The story of how I came out as bisexual, months after leaving an evangelical church, and years after an old therapist told me I wasn’t gay.

I was walking home after dinner with a friend a few weeks ago and walked past an evening church service. I lingered near the steps leading up to the doorway.

“You’re welcome to come in,” a man said.

I thanked him and kept my feet planted on the sidewalk.

I lingered a little longer.

Part of me really wanted to go in, for some inexplicable reason.

And.

I also had to do a quick google search to find out what this church and the people inside its walls claimed to believe.

There was nothing explicit on the website about supporting LBGBTQ+ rights, and condemning homophobia.

And so, I kept on walking.

And as I walked home, I thought about how long it had been since I felt truly at home in a pew.

I’ve been waiting to publish this essay since last June. I planned to publish it last June. I am not entirely sure why I didn’t.

Just like I’m not entirely sure why my feet stopped moving when I found that evening church service.

What I am entirely sure of is this — I miss feeling at home in a pew. Some deep tucked-away part of me misses the hymns and communion.

I don’t miss the homophobia and bigotry. That’s why I left and stayed away, and eventually found God in other places.

And so, maybe the reason I waited an extra year to publish this piece. is because I needed to acknowledge and remember how much I miss church and all that I thought it was before I tell the story of why I left it all behind. This essay isn’t all about church, but it’s certainly a big part of the journey.

So here it is - The story of how I came out right after leaving an evangelical church, years after an old therapist told me I wasn’t gay.

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I don’t believe in regrets, but I do sometimes wish I had come out as bi-sexual while studying at Vassar instead of five years after graduation. I sit around and wonder why I didn’t come out back then. And then I remember my infamous former therapist’s words.

The first time I wondered if I might like women, I was playing Hermia opposite a girl playing Lysander (traditionally played by a man) in Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream. The circumstances are both poetic and yet unremarkable, having my first crush on a girl playing my love interest in the theater department at a liberal arts school.  

Up until then, I had always been a fierce LBGBTQ+ ally, but had never once considered that I might be a part of the community myself. I grew up at the intersection of conservativeness and liberalism, on the corner of 20th and 1st. I’m a Native New Yorker who was raised to respect both God and human beings of all sexual orientations.

I first learned about same-sex couples as a toddler while driving around downtown with my mom. While waiting in traffic, I spotted the famous Pride parade. I asked my mom why two men were kissing. She said something along the lines of “people kiss when they’re in love.” Until then, it hadn’t registered to me that Barbie could love Barbie, and Ken could love Ken. It immediately made sense. It wasn’t a big event. Just a fact. And it still is. Love is love. 

My mom also took me to church every Sunday while I was growing up, nearly without fail.  First an episcopal church near Gramercy Park (where I also went to preschool), then a historically Black Baptist church in Harlem.)

I was always early for choir rehearsal. I always wore tights with my dresses - even during the summer. I memorized everything I needed to but had a lot of unanswered questions.  I was encouraged to have a personal relationship with God, but somehow never got around to it.

Once while teaching Sunday school, I literally mixed up Jesus and God while telling a story.  One of my elementary-aged students called me out on it.  It hit me that I was teaching them about something I didn’t fully comprehend. I brushed it off. Mystery is part of religion anyway, right? 

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Ironically, I don’t remember much about my first impression of the girl playing Lysander. I do remember thinking that she was funny in an irreverent way. A little elusive. Definitely disarming. There was something completely unique about her. I wanted her to like me, and it went beyond wanting to work well together. I also didn’t want her to think I was trying too hard, because I wanted to seem cool.

I don’t remember the exact moment that I fell for her, but it did feel like it happened overnight. I’d like to say it was a slow burn, but I can be pretty all or nothing when it comes to matters of the heart. At first, I told myself that my fascination was purely about taking my acting role seriously. I had never played opposite a woman and wanted to ensure that we developed a believable connection. The more we got along offstage, the better. Yet even now, years and years later, I can remember the electric, thrilling feeling of running into her on campus, or walking into the room and meeting her gaze at a rehearsal. I was so bewildered by my feelings, even though I couldn’t have been in a more supportive environment. I had no idea what her sexual orientation was, or if she would ever be interested in me. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do with these pent-up emotions.

