TRENT CLARKSON

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THOMAS AUSEUGA

content warning - suicide ideation

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

DR. LISA DIAMOND

When Dr. Lisa Diamond first moved to Utah 25 years ago, she had never heard the term “LDS.” Likewise new to Utah, her wife, Judi Hilman, bought a Book of Mormon to try to understand the culture better, but may have only made it through a few pages. The two recently celebrated their 30th anniversary, and marvel how 25 of those 30 years have been spent living in the same house in Salt Lake City. As outsiders to the state’s predominant faith, Lisa finds it amazing that “Our whole marriage is planted in the soil of Utah. I never would have predicted we’d find such a sense of meaning and purpose and community here.”

Lisa and Judi each grew up in California, and met in Ithaca, NY while graduate students at Cornell, at the very beginning of both of their careers.  Now, Lisa is a world-renowned researcher and author in the psychology of gender and sexuality, who once appeared as a guest on Oprah--which she described as a positive experience, despite the hair and make-up team tamping down her trademark spunky hair into a mainstream “female politician” look. An expert in health policy reform, Judi is currently a professor of Community Health and Leadership at Salt Lake Community college, and was the founder and executive director of the Utah health policy project--a think and do tank for health policy in Utah. The two initially chose Salt Lake City because the job Lisa was offered at the University of Utah was the only offer she received!  Her work was unconventional, integrating psychology with gender studies, and that was precisely the job opening available at the University.  Now a Distinguished Professor at the U and past President of the International Academy for Sex Research, Lisa could not have known, when she arrived in Utah in 1999, how it would change her and her research.

Lisa’s interest in studying queer development started after her own coming out in the 90s, a time when it was hard to find representations of queer women in the media, and hard to find places to meet other queer people, especially if you were too young to go to bars. “If you were young and queer, you were stuck; you pretty much waited for the Pride parade to roll through town. There was no internet.” Although she came out in Chicago, during her college years, she had grown up in Los Angeles, where her exposure to spirituality was decidedly eclectic: Her father was an atheist (after having set aside his Greek Orthodox upbringing) and her mother was a Southern Baptist, but they sent Lisa and her sister to an Episcopalian elementary school, and all of the family’s best friends’ were Jewish.  So Lisa never experienced religion as a monolith. Rather, moving through multiple faith communities became an everyday experience (as was religious conflict – when Lisa’s mom decided to have her baptized in the local Episcopal church, her atheist father originally refused to attend, and had to be talked into going). But the faith tradition to which Lisa felt closest was Judaism, due to those years and years of gathering with her parents’ friends for Passover and Hanukah, singing Jewish songs and making latkes and attending bar and bat mitzvahs.  So perhaps it was fate that the woman she eventually married was Jewish, and that they celebrate the sabbath every Friday (with Lisa’s homemade challah), and had a Jewish wedding.  For Lisa, religion was always about the people around you, not the doctrine.

Like many young people, Lisa was afraid to tell her parents she was gay, but “didn’t feel the threat that an entire community that might turn away from me,” a phenomenon of fear she has since often witnessed and studied in Utah.  She came out while earning her bachelor’s degree in psychology at the University of Chicago, and remembers hanging out in the gay and lesbian section of bookstores and reading classifieds in the newspaper to find gay social gatherings, for which she usually had to take three forms of transportation to attend. But she didn’t mind; as she now says, “It was worth it for the connections.” There wasn’t much awareness or discussion of queer youth at that time – most research on sexual identity focused on adults.  But while she was at the University of Chicago, one of her professors published a groundbreaking book on queer teenagers in Chicago, called Children of Horizons. She read the whole book while standing up in the aisles of the 57th street bookstore in Hyde Park, and found it perplexing that everything written about queer youth seemed to be about boys.  Where were the women like her?  She had been trying to decide whether to go to graduate school or to become an activist, and it now struck her that bringing women’s experiences into the study of sexual identity development was both a scientific and a political act. “As a feminist, it seemed like a rather low hanging fruit, to just put women in the studies.” The reason women were underrepresented was that they didn’t socialize in gay bars and community centers as frequently as men, and tended to be less open. Lisa finds this mind-boggling now, given that there are now many more queer women than men among Gen Z, along with greater acceptance of bisexual and plural identities.  As she observes, “Now, far more women identify as bi or pan than exclusively lesbian, but bisexuality was not a fully validated identity in the past – bi and pan individuals had less community; it was often underground.”

When it came time to pursue her doctorate, Lisa sought out a program and mentor who could train her to study queer youths’ development, but there were only two academic psychologists doing so: Gilbert Herdt at the University of Chicago and Ritch Savin-Williams at Cornell, and she decided to go to Cornell. Her timing was spot on– Savin-Williams was on the verge of leaving the university because graduate students had stopped applying to work with him once he started studying queer youth.  It was demoralizing, and he was ready to transition to clinical practice when Lisa’s application came through the door.  He figured he’d give it one last try, and ended up staying at Cornell and mentoring scores of other queer researchers before retiring a few years ago.  Lisa says, “I often joke with him that I extended his career 20 years!” During her tutelage, Lisa says she felt isolated from all the other grad students, who were studying conventional topics like cognitive development, or doing research in large teams. Ritch and Lisa were a tiny team unto themselves: As Lisa remembers, “It felt like him and me against the world.”  Ritch didn’t have any research funds, but Lisa needed a Master’s project, so she bought a 1989 used Toyota Corolla for $4,900, and set off each weekend to collect data, driving around New York state to interview as many young queer women as she could about their own identity development. Some of her participants were lesbian, some bisexual, some not quite sure—and Lisa found these stories the most fascinating.

She continued to follow her 100 interview subjects over the phone, every 2-3 years, and ended up publishing the first 10 years of findings in her book, Sexual Fluidity:  Understanding Women’s Love and Desire (Harvard University Press, 2008) which was awarded the Distinguished Book Award from the American Psychological Association. The book argues that while sexual orientation is not chosen, some women show unexpected and unbidden shifts in their sexual orientation identity over time. Lisa points out that in her research, younger women are usually a bit more focused on their identity labels than older women. As one of her participants stated, “These days, I care more about my 401k than my orientation.” Lisa’s work showed that change over time is a widespread phenomenon in women’s sexual patterns, but carefully pointed out that these changes are not under women’s control. But, she says, changes that individuals force on themselves, like conversion therapy, are totally different – they are unhealthy and ineffective. 

