who often struggle to stay together, and are also supportive of the reunification track for kids who benefit most from that route.

Liz and Ryan have realized a love that over the past seven years has at times felt complicated. For some in the wards they’ve attended as a gay married couple, their union does complicate some’s sense of “how we do things.” But Liz and Ryan hope that their openness about their marriage will help others, especially LGBTQ+ youth or closeted adults who want similar things, to view it as a possibility, while also helping those for whom gay marriage is uncomfortable to warm to the idea that “their agenda” in attending church doesn’t vary from the average person’s objective to show up to find community and draw closer to Christ.

The Giles’ story started with a meet-cute in 2016. Liz was a freshman at BYU and her roommate had gone to high school with Ryan--who had just returned from her mission and moved in next door. For months, they were just friendly-ish neighbors, but Ryan had never fully caught Liz’s name and after three months, she says, “It felt too late to ask.” Ryan didn’t think she’d see Liz enough for it to matter, but Liz says, “Like a Whacamole, I just kept popping up.” As the friend group continued to hang out, the following semester they all moved into an apartment together where game nights frequently involved improv comedy skits in which Liz and Ryan would draw scenes from a hat and have to act them out. Liz says, “But we’d always draw scenes in which we had to act like a couple. So then as a joke, we started calling each other babe like we were a fake couple within a roommate context.” Ryan adds, “And then, it became less fake than we thought it was.”

The next few years were filled with navigation as the two individually figured out their orientation, their attraction to each other, and their other life plans. As Ryan headed to Paris for a study abroad, and Liz left several months later to serve a mission, they both tried to convince themselves that this was all just a fluke, that they were still straight (Liz thinking this more so than Ryan), and that maybe, sometimes these kinds of things just happened with roommates? Nine months into her mission, Liz came to the realization that her feelings for Ryan (and, on a bigger scale, her same-sex attraction) were not a fluke. After Ryan returned from her internship in Paris, and while Liz was still on her mission, they came out to each other and acknowledged that what they’d felt was real. This didn’t exactly make Liz’s church service easier. At the time, Liz was spending her days with a mission companion who loved to recite the Family Proclamation while they drove around their (very large) area. Although she loved many things about this companion and their several transfers together, she knew that kind of setting was definitely not a safe place to come out. Yet it still took her nearly a year after her mission to realize that she did not want to pursue option one or two in her life—that while she longed to have a family and be a mother, Liz did not want to deny herself a relationship filled with chemistry and deep love. 

When Liz returned, Ryan was patient and careful not to put any pressure on Liz. Ryan had already come out to her parents “accidentally” after she was watching general conference with her brother and dad and a speaker focused on what to do when you feel “the Lord is asking too much of you.” Seeing his daughter become upset by this, Ryan’s dad prodded her to be more specific about what hardships she was facing in a big, long discussion of which Ryan says, “My dad was amazing.” This was a welcome surprise, and the next day she came out to her mom who had a harder time at first, but who she says has also been amazing. Ryan remembers fondly that one of the first questions she asked Ryan was, “Does that mean you’re going to have to cut off all your hair?” Ryan laughed and replied, “That’s not required anymore; we’ll leave that be.” As Ryan continued her schooling at BYU, she felt it wouldn’t be safe to risk her diploma by coming out publicly, so she quietly considered her future options, none of which felt right. Before she’d come out to her parents, Ryan says she’d felt sick to her stomach for months before getting a priesthood blessing from her dad in which he talked about how she’d live “an uncommon life.” He didn’t say directly what that meant, and he had no idea the reality she was mulling, but through personal revelation, this cracked open the possibility that perhaps she would be able to marry someone she loved while “doing all the things I find most important and affirming regarding my relationship with God and participating in a faith community. Maybe none of that had to change.” She says, “That’s when I decided to pursue this option and try to find someone willing to do it with me. I was hoping that person might be Liz, but I didn’t express that yet.”

After returning to BYU from her mission, Liz also planned to stay closeted but admits she had “holy envy for Ryan’s plan because it sounded like such a better plan than the trajectory I was on. I felt a lot of depression and hopelessness deconstructing my faith because I didn’t see a future that was truly happy for me. I’ve always known I was meant to fall in love with a life companion, share my life, be a mother… things that didn’t feel possible to me with a man. It was tough at that point, so I was grateful to ultimately get guidance from Heavenly Father the other way.”