One day, I went running at the gym to get some of my frustration. I’ve only run a a few times in my life (maybe three times total) and I certainly only used the gym in college a handful of times. When the girl playing Lysander appeared on the treadmill next to me, coincidentally working out at the same time, I almost fell off the machine. 

I told one of my best friends about the crush before I told my former therapist. She was incredibly supportive but didn’t have the huge surprised reaction I had built up in my head at all. We had tons of friends who came out, explored gender expressions and pronouns, and changed their names during our four undergraduate years. Realizing that I liked women wasn’t really an event.

I didn’t question my therapist at all. I immediately agreed with her, and I thanked her for helping me “come to my senses.” If my therapist of 5+ years didn’t think I was gay, I couldn’t be gay, right?  I “let myself” continue to have feelings for the girl playing Lysander until the show ended, and then we went our separate ways. My feelings faded just as my therapists said they would and I never really gave her too much thought again. (During college, at least.)

I now know that a therapist isn’t meant to assume an authoritative presence in your life, and shouldn’t ever tell you what to do, but I still have deep compassion for the younger version of myself who thought that a licensed mental health professional must know me better than I know myself. At the crossroads of exploring my identity and denying my feelings for women, I trusted my therapist instead of my own inner knowing.

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In another poetic yet unsurprising turn of events, my rejection of my queerness coincided with my reintroduction to Christianity.

Towards the end of high school, I stopped going to church somewhat abruptly after a service learning trip to Botswana. I couldn’t wrap my head around a God that would allow me to live with such privilege, after witnessing deep suffering on that trip. I could write a whole piece about that trip - maybe I will one day. The important takeaway for the sake of this piece, is I stopped going to church around 17, and considered myself agnostic from for about four years.

Fast forward to my literal, somewhat dramatic, ‘Come to Jesus’ moment, on a Christian Fellowship trip that I attended in my senior year of college around the same time that the play and my almost queer awakening were happening.

I only came on the trip to support a close friend, who was a leader in the group. A sermon from a guest youth pastor on the prodigal son resonated with me, and struck a chord deep within. I felt comforted, and called home.

I left that trip feeling recommitted to Christianity. No longer blindly following, but just as passionate about my faith as I was before. It was like slipping on something you haven’t worn in a few years, that still fits just right or realizing that you still know the words to your favorite song. (Which I did - I did spend a lot of time in choir rehearsal.) I was so grateful to have my faith back in my life, during such a season of transition, right before entering the “real world” post-college. For the rest of my senior year, I attended fellowship meetings, went to church, and even bible study.

After college, I intended to find a church home of my own but life got in the way, as it so often does. I occasionally went to church with my mom, but didn’t feel a strong connection to that church community the way that I had when I was younger. It was hard to prioritize my faith without a community that I felt at home in like I did briefly in college. I didn’t really prioritize finding another one.

And then suddenly, I found myself quite literally on my knees in prayer after a devastating breakup. In retrospect, that breakup was the best thing that ever happened to me. But at the time, it felt like my life was over. Another story for another time.

After a few weeks of attending virtual church services on YouTube, I decided to bravely look for a church community once more, and found one rather quickly that happened to be right in my neighborhood. It almost felt too good to be true.

There was a vibrant, diverse community of young people. The sermons were accessible yet driven by the text of the bible. And the music was gorgeous. It was so easy to feel at home.

So of course, I dived back into lots of volunteering - from Sunday School to joining the welcome committee to inviting people to my home for weekly bible study and other fellowship events. 

What’s more - I was finally beginning to develop a personal relationship with God. There was something so persuasive and reassuring about the way that the gospel was delivered. I felt so connected to my faith, those around me, and myself. My faith, and this community, were both such a grounding force in my life exactly when I needed it. I thought that nothing could go wrong. 

And then about half a year into attending that church – a friend who I’d met there revealed in casual conversation that she thought being gay was a sin. I was completely appalled. Did other people know she felt this way? Did our pastor know? I wanted to be compassionate and take a sincere, thoughtful approach. I wanted to help her tackle and unravel this clear, obvious homophobia.  