When Lisa first started to get to know queer students with a background in the LDS church, she started to observe that the struggles they faced seemed different from the struggles she was used to seeing in young queer people –there was more of a sense of utter despair and loss.  The contradiction between their sexuality and their faith seemed to go beyond just doctrine, it involved their entire sense of self and community and kinship.  For LDS individuals raised in Utah, she came to appreciate that church membership was more than simply a matter of belief, it involved one’s entire sense of social selfhood.  To leave the church meant being cut off from one’s entire community.  Lisa had never lived in a religious community like Utah, in which one’s entire social environment was interbraided with the church, and she remembers her amazement when paging through the Salt Lake City White Pages in the early 2000s, seeing pages and pages and pages of entries for different wards, and realizing the degree to which church membership was literally embedded into each member’s physical environments as well as their psychological world.  There was no way for queer young people to escape the eyes of their neighbors and ward members, the immersion was total – which meant that rejection was a more all-encompassing and devastating prospect than for other faith traditions.  Being queer “could cut you off from not only your religious community but also from your neighborhood and potentially your family; that can result in a fundamental existential loss.” Lisa continues, “It shows that with as much progress as we’ve made, there are a lot of people who’d rather kill a part of them off to stay in the group. It shows how deeply social humans are… We live and die by social connections to people. When they cut us off for something we have no control over – that’s terror.” Over the years, she became increasingly fascinated with the unique experiences of queer Mormons, listening to their autobiographies on “Mormon Stories” and following “the devastating excommunications of figures like Kate Kelley, John Dehlin, Natasha Helfer, and Sam Young, simply for speaking out against the church’s views of sexuality.” 

But it wasn’t until the pandemic that her observations about queer Mormons started to intersect with other aspects of her academic work.  She had been doing a deep dive on the neurobiology of rejection and abandonment, and started to realize that the conventional view of anti-queer stigma as a form of “stress” was incomplete.  Those models presumed that the mental health challenges of being queer stemmed from the stress of discrimination and victimization.  Yet the newer neurobiological work suggested that a far more important threat to stigmatized people is the loss of social safety – the sense of unconditional connection, protection, and belonging that all humans rely on.  As a social species, humans cannot survive alone, and our brains evolved to prioritize staying in the group above almost all else.  Lisa was accustomed to hearing people describe queer people as “oversensitive to rejection,” but the newer neurobiological work suggested that there was no such thing, since the human social brain is literally a “rejection-detecting machine.”  For a social species, social shame and rejection feels like a mortal threat, because isolation and abandonment was a mortal threat in our ancestral environment.  She learned that our entire immune system has evolved to “turn on” under conditions of social threat, preparing the body for wounding and damage. “When humans are rejected, and their social safety is withdrawn, the brain and immune systems start amping up, fear coursing to the same place. That’s the type of loss my queer Mormon students were experiencing. They weren’t exaggerating. They were on fire with abandonment and a sense of real threat.” She saw this especially in the context of “ecclesiastical roulette,” in which youth never know for sure whether their Bishop will strictly enforce church doctrine on sexuality, or will allow queer youth to stay in the fold. On top of that uncertainty and doubt was the ever present possibility of new changes in church policy, such as the devastating “November policy” about the children of same-sex couples, and the more recent “trans ‘clarification’ that has solidified the church’s exclusion of trans individuals.”

 Lisa realized that the toll of this uncertainty was just as significant as the toll of explicit discrimination, but had never been fully appreciated by previous research on queer mental health.  As she says, “Nothing is more stressful for the human brain than unpredictable stress. Studies show that when mice can predict shock, they can handle it better. If they can’t predict it, they develop a state of learned helplessness. If you can’t predict where danger is, you’re in a protective stance at all times. The world becomes threatening, even terrifying.” Looking at the current mental health crisis, Lisa says it’s not daily threats, but sporadic ones that are the most harmful. “You’ll have six months of feeling good, then something terrible happens at church. And so then, you don’t know that the ground beneath you is stable. Unpredictable danger leaves everyone hypervigilant.” Lisa explains that this cycle of constant, chronic watchfulness and the stress preparation of looking around the corner, unsure of what’s to come, produces damaging long-term effects, especially on the immune system.

The solution? Lisa proposes young people without supportive home environments find at least one safe social setting where they can regularly connect with friends or people who they can trust will “come running if they fall.” While online networks can suffice, Lisa recommends in-person connection as the ideal, and shares that her work shows that close friends are often the most important source of social safety and inclusion for both youth and adults. In Utah, Lisa often refers young people to Encircle and SLC’s Sky Hop, which provides free media arts courses, to find joy and connection and community.  Although it’s important to offer emotional support to LGBTQ+ youth, Lisa emphasizes that they also need fun, joy, laughter, and play, experienced in a safe setting with people they authentically enjoy.

In her conversations with LGBTQ+ youth who are struggling with non-accepting parents, Lisa encourages mutual empathy and patience. “I’ve seen some remarkable growth journeys. I tell young people, ‘Your parent may have it the capacity to become a huge ally, but it’s usually not overnight’.” Lisa explains that because the time course of parents’ and kids’ journey are often not in sync, it can create a lot of pain and disharmony. She explains, “Some kids initially lose the warm embrace of their protector, which can be terrifying to any person. But I say, ‘Don’t write them off just yet. And in the meantime, surround yourself with other people who do care, protect, and affirm.”

Speaking at the recent Gather conference, Lisa compared social networks to a dew-covered spiderweb, with life-giving drops of water clinging to the spots where the silken threads connect. “Some of have dense webs with a lot of threads and people. For others, there aren’t that many. But even on a sparse web, we find those drops of water, in human connection. That’s essentially what people are to one another– every relationship is a potential drop of water that offers a bit of connection and safety and support.” She expounds that often, we only focus on the drops closest to us (family, closest friends), but in our broader webs, there are so many more, and they are all important: “the people we regularly see at our book club, at the gym, at work, at our kids’ basketball games.  All of these individuals are part of our social fabric, as well, and we can make active choices to strengthen those ties – each of us has the potential to be a life-giving drop of water for someone we know.”

Lisa advises parents to tap into the “wonderful sense of community the LDS faith provides” and find their own support network when their kids come out. “Meeting another parent whose kid has come out will do more than any website or pamphlet.” She also encourages parents to find their own way to show their allyship. “Some parents may not want to go to a protest, and that’s perfectly understandable. But they can choose other ways to show their love, for example having their kids’ friends over for pizza, and giving them the safety and space to nourish their own webs of connection. Make every step a step forward. For one parent, it can be going to a protest; for another, it can be a quiet conversation with bishop. There are a million ways to show up for one’s kid. And it might even be different between mom and dad – there’s no single way, and it’s important for us not to judge one another, but to keep moving forward together, step by step.” Lisa says that missteps and hurt feelings and poorly chosen words are inevitable, and that we should actually look forward to these moments because they are opportunities for real growth. “Those moments of rupture are the perfect opportunity to come together and ask for a redo and repair. Those are the opportunities where we can model what apology and forgiveness look like.” Lisa says parents need not relinquish their responsibilities as parents to support LGBTQ+ young people – and they need not even agree with or understand their child’s views.  “But their first job, as parents, is to create a safe, protected environment in the home where kids know they are always welcome, and where they can let down their guard.  They can do that just by showing their affection – it need not be a big emotional display, it’s a simple as spending time together doing the things you both enjoy, like watching movies together, feet intertwined, feeling that calm connection.”  Those moments remind both parents and children that their essential bond will never change, and that they don’t have to agree with one another to fiercely love one another, she explains. “Loving in spite of disagreement is, in some ways, the most challenging but important form of love in a family.”

