So, here we are again on the other side of another National Coming Out Day and we didn’t come out. We saw many people we know who at long last finally came out and we wonder if our time will ever come. Our time to be fully seen and fully known. And if they don’t like us then at least they have all the correct information. Right?

I feel this most strongly in the mornings and the evenings - in the quiet moments when I’m alone with the burdens of the day, trying to rest. I turn off my lights and climb under my comforter, with nothing but my breathing and the echoing of my thoughts. It’s in these moments that celibacy can feel less like a gift and more like a sorrow.

National Coming Out Day 1998 was my first experience with the LGBTQ+ community at large. I was a freshman at a state university, newly pledged to a national sorority, and so far in the closet that I was probably closer to Narnia than the United States

For me personally, the first person I had to come out to was myself, and then I had to come out to Jesus. It was that process that began to heal those wounds and some of that shame. That's not to say that I don't need that same healing and reminder regularly. Even this past week, I found myself doubting whether or not I should be pursuing ministry because of my sexuality. But it has been through prayer that I have experienced the most healing in my shame.

As much as I think I crave sameness, nothing about the life God has given us grows in immobility. Scripture compares believers to growing things, seeds, vines, and trees; our lives are described as walks and journeys.

My therapist recently said to me, “you deeply respect the journey others have gone on in reconciling their queerness and faith, but do you have that same respect for yourself?” And I haven’t. Even stepping into Side B spaces for the first time, I felt myself shrinking back, not because I feel like I didn’t need the space, but because I felt like I didn’t have the same claim that others had to that space.

I'll be honest; I like complaining.

Don't get me wrong; I love helping others. I just… sometimes want it to be known that it's costing me something.

I've heard this is typical of those of us who struggle to say "no," we sign up for what we never wanted to in the first place and piously serve with a grumbling heart.

I discovered this song just before my second Christmas estranged from [biological] family. I was walking down a dark street alone in a different city after attending a large Christian conference, and I felt numb. I’d been a leader at this conference, but frankly, I felt like a fraud: I hadn’t prayed for a long time, and I recoiled at the idea of reading the Bible on my own because it felt more like a weapon wielded against me than the voice of a friend. I even questioned my faith—do real Christians feel this way? That’s when the Holy Spirit worked through the Spotify algorithm. This song started playing out of nowhere and God showed me that he doesn’t need my ‘best’.