The two remained just friends for about a year, respecting Liz’s process and the BYU Honor Code they’d each signed, until the combination of COVID and botched travel plans placed them both in quarantine together. Liz had just flown to Washington DC to present at a teaching conference when she landed and learned the world had essentially shut down. She spent the next five days alone, reflecting on how unsettled she’d felt about not dating women when she knew where her attractions lied. Considering the “divine plan” intended for her, that week she even wrote a 30-page letter in her journal to her Heavenly Parents to weigh her options. By the end of the week, she felt she had a strong answer she was supposed to be with Ryan and that she could do a lot of good in the world if in that companionship. Liz returned a week later to Provo which had become a ghost town. The rest of their roommates had returned home, leaving Liz and Ryan to spend time together and the freedom to openly express their love. When Liz shared her feelings, Ryan says, “I don’t think I‘ve ever been so happy in my life.”

Ryan graduated that spring, and Liz had one more year that proved a roller coaster for many for LGBT students with the fluctuating “bait and switch” BYU Honor Code regulations regarding public displays of affection and dating allowances. Both women felt the frustration of feeling they had no say in how they were able to live their lives. For Ryan, this felt like the 2015 exclusion policy then 2019 reversal, but in reverse. “It caused so much damage to begin with and a lot of fear for people as a lot had started to come out and be open, then they had to go back into the closet in fear.” Like many, transferring schools wasn’t a realistic option for the women so close to graduation, with the added reality that many of their religious credits wouldn’t transfer at all. 

But as quarantine became a defining factor of 2020, both Liz and Ryan say they benefited greatly from home church where they could think about what their identities meant in relation to the Plan of Salvation as they fully came out to their families and many of their loved ones.

After Liz graduated from BYU in April of 2021, she came out publicly, then drove home to Washington. Two weeks after coming out online, Liz posted she and Ryan were dating, then two weeks later, posted they were engaged. Although Ryan had been showing up in her Instagram feed since 2016, the announcements created some whiplash for Washington ward members who had known Liz since she was in diapers. One said, “I didn’t know Liz was gay or dating or engaged, then suddenly, she was getting married.” As they’ve been more public with their relationship, responses have run the gamut from one relative writing them a letter expressing disappointment that Ryan and Liz had “decided to let go of the rock of the gospel” and that they “would never find peace on this path,” to another relative holding a family intervention behind their back to decide “how to handle the situation.” Attending Ryan’s family ward alongside her family as well as the Instagram trend of “Ask me anything” presented opportunities for the women to publicly share their continued beliefs and why they were choosing to stay in the church. They appreciate when people ask them directly, rather than talk around or about them in ward councils.

The Giles have attended two wards since their marriage a little over two years ago. Of their Houston, Texas congregation, they say, “The people overall were welcoming to us, but most of them never talked about our queerness. It was the elephant in the room they never discussed, but they loved us. In Washington, people acknowledge the wholeness of who we are but it’s more complex—some keep us at arm’s length while others noticeably honor the intersectionality of us being here.” When they left Texas, they were touched when an older woman in the ward threw them a big, fancy going away party that was even announced over the pulpit. Attendees included their bishop and stake president. They appreciated these gestures after they had to carve out their own callings as the “go-to service people,” feeding the missionaries every other week and helping with lots of service projects. This was after their bishop mentioned he'd find a calling for them but never did, besides a ministering assignment. While they have not been sent to a disciplinary council or had their membership records removed, as was the case recently for a gay married couple they’re friends with, their leaders in Washington have reminded them they can’t partake of the sacrament, give talks, bear their testimonies, or have callings on the roster. But they haven’t been told they can’t participate in lessons, so they do that, and Ryan is relearning how to play the piano because she heard their Primary often needs a pianist and she wants to be ready—just in case.

Many in their current ward knew Liz growing up. She says, “One of my former Young Women’s leaders made our wedding cake. The Primary and Relief Society presidents have really stood in for the Savior for us, too, advocating so we can participate as much as we can. It’s so comforting because even though we don’t have a voice at those tables… they are making an attempt for us and telling the ward council we want to be here and serve and be members of this community.” She continues, “As a queer member, it’s really painful being seen as less faithful or more sinful to some. Seeing we’re married, some discount our testimonies or how we can build Zion. As someone who’s just trying to live her most authentic life and follow the Savior, it's hard to see how people treated me then versus now. Even though my beliefs are deeper and I’m so much happier, and in a position to do so much more good, I’m seen somehow as weaker or as an apostate by some. It’s hurtful.”