As the tension of election season escalates, especially in a sector in which so many rights are on the line, Lisa advises us to focus our attention on our social ties, instead of distant political debates.  She says that if you really want to make a difference, then “pick one connection in your life, one person who you think could really use some more security in their life.  Invest a little more.  Go for a walk.  Text them more often. Make sure they know that they can call you, anytime.  It’s the fastest way to make a transformative effect on this world. How often do we hear stories that culminate with ‘and then I met this one coach’?”  Lisa has seen this operate in her own family.  Her mom grew up in Lakeland, FL, and dreamed of going to college, but there was no money.  Her piano teacher was determined to help her find a music scholarship, and even helped her created an audition tape (in 1960, this required getting hold of reel-to-reel recording equipment).  It worked – she went to college, and it changed the whole direction of her life.  She met Lisa’s dad, they moved to Los Angeles, and eventually she became a piano teacher, too.  And now both Lisa and her sister Nicole are teachers (Nicole teaches second grade in Burbank, California).  They all link it back to Mrs. Raymond C. Smith, their mother’s dogged protector.  She was that drop of water.  Lisa thinks that all of us have the capacity to do that for those around us; to reknit our social fabric one relationship at a time. And that’s the change she’s now trying to foster in her adopted and beloved home of Utah.

JESSIE + JETT

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE PRATT FAMILY

Dan and Terri Pratt of Peoria, AZ experienced their first “what if” trajectory after their oldest of six children entered high school. As Brigham began to struggle emotionally to the extent he battled suicidal ideation and received a misdiagnosis of borderline personality disorder, the Pratts began to question it all. The worry of “What if he doesn’t go on a mission?” took a backseat to “What if he tries to take his own life?”

 This was not a path they had anticipated. After serving missions before meeting and marrying, Dan and Terri had raised their oldest kids “doing all the things” – daily scripture study, weekly church, and serving every way they could. While they read all the parenting books and tried to check all the boxes that their own Arizona-based, LDS families of origin had, the techniques with which they’d been raised just didn’t seem to result in what they’d been promised. Rather, their houseful of kids, Brigham (now 25), Ammon (24), Sonia (22), Amelia (19), Benjamin (15), and Echo (14) seemed contentious in their youth, and Terri says, “No matter how hard we tried, we didn’t fit.” Since those early days, all six of the Pratt kids have been diagnosed as neurodivergent, five of whom specifically are on the autism spectrum. “The autism now makes more sense of why things didn’t go according to plan.”

Their initial “what if” questioning did prepare Dan and Terri to work with God through prayer on how to love their kids unconditionally, and that no matter what happened, they trusted their kids would be received with open arms by loving heavenly parents whenever that time came. This has brought new comfort as they’ve been thrown more curve balls. A few years ago, their oldest daughter, Sonia, approached Terri and said, “What would you do if you had a gay or bisexual child?” Wanting to be honest, Terri replied, “Well, I think it would be really hard, but I know I would love them.” This started the Pratts on a new quandary that resulted in Terri feeling drawn to read all she could get her hands on to understand the LGBTQ+ community. She read Ben Schilaty’s book, A Walk in My Shoes, then Tom Christofferson’s That We May Be One, and then listened to and read as many stories as she could on Richard Ostler’s Listen, Learn and Love podcast and at Lift and Love. Eventually they realized Sonia’s question had been prompted by her younger sibling Amelia, (preferred pronouns she/her/they/them), who at age 15, had confided in Sonia that she was bi. When Amelia was finally ready to have that conversation with her parents, after they had seen some text messages revealing it was true, Terri says, “We were ready. We wanted to be on the journey with them – and told them we would, wherever it takes them. We told them, ‘We love you and are here to support you in whatever you discover about yourself’.”

A couple years later, their youngest child Echo (12 at the time, they/them) came out through a letter, letting their parents know they were a lesbian and hoped their parents could still love them. Terri showed the letter to Dan, who called Echo in. Both Terri and Dan thanked Echo for sharing that information. Since, Echo has told them they’re nonbinary, gender fluid and wanted a name change, though they don’t bristle when often still referred to by their name at birth, Evie. Sonia has also since come out as bisexual. 

The frequent overlap of the neurodivergent and LGBTQ+ community has been something Terri has discovered to be quite common in her current masters’ studies to be a counselor. During Covid, she felt impressed to finish her bachelor’s degree, and now her graduate studies have led to an internship over the past several months with a practice in town called Neurodiverse Counseling. She says, “It’s been great to embrace more of that community. One’s heart opens to individual’s strengths and uniqueness, learning how a brain functions, and the beauty that comes with it. I’ve adopted an affirming rather than deficit-based perspective. It’s really helped me to love people.” After raising so many kids who struggled to find the therapists and support structures they needed, and seeing there’s not a lot out there in this space of overlap, Terri is eager to now become part of the solution.

Dan and Terri are long time owners of Pratt’s Pet Stores, owning several shops in their area. Dan also spent many years teaching early morning seminary. At the time, he was already undergoing a faith expansion journey, and as he’d read the assigned lessons, he often felt like a school teacher with a pen, mentally drawing red lines that he felt were too fear-based or not as loving as they should be for his young class. “There wasn’t the Jesus in it I’d hope for.” He adopted a class motto, “Haters gonna hate, but we ain't haters.” While he hadn’t yet become aware of his call as a father of LGBTQ+ kids, he was already struggling with a lesson on the Family Proclamation, one he was later glad he had softened, as a girl from his class later came out. Along with her family, she has attended the ally group, Love Without Asterisks, that Terri and Dan started with two other couples in their area.

 This group formed after a particularly painful fifth Sunday school lesson on LGBTQ+ in their ward that seemed to focus more on maintaining the comfort of the general membership rather than the inclusion of the LGBTQ+ community. A local career seminary teacher, Clare Dalton, was invited in to be the special guest speaker but only was given a few minutes to speak about being a gay woman before the rest of the class shifted tones. It became so hurtful that Terri and her youngest child left early, but they had invited Clare to join them at their home afterward for lunch. Comforting them, Clare said, “Let’s have our own meeting.” Clare returned the next month to join the Pratts and a few close friends, and that began their monthly ally nights, which the Pratts say have been “such a blessing.”

