Something I've Known for Quite a While

I knew when I was six.

I knew when I was six.

I knew when I was six that the way I felt about Carrie Fisher wasn’t quite “normal.” And it wasn’t something I should let others know about. In other words, I knew I was different. And I knew that wasn’t okay.

There’s a scene in Return of the Jedi, on a bridge in the Ewok village. Luke and Leia have an intense (or as intense as George Lucas’s limited dialogue talents will allow for) conversation about The Force, the current situation, and (shocker) that they are siblings! Leia is noticeably upset as Han approaches her on the bridge and asks her what’s going on. At some point she asks him, “hold me” and leans in as he embraces her. It’s as cringy as cringy can get.

But when I was a kid, I’d watch that scene over and over and over, imagining myself as Han Solo. I didn’t have words for it then, or even conscious thoughts, but I knew that the one I was supposed to want to be was Leia.

The mind can convince the body it’s something it’s not

As I grew up, I found myself attracted to women or female peers here and there. “Girl crushes” as we called them. I had a couple “boyfriends” occasionally…always initiated by the boy, not by me. I grew up in the Southern Baptist church. I was a “double PK (Preacher’s Kid),” as both of my parents were on staff in the Southern Baptist Convention.

A key experience of growing up in 90s evangelical youth culture was “True Love Waits.” The goal of the campaign was to convince teenagers to sign pledges of abstinence until marriage. Purity was glorified as the ultimate goal. The ultimate sign of maturity. The ultimate characteristic of a “desirable” future spouse.

“Flee sexual immorality! Every other sin a person commits is outside the body, but the person who is sexually immoral sins against his own body.”

I had this verse on lock. Committed to memory in heart, mind, and body. We pledged our commitments to purity (as defined by a committee of old white men), wore rings that looked like wedding bands (because we were married to Jesus until we were married to our earthly spouses), and did our best not to think about sex (during the phase of life when hormones are, ahem, doing their thing).

As part of this oddly obsessive focus on purity, there was this event that many youth groups did called “How Far is Too Far?” In the context of purity culture, I’m sure you can guess exactly what this was. But if you’ve never gotten to experience the specific horror that is a “how far is too far” youth group session, let me explain.

They separate the guys from the girls. The girls’ session was led by someone’s mom, the guys’ session by someone’s dad.

The gathered teenagers were asked to name every sex-related act they can think of. Literally anything goes. For the naïve preacher’s kids like me, this was my chance to learn a thing or two! For the kids who live for the attention of shock value (also me), this was a chance to throw out the most ridiculously taboo thing they could think of. Horribly, for the girls who had already done some of these things, it was an evening filled with shame.

Our leaders would then list all these actions in order of how close they were to “actual sex.” The goal being (I think?) to give us a line to draw so we could maintain our precious purity. Naturally, I hadn’t done any of the things on the list, so I’d find these sessions wildly entertaining and hilariously taboo, then I’d walk away patting myself on the back.

Because I had zero desire to have sex with a boy, I figured I was doing something right! Purity? Check. Sexual immorality? Not even a blip on my radar. Copious amounts of “girl crushes”? Look away! Pretend those don’t exist.

Safety is a catch 22 when the danger exists inside yourself.

I took all these inklings, quiet internal whispers, undeniable crushes, and shoved them deep into a nearly inaccessible part of my psyche. What I was keeping at bay was this lurking, chilling notion that if anyone were to find out how different I am, the bottom would drop out. The ground would crumble underneath me. My acceptance into the only culture and community I’d ever known hinged on:

• fitting in

• “guarding my heart”

• Purity

• Attraction to boys.

  • Which leads to marriage to a man.

  • Which leads to children to “raise in the faith.”

To be fully known was—I was sure—to be fully, entirely, wholly rejected.

A Lifeline

When I got to college, I met Mike and we started dating. We dated off and on for a couple years, with me breaking it off because of lingering doubts. Having no idea what was “supposed” to be happening in my heart or in my body, I couldn’t quite put my finger on what was missing. But our friendship (and friend group) was so close, so tight-knit, that we kept some semblance of a relationship going. As the thoughts in my head got louder and impossible to ignore, it became almost necessary to tell someone.

So I told Mike that I was attracted to women. That I couldn’t ever remember a time when I didn’t have a crush on a girl.

And he told me he felt the same way about guys.

In that moment I felt an almost physical “whoosh” of weight being lifted off. I wasn’t alone! It wasn’t just me. I’m not the only one. And what a gift that my best friend shares my same “struggles!”

Convinced that we were meant to be together, and knowing I couldn’t imagine a life without him, we got married. We built a life together. Built a community of wonderful friends. Had two amazing, beautiful kids. From the outside, it all looked perfect. And in some ways, it was. But in some key ways, it very much wasn’t. We were contorting ourselves into something we weren’t. To belong. To fit in. To remain in the community we’d built our lives around.

Neither one of us lived the life we were supposed to live. We never got to be the people we were supposed to be.

And yet.

It’s never too late for authenticity. It’s never too late to become who you’re supposed to be.

What’s next?

That’s a story for another day and another post. But we want to tell this story to honor those brave souls who have gone before us, and to leave a light on for those who will come behind us. If you see your story reflected back to you in ours, know that you’re not alone. You have what it takes—when the time is right—to live your authentic story.