Of their newfound online following, the Giles have been overwhelmed by how many people have reached out from places spanning from West Africa to Australia to Utah, sharing similar desires and experiences of trying to find their place. They also recognize that while they’ve been able to find a somewhat safe space to occupy at church for now, that could change, and they express that their path is not always the best option for others. There are days when Ryan recognizes, “Going to church might not keep me close to God today; maybe today we go to the mountains instead.” Ryan adds, “We’re showing up because we want to be closer to Christ and connect with our community. If we accomplish nothing else externally (knowing that internally, we do accomplish more) other than showing that LGBTQ+ people do want to be there to stay connected and desire to be Christlike and closer to our Heavenly Parents, I hope that us continuing to go helps people see that.” 

THE JEAN & ALLISON MACKAY STORY

At 16, Jean MacKay is already an accomplished pianist, singer, and composer. He’s also a stage actor who played Mr. Macafee in Bye, Bye Birdie as well as the challenging role of Man in Chair in The Drowsy Chaperone. A serious academic, Jean has been taking college courses through ASU, and will graduate early from high school later this year. Intrigued by the bio-medical side of psychology, Jean hopes to become a forensic psychiatrist and study how various substances affect the brain to hopefully help rehabilitate people who have gone through the criminal justice system. 

Considering all these remarkable attributes, Jean (he/him) says he becomes frustrated with often being reduced to his identity as a trans person. “That’s a facet of me, but it’s not all of me. It’s okay to celebrate one’s identity—that’s fun, but try to see the person before you see the label.” 

Jean grew up in a family that moved around a lot. When asked about his home life as the oldest of six kids who homeschool, he smirks, “There’s a lot of screaming.” An early childhood illness kept Jean out of the first grade for an extended time, and he realized he preferred doing school independently. This kickstarted his online/charter educational path. As the MacKays would move for his father’s job, Jean says he often felt like an outsider navigating the social hierarchy of places like Utah and southern California, where his family now resides. But he says while his social development has perhaps been stunted, charter school has been worth the tradeoff.

For Jean, being trans was “never really a thing for me—I always just thought, ‘I’m a person’.” Jean first heard the word “trans” at age 10. When he looked it up, he thought, “Oh yeah, that’s me,” then didn’t think about it for awhile. Jean’s mother, Allison, said that even as a young child, Jean never gravitated toward baby dolls and playing house like their other children assigned female at birth. He always preferred to dress up like characters like Lightning McQueen, Indiana Jones, or Anikan and play with a Mickey Mouse doll. “He was never on the path of ‘I’m going to be a parent someday’.” But it wasn’t until puberty that Jean began to feel very uncomfortable in his body. Allison says that first he came out as aromantic, then nonbinary, then queer. “It’s a process. He’s still in process. I’m trying to hold space and be open for that to happen.” In the meantime, she marvels at his academic interests and ambition that so strongly juxtapose what she was most interested in at that age: “I was having way too much fun to want to graduate early,” she laughs.

Allison says that each time a new aspect of Jean’s identity comes up, like when he decided to change his name, she’s gone into her prayer closet and pleaded, “Show me how I can relate to this and understand. And every time I’m shown—oh yeah, this was always that way. I just imposed my belief system onto it. Or I just never thought of it that way, but it is true.” Allison says she’s now able to better navigate a journey of endless possibilities “because we let them be.” When Jean was younger, he cut off his really long hair to donate it to a foundation for leukemia. A few years ago, he chose to do the same; and this time for Allison, it felt like an important milestone, like, “I’m never going back to that little girl; I’m leaving her behind. It felt like layer after layer of cultural and familial expectations were removed.” 

Many members of the MacKay’s extended family first expressed that calling Jean by Jean seemed to come out of left field. But Allison would clarify, “No, Jean’s been doing this since he was eight. Jean’s always had issues with clothes. Now, he has his own style and everyone comments how much they love how Jean dresses.” She’s grateful he’s shed the black, baggy clothes that seemed to characterize his mood for awhile.