The Pratts have had to carve out safe spaces for their children, and maintain boundaries. They have prioritized their spiritual focus on teachings that allow people to truly love and care for others. Terri says, “It’s beautiful to build a place where you can be whoever you are, wherever you are, and share that with others. It’s different than Sunday School, where you have to edit yourself to fit in. Our ally nights are a beautiful example of Zion, of expanding the tent to see how we can all fit. And it’s positive for our children to see that they can keep spirituality and God in their life, no matter what their relationship to the church might be. They’re each on individual journeys with that.”

 After the recent transgender and nonbinary policy changes, Terri got a call from a good friend who was devastated. She said, “How do you stay and manage all of this?” Terri explained how their primary engagement is no longer serving the church as it used to be. While they attend sacrament meetings, Dan and Terri do not often participate in second hour nor currently hold callings. Instead, they focus on hosting their ally nights, and most recently found much joy and community in being on the committee for the youth program at Gather. The Pratts also love hosting many neurodivergent and LGBTQ+ friends of Amelia and Echo (who are gender fluid) at their house. They’ve witnessed how one of her AMAB friends is only able to express her gender identity in their home through dress and using she/her pronouns. Witnessing this young adult’s joy has expanded Terri’s. She says, “We are able to engage in different ways that feed our soul rather than suck it, which has been vital to our growth.” When the new policy came out, the Pratts had a moment of reckoning in which they realized, “They’re talking about our children, whatever wording they choose.” Terri laments, “I’m so glad they don’t attend church. It’s kinda sad, but that’s how I feel. Dan and I have to empower ourselves to 'stay in' in a way that’s healthy for us.”

Dan says, “In our home, I feel so much more love and acceptance for all my children as I redefine what’s an expectation versus acceptance. I’m always in awe when we get together now about how awesome it is as a father to not have to feel, ‘Are they on the right track?’ – always worried about how to fit in the box, and make corrections, but rather to let go of a lot of that and find out who they are and what they’re interested in or what makes them tick. I can see how glorious each of them are as they go through their journeys. And when they do ask questions about life, it’s all so authentically real in the way it happens.”  Terri agrees that where they are now is so different than a decade ago in their relationships with their kids. She says, “They know we love and respect their journey as their own, and it doesn’t have to look like ours.” She explains that a lot of her children have been through hard things, “which may be seen as ‘hard choices,’ but they know they’re allowed to make mistakes and learn from them.” 

Dan appreciates how he wouldn’t be where he is if “I was worried about empty chairs – or are we all going to make it to the celestial kingdom with its checkboxes and expectations? I’m not worried about a future of being ‘eternally happy.’ We have the present acceptance and love to bind us and help us through.”

THE CASE FAMILY

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

LINKS:

Jeff’s presentation at Gather Conference 2023

Jeff and Sarah’s “Voices of Hope” video

DR. TYLER LEFEVOR

Dr. Tyler Lefevor has learned how to transform his pain into results. His trauma into a way to reframe and evaluate. His research into a love letter to his former self. After completing his doctorate in psychology from the University of Miami and a post-doctoral fellowship at Stanford, Tyler now conducts his research from a lab at Utah State University, where he works as a professor, while also operating a small private practice. Four years deep in a ten year research study on the longitudinal happiness and religious affiliation trends of LGBTQ+ people raised in the LDS faith, some of Tyler’s findings thus far are surprising, and some on par with common presuppositions: 

• LDS, LGBTQ+ people who stay in the church are not necessarily less happy than those who leave. (While this finding “gobsmacked” Tyler, he finds it empowering that people find ways to happiness regardless of their status.)

• Four years after coming out, queer and trans LDS members are overwhelmingly less religious than they were prior, and every three years, most queer LDS members reevaluate and step away in some form.

• Younger members of the church leave much faster than those in their 50s-60s+ who often were raised with different dogma and as a result are more likely to be in mixed orientation marriages with children, and to have built a life around the church.

• People who religiously de-identify typically suffer psychologically for it during the process as they seek to find their personal coherence and community, though they are not worse off at the end of the day.

• Parents who prioritize openness, communication, and love during their children’s coming out process rather than overemphasizing their political and ideological identities enjoy stronger relationships and more connectivity with their children.

• While it is typical for queer kids to leave, and leaving proves to be a hard process, most in the study who left the church find ways to create meaningful, beautiful lives that “just look differently.”

Finding a diverse survey pool was of course a challenge for Dr. Lefevor’s study. He had to work much harder to recruit more conservative LGBTQ+ folks to participate. Not surprisingly, of the 1,000 LDS bishops his team cold called to request participation, they found it was bishops who had more personal proximity to an LGBTQ+ loved one who were more open to participating.

Proximity to Tyler grants a peek into a life that finds him waking up religiously at 5am every day, a dedicated pattern not surprising of PhD level scholar types. Tyler loves the gym and working out and has run four marathons and one Spartan race. He and his husband Brock frequently hike together, and love to spend time in the kitchen cooking. They have a fun, robust group of friends who recently joined them for Brock’s drag-themed birthday party where each of their friends dressed up as one of the drag names Brock has playfully created for himself.

In his current private practice, Tyler mostly treats patients identifying as queer, trans and nonbinary, and their families. As Tyler identifies as a cis-het queer man and has stepped away from the institutional LDS church, the recent clarification in the handbook regarding LDS trans members didn’t personally affect his day to day. Yet in his office and beyond, he sees a vast community who is hurting.

Recently interviewed by CNN about the policy shifts, Tyler said the updated policies are “really unfortunate” as they reduce the liberties local church leaders take in their interpretation of church policies.

“This is kind of the church’s way of saying, ‘No, this is how we want you all to do it’,” said Tyler. “The greatest harm is in the implication for trans members of the church just saying, ‘We really don’t want you here, please leave, (and) if you’re going to be here, you have to conform to these really high level of expectations on how you present yourself. I think that’s the damaging part of these new (updates).”

That being said, Tyler has taken concerted steps in his own life to not be defined by other’s actions. “I don’t want to see myself as a victim of how people treat me. I’d rather draw appropriate boundaries and work toward being who I want to be.” Tyler has learned to exude patience in his dealings with others and give those close to him space when they need more time to wrap their heads around new information. This has meant anticipating and accepting the fear and confusion some in his family of origin showcase every time he takes a new step away from the “anticipated LDS path,” which for Tyler has included not attending church anymore and marrying his husband, Brock, three years ago. “‘These steps have brought on moments of pause, reflection, and ultimately an attempt by all for understanding and growth.”

Working to create change that will make the world better for future generations, Tyler posits it’s “the systems of power in an institution perpetuating the cis-het normative” that direct him where to point his rage. “It’s not my family. If I can channel it at the right source, I can try to bring love to my family rather than forcibly changing their way of thinking.” He recognizes his own desire to have married likely stemmed from his family-centric upbringing. In reference to the LDS faith’s lack of support for marriages like Tyler’s and Brock’s, he says, “On the other side, I hold the power systems of it all accountable. It’s not fair and shouldn’t be like this. We shouldn’t have to experience such a burden to come out; we have to accept people’s experiences as their own. How can we make a world where this can happen?”

