A Bible verse that lodged itself in my adolescent mind was Romans 9:13, a passage in which Paul references the book of Malachi: “As it is written, ‘I [God] have loved Jacob, but I have hated Esau.’ ” Although I was a cradle Catholic, Calvinist ideas such as predestination seeped into my understanding of Christianity. From an early age, I accepted a fundamental truth: No amount of goodness on Earth could make me worthy of God’s love and salvation. I was either worthy or I wasn’t—and I was pretty sure I wasn’t.
The proof of God’s abhorrence toward me felt undeniable: I was a lesbian.
When I was 13, I came out to my mom for the first time. I said, “I think I love a girl.” As I recall, her response was very stern: “No, you do not.” Since we had guests coming over, she added only the dreaded, “We will talk about this later.”
That night, I cowered and retracted my statement. “I was confused,” I said. “I don’t love this girl. I just like her as a friend.” My mom left it at that.
Years passed, and I told no one about this incident. The weight of it only grew heavier when I transferred to a conservative all-girls Catholic school. There, I was taught that my queerness wasn’t an acceptable part of my identity. If I were to claim it, I’d no longer be a person but an ideology, an amorphous mass of otherness. My teachers equated homosexuality with pederasty; a life of queerness was synonymous with addiction, substance abuse, sexual assault, mortal sin, and a premature, tragic death.
For three years, I kept my head down, causing as little trouble as possible, making myself so small I hoped to disappear. The stress of those years led to a depression so profound I wouldn’t wish it upon the very people who coached me to hate myself. By 16, I had not only lost my belief in God but also more than 120 pounds and any sense of a future. I was certain I wouldn’t live past 18.
I thought once I had the diploma in my hands and was no longer in a conservative Catholic environment, I’d be able to come out to my family and friends and be free of shame. But graduation rolled around in early 2020, and I still said nothing. College began in March, but I remained silent, merging myself with the slats of moldy wood at the back of my invisible closet.
Then, COVID-19 lockdowns happened. The forced distance from that environment, combined with months of solitude, slowly led me to reconsider the possibility of God’s existence. I devoured everything I could—from the gospels to the Quran, from commentaries to philosophical treatises.
And then, I read Story of a Soul by St. Thérèse of Lisieux.
By the time I finished, I had made my decision: I would go through with my confirmation. It was like I had lived my entire life before dawn’s first light. After almost two decades of religious abuse, I let go of the false dogma that I was fundamentally evil, cursed, and hated. Old habits die hard, though. I went through a couple of months still certain I could live the rest of my life in the closet. I could be a nun. I would never have the temptation to date or, even worse, marry a girl. But religious vocations are not meant as an escape.
Like Jonah, I was fleeing God, except my task wasn’t to be a prophet. God’s simple ask was to accept myself, love myself, and be open about my identity. My call may not have been to save the city of Nineveh, but it seemed equally daunting. How could I go against everything I was taught?
Sometime during the lockdown, I invited my mom to join me in live streaming Masses from Barcelona, Mexico City, Chicago, Rome, and our local parish. We traveled the world during those Sunday Masses. I cherish those days.
What follows is bizarre, and I beg you to bear with me. Each time my mother and I said the spiritual communion prayer together, I’d feel the urge to come out. It was freaky; I wouldn’t even be thinking about it, but then the words would bubble from within and remain on the tip of my tongue: “Mom, I’m gay.” I could never bring myself to actually say it.
Weeks and months passed, and still, every single time my mother and I said the prayer together, I would push down the urge to come out. One day, though, as my mom and I were sitting in front of the TV screen and I had that same bothersome feeling, I couldn’t ignore it any longer. It was like a stirring in my core—not necessarily my heart but my insides, from my chest to the tips of my fingers. I pushed it away. Not now.
Then the gospel reading began: Matthew 25:14–30, the parable of the talents. I had heard it a thousand times before, but this time was different. The words cut through my shame, slicing through everything I thought I was and believed to be true, turning it all on its head. Every day I spent in the closet was another day my talent lay buried in the ground. Was I the unfaithful servant? If I died without sharing my queerness, without being open and political about it, what would Jesus say?
Everything I have—my art, my writing, my embroidery, even my breath—came from God. And I have this story. I am this story. If I am to be a good steward of my talents, then I’ll be Christ’s hands in this world and show every queer person struggling with self-hatred that God loves them. We are not broken. We are not an amorphous ideology of sin. We are God’s beloved, no matter what.
Tears filled my eyes as I listened to the homily. The priest’s message was clear: Do not be afraid. Do not lose faith in God.
At first, my mom was confused—not by my queerness but by my distress. To my surprise, she treated my confession as natural, inconsequential. I was her child. Why would it matter if I was gay? But then, she saw the weight of my words, the effort it had taken to say them. She accepted me, reassured me, and told me she was sorry for her reaction all those years ago, that it had been a misunderstanding. Now she is my fiercest ally, the one who holds me when a girl breaks my heart, the one who pushes me to show the world what I can do.
I chose not to make a grand coming-out announcement. Instead, I simply lived as if my queerness had always been known. And for the past three years, I have illustrated the way God reveals Godself to me: all-merciful, all-loving, all-forgiving.
By the end of my life, I hope I will have wrung out every last drop of the talents that guy from Nazareth gave me.
This article also appears in the November 2025 issue of U.S. Catholic (Vol. 90, No. 11, page 21-22). Click here to subscribe to the magazine.
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