Imagine my surprise when I quickly learned that the pastor of this church also believed that marriage should be between a man and a woman and that he would not perform a marriage ceremony for a same-sex couple. When I asked around, and found out that most of my close friends from the church shared this belief. 

The final blow came when I found out that the church itself was part of the Evangelical Covenant Church. I was standing outside with the welcome committee petting a passerby’s dog, when I heard another volunteer tell an inquiring stranger that we were an evangelical church. I truly thought he was mixing up the words episcopal and evangelical. I told a friend later, hoping we could laugh it off together.

There was no mix-up. I had somehow been part of an Evangelical church for half a year without knowing it.

You’re probably wondering how I didn’t know that to begin with. Or why I didn’t do my research. I don’t know what to tell you. All I can say is that I really thought that I had done my research. Or maybe I just assumed the church was non-denominational. Or a more inclusive denomination. Anything but this.

For those unfamiliar with the denominations of Christianity — I have done a lot of research trying to find a video or article that explains the principles and culture of evangelicism, to try to contextualize how jarring a realization this was for me. I didn’t find anything that felt particularly fitting to include here - so I’ll just leave you with this quote from their website.

The adopted position of the Evangelical Covenant Church, the center of which is “Faithfulness in heterosexual marriage, celibacy in singleness-these constitute the Christian standard.”

I couldn’t keep attending a church where my queer friends wouldn’t be openly welcomed and celebrated for who they are. Heartbroken and conflicted, I ultimately stopped attending that church and lost contact with almost all of the friends who I thought would be in my life for years to come.

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Below is an excerpt of the email I sent to my former pastor. It’s essentially a paraphrased quote from an episode of Glennon Doyle’s podcast “We Can Do Hard Things”, which she hosts with her wife and sister (which you’re more than familiar with if you’ve read some of my other essays!). The episode is called ‘QUEER FREEDOM’. The only reason I didn’t reference the podcast in my email, or use the exact quote,  is because I was afraid that the pastor wouldn’t read the following excerpt if he knew that Glennon Doyle had said it. I had no reason to believe that he would take the words of someone who is often referred to as “a former Christian mommy blogger” seriously. 

I am firmly of the opinion that it is not possible to celebrate and love anyone by simply tolerating them. You can only love or reject them. We’ve decided that as a society, we can disagree with people’s identities. What we call disagreement, is in fact rejection.

Many would make the counterargument that you can privately disagree with someone’s “lifestyle choices” and publicly support them and love them, as Christ called us to do. Yet to love our neighbors as we love ourselves, we have to want every good thing that we want for ourselves, for others. (Ex: freedom, marriage equality, protection by law, safety.)

Here’s the actual quote from the episode—

So do not come with me, to me with your sweet, you know, cursive pink, disagreeing. You’re making it sound soft and it’s not soft. It’s violent. Okay? You are not disagreeing with me. You are rejecting me. So, let’s get the question right. What you are asking me is “Can I reject you and still love you?”…Let’s get real intellectually honest. You either love me or you reject me. One or the other. You need to choose. Okay? But can you do both? The answer is no. It’s your choice. All right?…Can I have private beliefs that are anti-queer? No. Because there is no such thing as a private belief. Because your private beliefs don’t stay quiet, don’t stay private. Your kids catch them from you, and they go out into public, and they scream at queer kids and they bully them sometimes to death and eventually they grow up and they kill trans women. Your private beliefs make our public lives less safe.

In this episode, Glennon also references a chapter from Untamed called Knots, which she wrote for Abby. She reads it below. (And Abby actually reads it during the podcast linked above! So beautiful to listen to Abby read the words that Glennon wrote for her, and also to hear Glennon read them herself.)

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A few months after leaving my church, and almost exactly five years after my A Midsummer Night’s Dream crush, the truth of who I am bubbled out of me abruptly and quickly in about 24 hours.

On a cozy March Monday, a guy I had briefly dated called to tell me that he “was no longer romantically interested in me.” I was less upset about the rejection and more upset about how he handled things. I made my usual short-lived vow that I was going to swear off men for a while and mused about how much easier life would be if I could just be attracted to women and never have to deal with men again. 