After months of scribbling, “I’m going to tell him tonight” in his journal, 15-year-old Tyler stood outside his dad’s office door when he first told him he liked men’s bodies. His dad asked if he wanted to work out more. Tyler replied, “Yes, that’s it. I want to work out more.” Tyler continues, “And then we left it there for a decade.” Soon after, he told a bishop, who asked, “Are you acting on these feelings?” Tyler replied no. The bishop said, “Good.” Tyler says, “It was awkward, shameful. No one outwardly threatened rejection; they were just people upholding the heteronormative world view. And they collectively whisked away my queer identity for a decade.” 

After being born in Salt Lake City, Tyler says he experienced joy growing up between Los Angeles County, Colorado Springs, and West Jordan, Utah. He was raised in the LDS faith with four siblings, and “grew up the perfect golden child who loved my family and the church environment.” He went to BYU, had a great time on his mission, served as Elders’ Quorum president for three years, and for a year-and-a-half, dated a woman (who remains one of his best friends and who performed the marriage for Tyler and his husband). She was the first individual in Tyler’s life to whom he confessed he had “same-sex attraction,” later figuring and assuring his family he would just handle it the way much talked about LDS gay men like Josh Weed and Ty Mansfield did in mixed orientation marriages. There were times in their relationship that Tyler’s girlfriend would ask why Tyler didn’t cuddle with her during a movie. Tyler’s reply: “I didn’t know you wanted that.”

He continues, “It took me a couple years to see attraction is supposed to provide the glue between people wanting to build a relationship and connection.” Fraught with his lack of physical feelings, the two ended up breaking up, and it took some time for Tyler to vocalize what he was experiencing. As he became more open and filmed a “Voices of Hope” video, the ripples complicated his parents’ lives as more of their friends started to know. 

Tyler now deeply appreciates the core level of his family dynamic, which he credits the LDS church for instilling. “My family’s commitment to our connection has kept me from rejecting the church entirely.” He’s clear to state that for him, “Mormonism is a cultural connection, not my religion. I’ve reclaimed the word in a sense regarding my identity because my family has stayed engaged in this interpersonally—a process that’s made it impossible for me to fully say the church or Mormons are bad because the church has worked so deeply well for my family and their spouses. I had to reconcile that it can work so well for others while not working so well for me.” While he’s observed the fear-driven thought train that guides many, Tyler concludes, “Who am I to say you need to dissemble your whole world view when your world views give so much? Maybe it’s better to say, how can you adjust your world view?”

When he was trying to figure out his own life, Tyler sensed immense purpose and meaning in studying how LDS-raised LGBTQ+ understood their orientation and faith, thus launching his study. He found there was no comparable research out there to the decade-long study he has now since begun, filled with questions and data “26-year-old Tyler was dying to know.”  

With the many queer and trans LDS clients Tyler works with, he’s seen it also takes them time to address their entire world view and make changes. “It’s the same for cis-het individuals meaningfully trying to grapple with this. To completely confirm and accept someone—some aren’t ready for it; it’s too much. Too devastating. It’s a more realistic and better way to hope they might sit with you and hear you and spend time in discomfort in a way that in the long run leads to change.” A wise and patient answer from a man who is accustomed to waiting for results.

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.”

THE MCCLELLAN FAMILY

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

DR. GREG PETERSON

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE DAVIS FAMILY

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SEAN EDWARDS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Photo credit CBS 

Photo credit Robert Voets/CBS 

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

DAN McCLELLAN

For all those who’ve used The Word as a weapon against the LGBTQ+ community, it’s time to holster your Bibles and go on social media. There, you’re likely to encounter the reel-explanations of Dr. Dan McClellan, aka @maklelan, where over a million followers on Tik Tok, Instagram, YouTube and Twitter tune in to find out what the Bible actually says, from an actual Bible scholar. Dan explains there is a difference between a theologian, whose work is to teach how a religious group should incorporate or interpret Biblical teachings, versus a critical Biblical scholar, whose job is to evaluate and explain the historical and social context of the actual written work at the time it was written. Dan says studying it this way removes the common proclivity to consider the Bible as univocal—meaning the text speaks as one universal voice and thus can’t disagree with itself, as all parts should harmonize with the others. This deeper study brings to light the need to consider data over dogma, which is exactly what Dan now does with his online break-it-downs and popular podcast, Data over Dogma.

The problem with dogma, according to Dan, is that it can be painful for certain populations like the LGBTQ+ community when exclusive ideologies are favored by the power structures that find them beneficial. This social identity politicking underlies so many of the philosophies and interpretations Dan started to see floating across the social media landscape around 2020, when he decided to put his degrees to work online to join the conversation. When it comes to the scholastic frames hanging on his wall, there are four of them—including a bachelor’s from BYU in ancient Near Eastern studies, a masters in Jewish studies from the University of Oxford, a master of arts in biblical studies from Trinity Western University, and a doctorate from the University of Exeter, where Dan defended his thesis on the cognitive science of religion and the conceptualization of deity and divine agency in the Hebrew Bible in 2020.  Along the way, he’s become well-versed in 12 languages. When people like to challenge whether he is really a “scholar,” he laughs, and insists that dealing with so much negativity is actually job security.

Biblical scholarship was not a job Dan envisioned until he began his Biblical Hebrew studies at BYU and thought, “If I could make a living out of studying the scriptures, that would be the coolest thing in the world.” He was not the typical BYU student. Raised in West Virginia, Maryland, Colorado, and Texas, he was not brought up particularly religious, and in his late teens, made several friends in the LGBTQ+ and other marginalized communities while waiting tables. Dan joined the LDS church at age 20, and quickly realized he brought along a different world view than many of those raised with “the primary answers.” For instance, he understood evolution to be true, that the earth is not a mere 6,000 years old. He was always fortunate enough to find himself around other likeminded members of the church, even if they were in the minority.

He served a mission a year after joining the church and there says he found himself “compelled to be a representative of a more conservative perspective. At the time, I was willing to toe the line, but it never sat well with me.” Afterwards, he observed that conservative-mindset population multiply at BYU, where most of his peers had a very black-and-white, binary view of the world. He hoped to find more nuance, more compassion and charity for those who got the proverbial short end of the stick. And then he met the Soulforce Equality Riders, who in the vein of the Civil Rights’ Movement Freedom Riders of the 60s, were a group of young people who went on a seven-week bus tour to protest discrimination against LGBTQ+ students on college campuses. This was something Dan could get behind. Knowing people who had family members and friends who’d taken their lives because of oppression from church and the broader conservative community due to their orientation and gender identity, Dan got in touch with Soulforce and asked them to come speak at a gathering at his apartment complex which included several student wards. He felt this was work that mattered. 

