The following are words I’ve been sitting on for a few years. For some of my friends and family who are still in the church, please understand that these are my very real thoughts and experiences and I do not intend them in any way as an affront to specific people. Rather, this is a stream of thoughts related to the concepts I’ve observed over the last few years. Any questions or comments of a more personal nature should be directed to me privately.

This time three years ago, my life looked drastically different than it does right now. I spent most of my time in church services preaching, singing and playing music, was heavily involved in ministry activities with my close friends, and considered my home to be largely my church. The people I was involved with told me I would change the world for Jesus, encouraged me into a “call” as a career clergy member, and said there were special things destined for my life. My years since high school had been permeated with messages that the good parts of my identity were due to a higher power who gave them to me for His work.

A few short months later, I would sit down with a mentor and tell her that I was gay. I hadn’t come out to many people yet, but I knew well enough to know it would impact my life’s trajectory in ways I could only begin to comprehend. She told me that the leadership in my area, my denomination, would not ordain a “practicing homosexual” and we walked through scenario after scenario of how my identity and my ministry would be at odds.

I’d have to hide any relationship I would be in (or choose to never date).

My own conference would probably not accept me, I’d have to try and sneak in through a more affirming conference.

For the most part, my identity would be under wraps.

Largely, I knew it was coming. I’d been watching my mentors and pastors cloak their affirmations to avoid backlash, seeing the rhetoric shift in my church to slowly but surely remind the congregation of their “truth” against LGBTQ+ people. Throw that in with some other politics, and my path out of the church seemed to be carved for me.

I kept it relatively quiet — mostly because nobody was outwardly hostile to me at first. There were members of the church (and other friends from my time spent in church) who were supportive and affirming. But suddenly, all of the undertones I’d been ignoring rose very quickly to the top. Throughout the next year, I found that all the words and songs that encouraged me through the last decade or more of my life sounded like they were mocking me, reminding me that this encouragement was no longer mine. The comfort, the inspiration, and the feeling of safety I once received had twisted into a chorus of words repeating “this isn’t yours anymore. You’re no longer welcome here.”

I started remembering the things I’d been hearing and ignoring, and listening more closely to what I’d been clinging to for so long, and realizing that as unconditional as the world around me had been claiming to be, the undertones laid out a contract. Sure, the love and community and comfort was all there — but only the parts of me that had already been approved. Who I was now — who I always was, who I realized I was — didn’t fit into that category.

Recently, those undertones have been spoken so much more clearly. I (for some unearthly reason) tuned in to watch the global church denounce the identities of myself and my LGBTQ+ siblings. While I saw advocacy, I also saw people on a global level dragging the queer community through the dirt. While I saw some of my friends speak out against the decisions made by the church, I also saw so much silence from people I believed were in my corner.

Today, I woke up and saw the confirmation of what I’d been afraid of — a former mentor told me the Dani who loved the God they love is dead, that they didn’t know me anymore due to my coming out as transgender and pursuing a medical transition.

I’ll say this — I’ve learned through the years to be strong in the identity I have, and I’ve preached to enough people over my lifetime about accepting yourself as you are to know better than to believe that the church’s condemnation of some of the most loving, fierce, wonderful people I know is the ultimate truth. But seeing the way the church has come out against the queer community breaks my heart over and over again, no matter how far away from it I push myself.

These people raised me, took care of me when I was struggling, and gave me a home when I needed one. And while some of the people stuck around, the institution they were based in has taken every opportunity to remind me those doors are closed to the person I am.

As funny or cliche as it sounds, drag shows have become my new church services over the last ten months. My art has shifted from trying to lead people to an institutional deity to bringing my very real and raw truth to the stage (you know, on the side of the dancing and showmanship I get to have tons of fun with!).

One of my very first numbers as a drag king has made a comeback recently. I walked onstage in a very carefully rhinestoned play on the garments I would’ve worn had my life not taken a new path three years ago. When the robe came off, I was covered in all the words I’d heard over the years that were used to insult and alienate the queer community. I wrote each one hearing the voices that used it — to me, to my friends, or in pulpits.

And one by one, I ripped every single word away from me.

I’m grateful for the queer community for so many reasons — but one of them has been the opportunity to create a space that takes a stand against every person and institution who would call me unfit or unwelcome, who would call me wrong or misled, and who would close their doors to me and the people around me.  I get to remind myself that those words do not have to weigh on my shoulders, that I am my own person and that my identity is real and valid no matter where my affiliation lies, that I can bring good things to the world without stamping a scripture on it.

Today, I finished a piece of tattoo work that I started during my time in the church. I had decided years ago to get biblical identity statements tattooed on my arm to remind me that no matter how I saw myself, I was loved and worthwhile. Last year, I added a symbol to reflect my identity as a trans person. Today, I put the following statement — “by the grace of god, i am what i am.”

I don’t believe this statement in quite the same way anymore. When you’ve come from an oppressive religious system, being queer is an act of defiance. Today, that’s what these words mean to me — I dare to believe, even in the wake of a system who would call me misdirected and shameful and sinful, that I am what I am and that I am precious, honored, and loved for who I am — not as the girl who hid herself in the church to find worth in a higher power, but as the beautifully queer and transmasculine human who finds my worth in myself and my own journey. I don’t believe anymore that the light and good in me goes away when I don’t subscribe to a belief system that would have me conform to an identity that is not mine. I believe in the light and good and power in me as exactly who I am, in the power that continues to shine as I become more and more sure and confident in my identity.

These words today are a reverent nod to the community that kept me afloat during a time when I desperately needed a home. But they are also a statement of power — I choose to continue to claim them for myself in the face of a system that does not accept me.

I don’t know who I believe god is anymore. But by the grace of whatever higher power exists in this huge and immense universe, I am exactly what I am and I am proud to be that person.

Leaving the church was one of the hardest decisions of my life. And in leaving a belief system that called me an abomination, I found hope in a power and light that came from within myself. And that’s bigger than any of the condemnation I’ll face as I find ways to let more of that light shine.