I left the church,But I found myself

My journey from shame to freedom, from hiding to living, and from conditional love to a life that finally feels like my own.

For a long time, I believed that being a good person meant being a good Mormon. I believed that if I followed the rules, did what I was taught, and tried hard enough to be the person the Church expected me to be, everything would eventually make sense. I believed that faith, obedience, and sacrifice would lead me to happiness. It didn’t.

What I didn't understand was how much of myself I would have to sacrifice along the way.

In 2014, I came out as a gay man. Even writing those words brings back so many emotions. Fear. Relief. Heartbreak. Freedom. It was one of the hardest things I have ever done, but it was also the beginning of the most honest chapter of my life.

I didn't have all the answers. I didn't know what my future would look like, what it would mean for my family, or how I would navigate the relationships that mattered most to me. I only knew that I could no longer keep living a life that required me to hide such an important part of who I was.

For years, I had tried to reconcile who I was with what I had been taught about who I was supposed to be. I tried to make the pieces fit. I tried to be faithful. I tried to be good. I tried to believe that if I just had enough faith, prayed enough, and worked hard enough, I could somehow make the conflict inside me disappear.

But you cannot pray yourself into being someone you are not.

And eventually, I had to face a truth that was both terrifying and liberating: I could spend the rest of my life trying to become the person someone else wanted me to be, or I could finally give myself permission to become the person I already was.

I chose to live.

Leaving the Church Wasn't Just Leaving a Religion

Leaving the Mormon Church was not as simple as walking away from a building, stopping attendance, or deciding I no longer believed.

It meant questioning things I had been taught since childhood. It meant looking at beliefs I had accepted as truth and asking whether they were actually bringing goodness into my life. It meant grieving the loss of certainty and realizing that some of the answers I had spent years searching for might never come.

It also meant facing the fear that I was disappointing people I loved.

When your faith has been woven into your identity, your family, your friendships, and your understanding of eternity, leaving it can feel like losing your entire foundation. You wonder where you belong. You wonder whether the people you love will still see you the same way. You wonder if you can trust your own heart after spending so many years being told to trust something outside yourself.

And perhaps the hardest part is realizing that some people may love you deeply and still believe that something about you needs to change.

That is a painful kind of loneliness.

Many of my family members still subscribe to the Mormon religion. I understand that their faith is important to them, and I know that their beliefs are part of how they understand the world. I don't expect everyone I love to suddenly see things the way I do. I don't need to take their faith away from them to honor my own journey.

But I would be lying if I said it doesn't hurt.

It hurts knowing that a religion I once devoted my whole life to continues to teach ideas that leave people like me feeling less than. Broken. Unworthy. As though our lives are problems to be solved and our identities are things that need to be fixed.

The message may be wrapped in words like love, compassion, and concern. But when the underlying message is that the way you were born makes you fundamentally different from what God intended, it is difficult not to hear that you are somehow defective.

I know what that feels like because I lived with those messages for years.

And I want to say something to the person who might be reading this while sitting in a church pew, listening to a lesson, or lying awake at night wondering why being themselves feels so hard.

You are not broken. You do not need to be fixed. You are not less worthy of love because of whom you love.

I wish someone had said those words to me when I needed them most.

Maybe someone did, and I wasn't ready to believe them yet. Maybe I needed to walk through the fire myself before I could understand what they meant.

But I believe them now.

I believe them with every part of me.

The Children Who Weathered the Storm With Me

If there is one part of this journey that brings tears to my eyes faster than anything else, it is my children.

When I came out in 2014, I knew my decision would affect more than just me. I was a father. I had children who depended on me, who loved me, and who deserved a parent they could count on. I worried about how my choices would affect their lives. I worried about the questions they would face, the things people might say, and the storm that might follow us into places where we had once felt safe.

I wish I could say that everything unfolded easily, that everyone understood, and that love alone made the transition painless.

That wouldn't be the truth.

There were difficult days. There were complicated emotions, uncomfortable conversations, and things we had to learn how to navigate together. Our family experienced changes that none of us could have fully anticipated.

But my children weathered that storm.

And they did more than weather it. They grew through it.

Watching them become the strong, powerful, compassionate adults they are today has been one of the greatest privileges of my life. They have developed their own voices, their own convictions, and their own understanding of what love and family mean. They have learned that life rarely follows the neat little plan we imagine for ourselves, and that sometimes the most beautiful things grow out of the most difficult seasons.

I am so proud of them.

Not because they agreed with every decision I made. Not because our journey was perfect. But because they continued to grow, to love, and to find their own way through circumstances that were not always easy.

I know my journey affected them. I know there were moments when they had to process things that no child should have to carry alone. I will never pretend that my decisions existed in a vacuum or that the road was without pain.