Dan met his wife at BYU and as they began to raise their three daughters, he further contemplated what kind of world he was bringing his children into. When his oldest daughter approached him at age seven and asked, “What sports are girls allowed to play?” Dan acknowledged that was a question he’d never had to ask as a boy. “But the fact that had occurred to her already, and she had accepted it, brought me to tears. I knew I needed to do more to try to change the world for the generation we’re raising. I couldn’t be on the sidelines.”

This was 2016, around the time where Dan was deeply troubled at the seemingly mass acceptance from his Utah-based community of a political candidate who proudly boasted about sexual assault. The fact that this wasn’t a deal breaker for voters, and the peripheral surge of homophobia in the political space, ignited something in Dan, who then says he “chose to put my privilege on the line and speak up for those who didn’t have accessible privilege.” He became the Democratic party’s precinct chair for Herriman, UT from 2016-2020, was the Salt Lake County Chair of the LDS Democrat Caucus from 2018-2020, and ran for the Utah House of Representatives in 2018 and the Utah Senate in 2020. He didn’t win either race but impressively minimized the blue-red margins. Along the way, he clearly let people around him know he would be speaking out against the hostile actions he was witnessing to let people in minority communities know he was safe, saying, “If my work makes some feel uncomfortable, then good.”

As the pandemic of 2020 continued to incite and divide the country, Dan decided to peek into the Tik Tok space to see what people were sharing. He was surprised at the amount of religious chatter; this was a conversation he had a right to and interest in joining. “I saw a robust community talking Bible and religion from all sides—from very conservative Christian and Jewish creators to those styled as deconstructionists and those overcoming religious trauma. But I didn’t see a lot of credentialed experts. I thought I might be able to position myself not to join anyone’s team, but to call balls and strikes when I see them. To my great surprise, there was a lot of interest.”

When it comes to data vs. dogma, Dan says, “If there’s a dogma I stick with consistently, it’s that all other things being equal, we should give the benefit to the less powerful group. It’s interesting, the fact that doing this infuriates so many people who explain why it’s ok for them to hate… When people challenge my bias recognizing how power structures govern so much of the world around us, and why so many experience the world so differently from someone like me, that’s why I work at the intersections, trying to amplify women, immigrants, LGBTQ, and root out Islamophobia and Antisemitism.”

Dan has worn a Pride-themed watchband for years that his wife bought for him because “he likes colorful stuff.” (A talented sketch artist, he’s also an avid comic book character fan.) He tells those who ask that he wears his watchband as a signal that he’s hopefully a safe space and is going to stand up for people who are often disenfranchised. Interestingly, over the ten years he recently worked for the LDS church as a scripture translation supervisor, he’s worn it in meetings with members of the Quorum of the Twelve when he was often brought in as a Bible expert. “I never got one word about my watch… It's interesting the people who run the church haven’t rejected my expertise, when people on Twitter have so much objection.”

The evangelist community gives Dan the most heat online, and he feels is the largest foe right now to the LGBTQ+ community as many are “inserting their dogmas into the political sphere.” He's always been impressed (though not surprised) by the amount of atheists, agnostics, “none’s” and deconstructionists who follow and laud his work, but occasionally an atypical fan presents themselves, as was the case when someone recently recognized Dan in a grocery store and confessed not only was he in the extremist group DezNat, but he’s also a Dan fan. “I didn’t see that one coming,” laughs Dan.

Having traveled all over the world for his career and seeing the church operate everywhere, Dan is often asked his views on a variety of Bible topics. He has a project in the works via St. Martin’s Press entitled, The Bible Says So—a book that includes the greatest hits of Dan’s social media, with each chapter taking on a different claim of what the Bible says about abortion, Jesus as God, homosexuality, the mark of the beast, etc. As Dan’s online presence has grown, it has become his number one focus and income source, though he still occasionally teaches online courses, and currently has an honorary fellowship with the University of Birmingham Cadbury Centre for the Public Understanding of Religion.

As to what the Bible says about homosexuality, Dan says, “It’s a reflection of where their societies stood at the time and what they understood about sexuality. And it’s different between the Old Testament and the New Testament, based on the ideas of social hierarchies or domination.” He explains that the ancient concepts of gender and sex don’t line up with our concepts today if you allow them to operate on their own terms. “Early Judaism talks about six or seven gender identities, some that could line up with trans and nonbinary. Early Christianity was more conservative and still doesn’t line up perfectly. Everything in the Bible represents a certain framework and set of conventions that are much different from today. Pretending what people said 2,000 years ago ought to be authoritative today gets tricky when it comes to their unflinching endorsement of buying, selling and owning other human beings—it puts the lie to anyone who claims to fully subordinate all their interests to the biblical texts.” 

Dan continues, saying, “You have to ask, what are your priorities and agendas with the interpretive lenses you bring to the text?” In regard to structuring power, he says you’ll come up with a certain set of conclusions if you prioritize that over loving God and loving your neighbor. “The Bible is a story about the transition from an insular small group to the whole world. For Christians who read it to understand everyone to be if not a child of God at least their neighbor, they should see it’s about maximizing the success of the whole group, not our domination over a certain group. If people read the Bible and find a God who loves all, that should be the priority. But human nature often retreats to prioritizing the protection of one’s standing and access to power.” But Dan argues that the Bible teaches us to fight against human nature to put what God wants above what we want. “If your Bible is telling you to do the opposite, you should reevaluate your faith.” 

Concluding that many Biblical teachings are “outdated, harmful, and have long been irrelevant,” Dan says, “But people have turned their opposition to homosexuality into an identity marker for the social identities important to them. They leverage what the Bible says to authorize and legitimize that identity marker to structure their power and values in favor of their identity politics.” A point Dan reiterates “so often that people are probably sick of it” is that “everyone negotiates with the Bible, so much so that what it actually says is no longer relevant in terms of social monitoring. Polygamy, slavery from the start of the book until its end, the objectification of women—we’ve jettisoned it all as it no longer serves our social identities. I think the Bible-induced homophobia will ultimately go away just like slavery. It’s just a question of how long it will take for people to prioritize children’s safety.”

Dan pointed out that evangelical scholar Richard Hayes (who wrote a book in the 90s that took a hardline stance against homosexuality) will soon come out with a new book in which he claims he was wrong and now argues from a theological point of view for full inclusion of LGBTQ+. Dan recognizes that his first book did a lot of harm for which Hays has not yet had to face accountability, but anticipates more and more people will come around in the future. Dan closes out his own book with the fact that again, “Everything is negotiable. As more people realize they know people who are LGBTQ+ and choose to respect and love them, there will be no choice but to negotiate those prejudices out of our lives.”