Jean says, “I used to be part of a church that was not necessarily accepting of people like me, and I didn’t like what puberty was doing to my body. Those two things made me spiral, and I was pretty depressed for about a year.” Now Jean is more comfortable expressing his identity as both trans and asexual. He says when his parents first gave him the traditional “sex talk,” he thought, “Yeah, I never want to do that.” Being asexual while being raised in the LDS church environment was “not the worst thing in the world because with the law of chastity, people were constantly telling you, ‘Don’t do this’,” says Jean. “But what bothered me was the expectation I had to get married and be a mother and have kids. Most of the stuff they taught focused on marriage and family, which are not bad things, but they’re not for me. This expectation was frustrating—I felt like I was being diminished. To have my worth identified by things I don’t identify with was not interesting to me.” Jean says the things that interest him most in life—career and music—are what he wishes to be the most identifying parts of his life. 

Allison embraces a set of beliefs and practices about the divine feminine and Godhead that differentiate her from many mainstream members of the LDS faith. Being verbal about this as well as some aspects of church history that troubled her led to her excommunication several years ago, which she now sees as a blessing because it gave Jean a safer place to land at home when he made it obvious the church didn’t work for him.  “Jean saw me going through that process publicly, and it allowed him to have a safer space to talk about it at home. So in some ways, I see how the experience I went through made it safer for Jean to leave – and I would take the flack for anyone needing to do that. Because there were months we didn’t know if Jean was going to be able to stay here (on earth), if I can even make that one thing easier, then that’s ok.”

Allison was raised in a traditional LDS home and has learned unique lessons with raising each of her kids. But regarding Jean, she says, “I’m so grateful God would soften my heart to this child so that he could teach me who he is, and open this sphere of possibilities of who we are as humans, because before, I wouldn’t look. I was just doing and believing what I was told. I wouldn’t look and ask for myself. That was so wrong. I am so grateful Jean was courageous enough to show me that, and preserve our relationship. And I know Jean will teach me so much for the rest of my life.” 

Jean’s father and some of his siblings still attend church, and Jean himself was expected to go until age 14 when the family realized it was in no one’s best interests to mandate that anymore. He had struggled to connect with many of the church milestones over the years, including at age 11, going to the St. Louis temple for the first time with his dad, which was not quite the experience he had anticipated it would be. But Jean says, “The thing that broke my shelf was going to seminary. I got it into my head that I could tear down all the things in my head by tearing down my seminary teachers and their classes. But I realized trying to tear down a religion by mercilessly tormenting seminary teachers isn’t going to help—or produce anything besides tormented seminary teachers. I don’t have a problem with people being a part of the church—it’s not a bad thing; it’s just not for me.”

Nowadays, Jean says he’s in remission from any religious PTSD he may have faced, but says spirituality isn’t really a part of his life anymore. While he considers the term “atheist” as useful shorthand and lets people know he’s not really interested in those discussions, he says he’s probably more agnostic, though he doesn’t love how that term essentially “puts him on the bench, and that’s not it.” Jean says, “What does matter is the things we do in this life and how we treat others.” Jean says he’d like religious people to know that the reason so many may perceive atheists as “angry” is perhaps misguided. “They’re not angry at you, the religious person, but angry at themselves. They feel tricked. Now that they see closer to their truth, they’re frustrated by harm they faced. They’re not trying to tear down your faith nor are they possessed by the devil, but frustrated because they don’t want others to be hurt anymore, the same way they have.” 

Regarding the current political landscape, Jean advises, “No amount of anti-trans legislation will stop people from being trans; but it is going to result in dead children. So if you’re really pro-family or pro-life, please stop it. We need to foster understanding. I get it, if you’re unaware of what being trans means, it can sound scary or confusing. But my advice would be to talk to trans people and see how and why they feel the way they do.” 

Upon reflecting on her experience getting to raise a child as unique and special as Jean, Allison advises, “Parents, set aside what you ‘know’ and listen – our kids are such amazing teachers. They are so smart.” Allison now believes Jean’s bravery might be paving the way as one of the oldest of 40 cousins. She wonders, “How many of those kids might one day say, ‘Ok, Jean did that; I can do this.’ And how many will sleep on our couch if their parents kick them out? Those who come after Jean won’t have to be alone. Jean can shine that light.”