But I hope they know that coming out was never about choosing myself over them. It was about finally learning how to live honestly, so that I could show up in this world as the father they deserved.

I didn't want my children to grow up believing that happiness required pretending. I didn't want them to think that love meant sacrificing your identity to make other people comfortable. I wanted them to know that being authentic sometimes takes courage, that standing in your truth can be hard, and that a life lived honestly is worth the risk.

Most of all, I wanted them to know that they were loved. Always.

I am grateful for the adults they have become, and I hope they understand how much they have taught me about resilience, forgiveness, and the many different ways a family can look.

They didn't just witness my journey toward freedom.

In so many ways, they helped me find it.

And then life gave me some of the most beautiful moments I could have ever imagined.

I got to watch my daughter Lauryn get married. I stood there as her father, watching her begin a new chapter of her life, and I couldn't help but think about everything we had been through to get to that moment. The challenges, the changes, the uncertainty, and all the times I wondered what our family's future would look like. There I was, watching my little girl become a wife, feeling a kind of pride and love that is almost impossible to put into words. I would have to say it was one of the most difficult yet beautiful days of my life.

And then there was Ashby's wedding. Another beautiful reminder that life keeps moving forward, that our children grow up, find their own paths, and build lives of their own. Being there to witness these moments has meant more to me than I can explain. These are the memories you hold close. The moments that remind you that even when life takes a direction you never expected, there is still so much joy waiting for you.

And then came Cedar.

Our first grandson.

I don't know if there are words big enough to describe what it feels like to welcome your first grandchild into the world. There is something so incredibly special about holding that little boy and realizing that life has given you an entirely new kind of love. Looking at Cedar, I think about the future. I think about all the experiences he will have, all the people he will love, and all the possibilities waiting for him.

I think about the kind of world I hope he grows up in. A world where he never has to question whether he is worthy of love. A world where he is encouraged to be exactly who he is. A world where kindness matters more than judgment and where family is defined by the love we give one another, not by whether we fit someone else's expectations. He has been blessed with the most amazing parents, Parker and Lexi. They are already teaching him to love without condition (he already has a LGBQT Rainbow onesie) and are doing it with such grace and dignity. It is an incredible thing to watch your children become parents. I cannot fully explain what it feels like, but my heart bursts every time I see them being the parents every child should have.

And I think about how grateful I am that I get to be his grandfather.

When I look at my children, their spouses, and now little Cedar, I see a family that has continued to grow and find happiness despite the storms we have weathered. Our story may not look the way I once imagined it would, but it is our story. It is filled with love, resilience, second chances, and moments I wouldn't trade for anything. It looks better than I had ever imagined.

Sometimes I wonder what my life would look like if I had never found the courage to come out. I wonder what it would have meant to continue living a life that wasn't fully honest, to keep hiding parts of myself because I was afraid of what might happen if I let them be seen.

I will never know the answer to that question.

But I do know this: I would have missed so much of the life I have today.

I would have missed the freedom of finally being myself. I would have missed the opportunity to experience the kind of love I share with Mat. And I would have missed the chance to stand beside my children as they married the people they love, to celebrate the lives they are building, and to welcome Cedar into our family.

That is something I think about often.

My journey was not easy, and I know that my coming out affected the people I love in ways that I will always acknowledge. But I also know that the life we have built since then is filled with moments of extraordinary beauty.

My children are strong, powerful adults. They are building their own families and futures. They have shown me that people can weather difficult seasons and emerge with even greater strength, wisdom, and compassion.

And now there is Cedar, a little boy who will grow up with his own story, his own dreams, and his own understanding of the world.

I hope he grows up knowing that his grandfather believes in loving people without conditions. I hope he knows that he never has to pretend to be someone else to earn a place in this family. And I hope that, through the way I live and love, I can help show him that being true to yourself is one of the greatest gifts you can give to the people around you.

When I look at Lauryn, Parker and Ashby, their growing families, and Cedar, I am reminded that my story did not end when I left the Church or when I came out.

It was just beginning.

And what a beautiful life it has turned out to be.

I am so proud of my children. I am grateful for the family we continue to build. And I am humbled by the realization that the very life I once feared I might lose has given me some of my most cherished memories.

If that isn't a reason to keep believing in love, kindness, and the courage to live authentically, I don't know what is.

Finding Mat, and Discovering a Different Kind of Love

Somewhere along this journey, I discovered something I had spent years hoping for: love that didn't require me to explain myself, apologize for myself, or become someone else to deserve it.

I found Mat.

We have been together for 12 years, and I still find myself thinking about how much grace this man has shown me and the life we have built together.