Here are some of Dan McClellan’s videos that we especially recommend:

https://www.tiktok.com/@maklelan/video/7375917733050977582

https://www.tiktok.com/@maklelan/video/7369580573762850094

https://www.tiktok.com/@maklelan/video/7290176434465770795

https://www.tiktok.com/@maklelan/video/7351788398144720170

THE JOHNSON FAMILY

Cameo and Cooper Johnson knew they wanted their children to have a different kind of upbringing: one that expanded outside of Mesa, Arizona, where they were both raised. As such, after marrying, they took their four children, Cora-now 23, Granger-21, Jonah-19, and Ezra-15, for most of their young lives to live in various parts of the world. These travels were not always luxurious—rather, the family worked hard all year to save and sometimes barely broke even as they moved about--living and learning with the locals along the way. 

They lived in Guatemala for four months, where they were involved in various service projects including distributing food to locals for Christmas, building a sustainable tilapia pond with and for their branch president, and assembling stoves for indigenous villagers so the residents could have warmth and a way to cook food. In Petra Jordan, their young son gave his own shoes to a barefoot indigenous child whom he had befriended, after learning that the children there don’t have the opportunity to go to school but must work in order to provide support to their families. In Spain, they met an artist on the street without arms who drew beautiful works of art with his feet and inspired their young son to overcome all obstacles. In downtown Philadelphia, they often passed unhoused residents in the streets to walk into church, and on a fast Sunday, later watched as those same people from the streets entered the building as well and bore the “most gorgeous testimonies” after which their fellow congregants (many of whom were new to the LDS faith) would shout out “Hallelujahs” and “Amens.” In Cambodia, the Johnsons lived with a local family. “Ten of us shared the same pit toilet bathroom without plumbing or hot water and had to pour cold water on ourselves to bathe,” says Cameo. “While there, we were invited to the funeral of the village leader and also invited to be blessed by a Buddhist monk. We honored these other traditions and beliefs. We were constantly exposing our children to other spiritualities and ways of thinking with love being the unifying focus.” This experience happened during the senior year in high school for their eldest child, Cora, and Cameo largely credits the priority on family closeness and emphasis on Christ-focused service and doctrine through their travels rather than building a social network as the reason each of her four kids have chosen to cling to the gospel in which they were raised. “Because we were only in many of our wards and communities temporarily, we didn’t worry about ostracization… and once we returned to Utah and Arizona, we really saw the diversity of the places and people we’d met with such unique needs and wants than what I’d understood growing up.”

On June 1st of this year, the family traveled together to California, where Cora married her girlfriend of over a year, Ady, in a beautiful ceremony in the Redwoods, near where they had both met while serving as LDS missionaries. The two were never companions, but after admitting to having feelings for each other on their mission, they put those feelings aside to focus on serving until they came home. The service was simple, only attended by their parents and siblings. Cora’s returned missionary brother had received a ministerial license to perform the nuptials. Cameo says as the simple ceremony was just “focused on them, we didn’t have to worry about the extraneous. It was beautiful.” She continues, “Both families had come a long way in the last year to process, change, and grow, but because we all know them and what beautiful humans they both are, you can’t help but see the genuine love they have for each other and desire their well-being and happiness. Their pure love is just evident on their faces.”

A week later, the couple had a reception in Flagstaff near the Johnson’s home, in which there was a bounty of music, dancing, acceptance and love. It was a party attended by many family members and friends from near and far, including many from the girls’ missions who they had served. “It was a happy, happy time,” says Cameo, “and because they chose to already be married by the time people arrived at the reception, there were no worries about feeling judged. It was already done.”

While such a warm reception to the marriage of two females from the LDS faith may come as a surprise to some, it was no surprise to Cameo and Cooper when Cora finally came out as queer at age 16. “We always knew, and had had conversations between us as a couple since Cora was three or four years old, like, ‘Hey, what are we going to do if she tells us she’s gay or that she wants to be a ‘he’?” says Cameo. Cora previously shared her own story on Lift & Love, and her mother Cameo concurs her daughter never fit the gender norms as a child. People gave her dolls she didn’t want, and she cried every time she was told to put on a church dress. When she’d play house with her fellow school girls, Cora always cast herself in the role of “husband.” 

When she was younger, Cameo admits she didn’t know anyone in the queer community two decades ago and was quite fearful of what might happen due to how she had been raised, saying, “Anything new is scary for me.” But through many conversations, Cooper assured Cameo that they could just wait and see, that they didn’t need to anticipate everything right then. So a decade later when Cora finally came out, Cameo was not a bit surprised or scared as she’d had a decade to work on her own feelings. She says, “I felt comfortable because I knew who she was—the most kind, nonjudgmental person I’ve ever met, and I’ve met a lot. This is Cora—she’s not sinful or someone who cares more about herself and material desires. She’s a very spiritual person, making It hard for anyone to continue in any preconceived notions about the community. Because I know her worth and value and how amazing she is, and had been prepping for ten years, it wasn’t hard for me. I know I’m lucky in that regard.”

What did worry Cameo a bit was that when Cora came out, in the same sentence, she said, “I’m gay and I want to stay in the church and go on a mission.” Cameo had experienced enough of their Arizona culture to know how the church at large perceives the LGBTQ population, but she also chose to respect her daughter’s decision and support what she needed to do. Cameo again figures that the family’s emphasis on core principles of Christ-centered living is what drove Cora to see the divine purpose in serving a mission for a church that would later not allow her marriage in their temple. 

Cameo also reflects on the efforts they had made to create a safe space in their home when Cora was a young child after they witnessed a neighborhood child  who was perceived to be gay often be referenced by derogatory slurs, including in their own home. Cameo sat down one of her young children who had repeated the word and in very certain terms, made it clear, “That is not a word we use, because people are born this way—lovely, beautiful, and often more kind and gentle than the rest of us. We have something to learn from them, and I never want you to say anything that would make us seem better than them. We all have differences.”

When Cora later came out, she told her mother she remembered that experience and knew her home would always be a safe space. Cameo reminds parents, “Our children are always watching us, including our interactions and the phrases we say. It’s important we remember that they are listening to the jokes we laugh at. Our kids are watching, and determining whether we’ve created a safe space for them to later become whoever they may be.”

While the Johnsons traveled, both Cameo and Cooper pursued their masters’ degrees. Using her training as a Psychiatric Mental Health Nurse Practitioner, and after selling their first mental health practice, Cameo recently started a new one called Ponderosa Psychiatry in Flagstaff. She has found that by word-of-mouth referrals, she largely serves individuals at the LGBTQ+ and LDS intersection, including those serving or having served missions, and those who love them, to help them have a place to process their thoughts and emotions. “There’s an intersection between how we love and how we’re told we’re supposed to love and obey that can come across as not very loving to our children… It’s important to remember that incongruence is much more fabricated than our spirits and bodies believe. Love is love, and we know that in our hearts. When we don’t feel we’re being loving or when we’re being judgmental, it doesn’t feel right.”

