I’ve always believed in Jesus. As a vicar’s son, faith was part of my language. I knew how to lead prayers, recite verses, and smile through the ache. My belief was genuine, but it lived in the shadow of fear — of disappointing my father, of being rejected by God for being gay.

When I came out at 24, it wasn’t about claiming an identity. It was about finally telling the truth. My father went quiet, then said, “This could ruin my ministry.” I left that day and didn’t go back for nearly a year.

What followed wasn’t a loss of faith but a deep unraveling. I couldn’t reconcile the love I felt from Jesus with the rejection I felt from His followers. People I’d known for years grew distant. There were no harsh words, just silence. That silence said everything.

Over time, I found new spaces — small communities where faith and queerness weren’t in conflict. There, I met others who knew what it meant to carry both love and pain. And I started to believe again — not in a church that excluded, but in a Christ who embraced.

I still miss my old church. I don’t hate it. I want it to change. I want a future where no one has to choose between truth and belonging. Where clergy kids can come out and be met with celebration, not concern for reputation. Where being LGBTQI+ isn’t seen as a problem to solve but a story to honour.

I walk with Jesus still. Quietly, sometimes defiantly, always with hope.