Every day as a child, I woke up to my mother singing hymns as she cleaned the house. I would get out of bed and walk to the living room, awaiting her blessings. Throughout the day, I played with my toys while a large portrait of Jesus watched over me. When my mother called for dinner, my father handed me a prayer to recite before eating. Later each night, she would tuck me into bed and pray with me. “Ángel de mi guardia,” she always whispered — “my guardian angel.” While years have passed, absent the tucking-in and the toys, this routine remains intact even now.
Growing up with Hispanic Catholic parents, religion was a meaningful component of my upbringing, and, from a young age, many conservative and controversial doctrines were ingrained in my mind as truth. This was especially the case regarding homosexuality: Like most traditional Catholics, I was raised believing that any form of same-sex attraction was sinful and unacceptable. One can only imagine the trauma that I felt upon experiencing that attraction myself.
I discovered my attraction to boys at eight years old; I remember finding several male celebrities good-looking, googling them when my parents wouldn’t notice. I reassured myself that I was just “exploring,” but this continued “exploration” led to more stress. Soon, taking “Am I gay?” tests became a weekly habit. Picturing myself with a boyfriend grew appealing. By the age of nine, I caved and admitted to myself that I was gay.
Among the first thoughts that entered my mind upon coming to this realization were the consequences. Did I have to pick between my faith and my sexuality? Would I go to hell for something I simply could not control? This thought left me shaking. Immediately, I got on my knees asking God to forgive me for feeling attracted to men.
Desperate to find a loophole, and considering it irrational that I’d be eternally damned for being born this way, I supplemented my prayers with research about the Catholic perspective on same-sex attraction. After reading through messages from Catholic bishops and the Vatican, I was relieved to conclude that feeling attracted to guys did not necessarily mean I was a sinner. My new judgment became that only those who committed homosexual acts with another would be punished.
As my adolescence continued, though, relationships became more complicated, and, undoubtedly, confusion emerged. In middle school, I started finding girls in my grade cute. By this time, I had already accepted myself as gay, so my increased attraction to girls confounded me even more. Didn’t I like boys? And if so, what were these new feelings? Needing confirmation, I sought my first gay encounter with someone my age: I kissed a boy — and I liked it. But my satisfaction was far from permanent. Later that day, it hit me: Even by my new definition, I had officially “sinned.”
I grew more and more anxious every day, convinced I had violated Biblical principles and was going to hell. I spent each night on my knees, my internalized homophobia pushing me to continue trying to pray the gay away.
In ninth grade emerged the greatest relief I had felt in a while: I developed a crush on a girl, one that lasted all year. As I talked to her more, she became the first person for whom I had ever had serious feelings, and I realized that “gay” didn’t accurately describe my orientation. Instead, I was this cool thing called “bisexual.”
Given my newfound identity, I once again redefined my interpretation of sin: I would only be a sinner if I married a guy. Since I was also attracted to girls, I thought this could be easily avoided.
My false sense of security turned out to be temporary. The summer after my freshman year in high school, I developed my first serious crush on a boy, and the strength of my feelings for him motivated me to come out to my closest friends and much of my community. After four months, I had come out to everyone except my family.
Then came the worst day in my life: November 11, 2018. I had just gotten a new phone the day before. My parents took the opportunity to snoop through my old phone, and they came across conversations in which I discussed my bisexuality. When they confronted me that night, I lashed out at them, telling them I had a preference for guys.
In the many arguments that followed, naturally, religion came up. Insisting that I had gotten very “confused,” my parents tried explaining that God had made men and women for each other, while queer attraction was a choice. Believing I was surrounded by negative influences, my mother also demanded, more than ever, that I pray every night. My parents blamed my school, too. Claiming the environment was sinful and toxic, they were willing to use their savings to send me to a private Catholic academy.
My parents’ quest to expel me of my queerness did not end there. Firm believers in conversion therapy, they sought a program that would lead me on the “correct path” in their eyes. Ironically, they sent me to a sex therapist, who encouraged me in my identity and listened intently as I described my experiences with bisexuality and my parents. In our last session later that year, she claimed my parents needed the help more than I did, offering to join me whenever I felt comfortable enough to open up to them about what I knew to be true of myself.
To this day, my parents are unaware of my therapist’s support and remain convinced that my bisexuality was just a phase, but I have hope that that might change. After all, a central tenet of Christianity both my parents and I cherish is unconditional love.
Despite my parents’ rejection of my queer identity and their efforts to change it, I’m not convinced that my faith and my sexuality are mutually exclusive. Practicing Christianity, without the rigidity of Catholicism, brings me comfort. Believing that there is always someone listening to me who loves me unconditionally has gotten me through very tough times in school, during the pandemic, and even during struggles with my parents regarding my sexuality. After years of pain at its hands, I knew Catholicism wasn’t for me, but I wasn’t ready to let go of my spiritual journey just yet.
With time, I learned that it is possible for my identities as a Christian and as a member of the LGBTQ+ community to coexist. For years, I thought being Catholic was the only correct lifestyle. Only after reflecting on my journey as a bisexual demiboy, though, did I realize that everyone’s interpretation of religion is different and that my personal practice of Christianity as a queer person is valid and worthy. I hope that other Christians will one day come to the same conclusion; even Catholic Pope Francis is becoming more welcoming of the LGBTQ+ community.
Many have asked me why I still identify as Christian knowing that traditional Catholics and evangelicals view the LGBTQ+ community negatively. I respond that God made and loves me the way I am. If I am still bisexual even after years of praying, it is because He intended for me to be this way. My own spiritual connection with Him does not rely on what the Catholic Church or anyone else thinks. Even though I only know some Bible verses, and even though I like men, I am still faithful and religious on my own terms. Ultimately, while my story as a bisexual Christian is far from over, I know one thing for sure: I may cuff my jeans and blast “Sweater Weather,” yet I still pray every day.