Cameo again credits her family’s unique life experiences and current luck in having a very supportive bishop and stake president, who both came to Cora’s and Ady’s wedding reception, as part of the reason they’ve been able to join their kids in their desires to serve and stay in the church. She says, “I love my bishop and stake president. I have had leadership in other areas of the world who weren’t so understanding, but I’ve come to understand that they don’t define my relationship with Heavenly Father and Jesus. It’s just me; there’s no intermediary. Those people are called for a reason, but are also humans struggling with the human experience, and I’m ok with that. That’s the beautiful thing about the church—personal revelation. I love having my direct line.”

Read Cora’s Lift+Love family story here

Wedding photo credits to Anna Naylor Photography

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.” 

ANONYMOUS

M* drives across state lines to seek the healthcare for her preteen daughter that has improved her sense of well-being. She tells very few people where she is going, as few seem to understand. But a nearby state allows a puberty blocker shot that’s recently been banned for minors under 18 in M’s home state. It’s a shot that has been widely given without major concerns for decades to patients with early onset puberty, until the politicking of the trans community dominated airwaves and stigmatized it as “unsafe.” It’s a shot that can help prevent the further need for medication for trans individuals if timed right, which is why the trans-affirming medical community prioritizes its use in younger patients on the verge of puberty. But this process requires a parent and a medical team to trust the intuition and identity of a patient who is still a child.

M does trust her daughter to know herself better than anyone, describing her as an intelligent and fun-loving home schooled young tween who has “read all the things,” says M. “I know she doesn’t know everything, but she knows a lot more than I do.” 

Healthcare. Safety. Well-being. They are the basic human needs most parents desire for their children. But when a child comes out as transgender, the method of how best to pursue each ideal can vary drastically between parents, often creating unease at home. Societal pressures can isolate children and families who don’t fit the binary norms of a classroom or bathroom, further exacerbating isolation. State legislation can dictate what is allowed in the doctor’s office, resulting in mental duress. These are the common realities for families of trans kids, and when a child comes out at an especially young age, the collateral fears can drive the child or family right back into the closet.

As M views the best path forward for her daughter differently than her social circle, church community, and state legislature does, she is only out anonymously, as the creator of the Instagram account, @mama_trans_kid_in_the_closet. The community she has built on this account, as well as her Mama Dragons network, have served as a salve for M, who has appreciated having public forums to discuss social transitions, hormone replacement therapy, puberty blockers, and bathroom bills. They are topics she once knew nothing about, but her network and a helpful book, The Transgender Child: A Handbook for Parents and Professionals Supporting Transgender and Nonbinary Children by Stephanie Brill and Rachel Pepper, have contributed to her new vocabulary and understanding. They have also been able to get acquainted with adult trans women, who offer hope for what can be. 

A self-described “Molly Mormon,” M’s advocacy for her children surprises even herself. But she’s grateful for the 2020 impression she had to study LGBTQ+ issues, coupled with Elder Ballard’s oft-quoted nudge for LDS members to learn more about the experiences of LGBTQ+ people. Feeling compelled to do a deep dive into something she had never thoughtfully considered, M picked up Charlie Bird’s book, Without the Mask, at Deseret Book, feeling it might be a “safe” source, then Ben Schilaty’s, A Walk in My Shoes, and began listening to their podcast, “Questions from the Closet.” More podcasts, including “Listen, Learn and Love,” helped her begin to consider what life is like for an LGBTQ+ member of the church. 

After reading past church teachings and some messages about queer people delivered over pulpits that were “really tough to swallow,” M began to understand why people in this community were misunderstood. Still, when her daughter came out as trans, it was “super shocking” for M and her husband. “I had heard about trans kids knowing about their identity from a young age—always dressing up as princesses or pirates. But ours was typically into boy things. Even now, besides growing out her hair, she hasn’t expressed a strong interest in make-up or dressing in a feminine way often. Though she has yet to come out publicly.” She came out to her mom via a phone message exchange, sharing she had been feeling confused for some time, like she didn’t know what was going on. And then she said a prayer and had a moment of clarity as a thought entered her head: “I’m trans.” M says her child described suddenly feeling good about that, like God was telling her, “Yep, that’s it.” She felt excited to tell her mom then, having felt some peace about who she was. M says this was at first very hard for her to grasp. Like all their kids, this child was named after a beloved relative, so honoring the name and pronoun transition took some time for M. While navigating this new reality, shortly after, one of M’s older children came out as bisexual.

M feels grateful her kids have had each other’s support and are close, as they have lost friends over people saying disparaging things about LGBTQ. While she and her husband still attend, the church has been a tricky place for some members of the family. When one of her older kids was asked about their plans to serve a mission, their response was, “I don’t see how I can tell people to go join a church where people like my siblings won’t be treated the same as everyone else. It doesn’t feel right.” M’s bisexual child doesn’t feel like they fit in, but says they’d return overnight for the social structure, if the church changed their LGBTQ+ policies.

Bi-erasure is also a new vocabulary word for M. “One of the hardest things with the church is that the teachings on marriage and family are all clearly directed for someone to choose a male or female—the opposite gender—and do what’s expected of them… People assume you can just choose the more simple path, making it much harder for you if you don’t. Also, you’re in between two spaces, making you feel like you don’t fit or are forgotten.” M says when she goes to the temple she can’t help but notice all the binary division, and considers if her trans daughter could ever feel comfortable in church spaces. “Like if she did come to church, would they let her go to Young Women’s? I have so many questions. She doesn’t go, so it’s not an issue.” M’s trans child is only out to her immediate family members and a few others. 

M says her kids don’t speak out against her church involvement, but she has explained to them, “I’m not going to church because I support everything they say, but because it’s what feels right, right now. I’d like to help create change. I don’t want to leave, but sometimes I feel so tired.” As someone who naturally wants to talk through her current struggles, M says, “It’s hard when you have a kid in the closet. You want to talk about it, but can’t when they’re not out.” So for now, she speaks out from a closet of her own. And she reminds people that this is a topic that affects everyone. “If you think you don’thave an LGBTQ person in the family, the chances are very slim you don’t. They have always been here; there is just now more vocabulary to be understood and people feeling safe to come out.”

M continues, “It can never be said enough: we parents of LGBTQ kids know our kids, and for those of us who’ve grown up in the church, this is me following inspiration and following my God who wants me to support my child. That’s probably the most hurtful thing I hear people say—that you’ve got to be careful to ‘not be deceived,’ like you don’t know the gospel, when it’s all you’ve known for your whole life.”

(M* = to protect her children’s safety and well-being, M has elected to remain anonymous)

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.”