Growing up in the church, my earliest memories are filled with the scent of old wooden pews, the sound of hymns echoing off the walls, and the solemn rituals that shaped my understanding of holiness.

I was a child who loved the sacred, the pageantry of worship, the mystery of prayer, the stories of prophets and promise. But even then, before I had the words to name it, I also knew I was different. I was queer.

I was immersed in the rituals and rhythms of faith. I knew the order of worship by heart, memorized verses before I could spell “salvation,” and sang hymns with a voice I hoped sounded strong enough to drown out the confusion inside me. And in the same breath that I learned about divine love, I also learned to fear divine disappointment. From a young age, I felt a call to serve, but I also felt a deep and unspoken fear: what if God didn’t want me as I am?

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