My journey did not come without baggage. There were complicated relationships, painful history, family challenges, and moments when the weight of everything could have been overwhelming. Mat stepped into a life that was already complicated, and he has had to navigate circumstances that he did not create.

He has done so with a level of patience, kindness, and grace that I will never take for granted.

He has loved me through the messy parts. He has stood beside me through the difficult parts. He has loved my children as his own, not because he had to, but because that is who he is.

And that has meant everything to me.

There is something extraordinary about being loved by someone who sees the whole of you and doesn't ask you to hide the pieces that make you who you are. Someone who knows your history, understands your struggles, and still chooses you every day.

That kind of love has changed me.

It has taught me that love doesn't have to come with a list of conditions. It doesn't have to be earned through obedience or maintained through self-denial. It doesn't have to be accompanied by the fear that one wrong choice, one honest confession, or one part of your identity will make you unworthy.

Real love makes room for you to breathe.

It makes room for your mistakes, your growth, your questions, your joy, and your truth.

Mat has helped me understand that I can be loved exactly as I am, even while I continue to grow into the person I want to be.

I will never be able to fully express what that has meant to me. I can only hope that the life we share, the family we have built, and the love we continue to choose tell him what words sometimes cannot.

If I once believed that leaving the life I knew meant losing the possibility of a happy ending, Mat has shown me just how wrong I was.

Sometimes the life you are afraid to lose is the very thing keeping you from the life you were meant to live.

What I Have Learned About God, Love, and Kindness

One of the most interesting parts of leaving the Church has been discovering that I did not have to abandon kindness, compassion, or a desire to be a good person simply because I was questioning the religion that taught me how to define those things.

For a long time, I associated goodness with obedience. I thought being a good person meant following the right rules, believing the right things, and staying within the boundaries someone else had drawn.

Today, I think goodness has far more to do with how we treat people.

Do we show up when someone needs us?

Do we offer compassion when it would be easier to judge?

Do we make room for people whose experiences are different from our own?

Can we love someone without needing to change them first?

Can we recognize the dignity of another human being even when their life doesn't fit neatly into our beliefs?

Those are the questions that matter to me now.

I have encountered kindness outside the Church that I once thought could only be found within it. I have experienced love that did not depend on my worthiness. I have found community in unexpected places and acceptance from people who had no obligation to offer it.

And I have discovered a kind of peace that I spent years searching for.

I don't pretend to have every answer about God. I don't claim to understand what happens after this life or why any of us are here. I have made peace with the fact that some questions may remain unanswered.

What I do know is that I feel more whole when I am honest than I ever did when I was pretending.

I feel closer to the goodness I once hoped to find through religious certainty when I practice compassion without keeping score.

And I feel more connected to the people I love when I allow them to know the real me.

Maybe that is what faith looks like for me now. Maybe it is simply learning to trust that a life built on honesty, kindness, and love is a life worth living.

I don't need everyone to agree with me.

I just need to be able to live in a way that allows me to look in the mirror and recognize the person looking back.

The Pain of Knowing Some People Still See Me Differently

I wish I could say that leaving the Church meant leaving all the hurt behind.

It didn't.

One of the hardest things to accept is that some people may never fully understand my journey. Some may still believe that I made the wrong choice. Some may continue to see my being gay as a trial, a weakness, a temptation, or something that needs to be overcome.

And when those beliefs exist within your own family, the pain can be especially complicated.

You can love people and still be hurt by what they believe about you.

You can respect their right to their faith and still wish that their faith taught them to see you differently.

You can miss the closeness you once had with people while knowing that you cannot return to a version of yourself that required you to live dishonestly.

I have had to learn that loving someone doesn't mean I must accept every belief they hold about me. It doesn't mean I have to continually defend my life, prove my worth, or convince someone that my marriage and my family are deserving of the same respect as anyone else's.

My life is not an argument I need to win.

My marriage is not something I need to justify.

My children are not evidence of a mistake.

And my identity is not a problem waiting for someone else to solve.

I know who I am now in a way I didn't know myself before.

I am a father. I am a husband. I am a friend. I am a man who has made mistakes, learned difficult lessons, and tried to become better along the way.

I am someone who loves deeply, who values family, who believes in kindness, and who wants the people around me to feel safe being themselves.

I am not perfect. I never was.

But I am not broken.

And I no longer believe that I have to spend my life trying to prove otherwise.

I Finally Feel Free

When I look back at the person I was before 2013, I feel tenderness for him.

I don't judge him for staying as long as he did. I don't blame him for being afraid. I don't wonder why he didn't figure everything out sooner.

I know how much he was carrying.

I know how hard he tried to do what he believed was right. I know how desperately he wanted to make the people around him proud. I know how much he wanted to be a good father, a good husband, a good son, and a good person.