That evening, I scrolled through Facebook and saw a status update from a classmate who had recently transitioned. They shared some photos, along with their new name and pronouns. I hadn’t seen this classmate in years, so I decided to scroll down memory lane to our younger days before doing a little deep dive into what they had been up to since we graduated.

Sitting at my kitchen table, looking at these pictures, and watching my old friend’s journey unfold, I meditated on the idea of transformation. I thought about my younger self. I thought about the courage that it takes to step into the truest, more authentic version of yourself, and tell your whole world about it. 

I thought about the girl who played Lysander.

I must have left my best friend 30 audio messages that night, as I parsed out all of my thoughts and emotions. In all these years of ranting about wishing that I could just be attracted to women, was I really just voicing a suppressed desire? What if I did like that girl in college? What if my therapist was wrong? What if there was a deeper reason that things never worked out with guys in the past, beyond the obvious explanation that a lot of men suck? 

The next night, right after my friend finished teaching a virtual queer yoga class, I stayed in the Zoom room until everyone else had left like always. I came every week, as the fierce ally and loyal friend that I was.

I think I’m still physically attracted to certain men.

But also, I think my therapist was wrong.

I think I also like women.

My friend was completely supportive and over the moon excited for me. They told me to take my time, and with this new realization.

I changed my settings on dating apps that very night, started setting up dates with women, and never turned back.

My attraction to women feels like complete freedom. I’ve never once questioned my decision to come out as bi- even amidst the seemingly neverending ongoing bias and cruel acts of violence that members of the LGBTQ+ community have been subject to throughout history, and of course in the present day.

While I’ve sometimes wondered if things would be “easier” if I went back to living my life as a straight woman, I have never ever doubted my newfound attraction to women. It’s an undeniable, and important part of who I am.  Despite my moments of fear, I refuse to hide my full self in the shadows. Whether I end up with a man or a woman, I will always be bi-sexual.

I think some part of me must have already known that I was queer when I sent that email with the paraphrased Glennon Doyle quote to my old pastor. I think I was somehow protecting myself, and making space for my full self to breathe when I left that church. I sometimes wonder what my coming out experience would have been like if I had stayed. Or if I had heeded my old therapist’s fateful words, “You’re not gay.”

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These days, I’m more spiritual than religious. I do believe in a higher power. And I am mostly thankful that I grew up the way that I did. Religion itself can be incredibly comforting and healing. Yet really damaging as well.  One church does not define a religion. An institution can’t tell me who God is, nor can any given set of people.  I’m still learning to grapple with the nuance of it all - and deciding which beliefs to keep and which to discard.

For example, the story of Easter is one of my favorite parts of the bible - I find the concept of rebirth incredibly powerful. I love the idea of resurrection power. But I - like many women - deeply struggle with the creation story and the plight of Eve. I also like to believe that God can take many forms, including that of a woman. Which I know doesn’t exactly line up with my traditional upbringing. 

I also thankfully now have a much better therapist to talk things through with, who gives me a sounding board instead of telling me what to do, or what to believe about myself. She is incredibly affirming.

Unsurprisingly, I’ve also turned to writing to try to answer some of my questions. I’ve journaled, and even written songs, to try to process the unbelievable juxtaposition of God’s unconditional love and the homophobia that is often found in religious institutions. 

A lyric from a song I wrote shortly after leaving the church mentioned above, goes —

             If they believe he was the virgin’s child

            And that same baby turned water into wine 

            If they believe he made every sacrifice

            How can love be a lie? How can love be a lie?

Maybe I’ll share the full song soon.

I often wonder what I’ll teach my future children one day. Will they grow up saying the lord’s prayer like I did? Will they go to Sunday school? How early will they start therapy? What kinds of questions will I ask when we visit potential schools?

All I know is that I’ll find a way to make sure they ask questions. No promises about giving them any answers though. I don’t have any. 

None of us really do. All we have is faith.  And a lot of really beautiful hymns. 

And hopefully a much better therapist.

walking through the west village last year on the day of the NYC pride parade!