He was doing the best he could with what he knew at the time.

And I wish I could sit beside that younger version of myself, put a hand on his shoulder, and tell him that everything he was afraid of would not be the end of his story.

I would tell him that there would be difficult days, and that some relationships would change in ways he could never have imagined. I would tell him that he would grieve, that he would question himself, and that freedom would not arrive all at once.

But I would also tell him that one day he would wake up and realize that he was no longer fighting himself.

That he could love someone openly.

That he could laugh without wondering whether he was living the right kind of life.

That he could look at his children and feel proud of the family they had become.

That he could be loved without conditions.

That he could finally be himself.

And I would tell him that the peace waiting on the other side of fear was worth it.

Because that is what I have found.

Not a perfect life. Not a life without heartbreak. Not a life in which everyone understands or agrees with my choices.

I have found freedom.

I have found authenticity.

I have found a love that feels safe, a family that has grown stronger through the storms, and a deeper appreciation for the simple, beautiful kindness of people who allow others to be who they are.

I have found myself.

And I am no longer willing to apologize for that.

If You Are Reading This and You Are Still Trying to Find Yourself

Maybe you are sitting in a Mormon chapel right now, listening to someone explain why people like me are different.

Maybe you are a parent wondering how your child can be gay and still be the beautiful, good person you know them to be.

Maybe you are a young person who has spent years praying for feelings to disappear.

Maybe you are an adult who has built an entire life around keeping a secret, terrified that telling the truth will cost you everything.

Or maybe you have already left the Church, but you still carry the shame it taught you to feel.

If any of that sounds familiar, I want you to know something.

You are not alone.

You are not a disappointment because your life looks different from the one someone planned for you.

You do not have to hate yourself to prove your faithfulness.

You do not have to spend your life trying to earn a love that should never have been withheld from you in the first place.

And you do not have to have every answer before you take the first step toward living honestly.

I cannot tell you what your journey will look like. I cannot promise that everyone will understand or that every relationship will survive the changes you may need to make.

But I can tell you that there is life on the other side of fear.

There is laughter. There is love. There is family. There is kindness. There are people who will see you, accept you, and celebrate you without asking you to become someone else first.

There is a version of yourself waiting to be known, one you may have spent years pushing aside because you were afraid of what it would mean to let them out.

Give that person a chance.

You deserve to know who you are when you are no longer trying to be who everyone else expects you to be.

And if your journey takes you away from the faith you once called home, it does not mean you have failed. Sometimes walking away is the bravest act of honesty you will ever choose.

My Testimony Today

For years, I thought my testimony was supposed to be a declaration of certainty. I thought it meant standing up and saying that I knew the Church was true, that I knew the answers, and that I was willing to devote my life to those beliefs.

Today, my testimony looks different.

I testify to the power of being honest with yourself.

I testify to the healing that can happen when you stop treating your own existence as something that needs to be corrected.

I testify to the beauty of children who grow through difficult circumstances and become strong, loving, independent adults.

I testify to the grace of a husband who has loved me and my children through complicated chapters of life, and who continues to remind me that love can be gentle, patient, and unconditional.

I testify to the goodness of people who choose compassion over judgment, understanding over condemnation, and love over fear.

I testify that leaving a religion does not mean leaving behind your capacity for goodness.

And I testify that no institution, no leader, and no set of teachings gets to determine whether I am worthy of love.

I spent too many years believing that I had to choose between being honest about who I was and being worthy of happiness.

I know better now.

I can love my family, even when we don't share the same beliefs. I can respect their faith without surrendering my own truth. I can acknowledge the pain of the past without allowing it to define the rest of my life.

And I can be grateful for the journey that brought me here, even when I wish some parts of it had been gentler.

I don't know what the next chapter will bring. But for the first time in my life, I don't feel the need to have it all figured out.

I have my children. I have Mat. I have the family we have built, the memories we continue to make, and the freedom to live honestly.

I have a heart that is no longer at war with itself.

And I have a life that finally feels like mine.

If there is one thing I hope people take away from my story, it is this:

Love should never require you to disappear.

Not for a church. Not for a family. Not for a community. Not for anyone.

The people who truly love you may struggle to understand your journey. They may need time. They may have questions. They may even disagree with your choices.

But you should never have to spend your life believing that the person you are is less deserving of love than the person someone else wants you to become.

I spent years trying to find my place in a world that told me I needed to change.

Today, I am simply grateful that I finally found the courage to stop searching for permission and start living.

And if this is what it means to lose my old testimony, then I am at peace with that loss.

Because somewhere along the way, I found something I never want to lose again.

I found myself. I found my freedom. And I found a love that allows me to be exactly who I am.

For the first time in a very long time, that is more than enough.