I’ve loved Jesus for as long as I can remember. That love has been the still point in my life — through doubt, through joy, through silence. For years, singing was how I prayed. Leading worship wasn’t a role; it was how I stayed close to God.

When I came out, I thought honesty would be met with grace. I was dating someone — Megan — and I told my vicar when he asked. A few days later, I was removed from the rota. No conversation. No pastoral care. Just an email saying I would no longer be leading.

I’d written songs for that church. Mentored teenagers. Turned up every Sunday at 7am to set up. And suddenly, I was gone. The silence from friends was even worse. People who had once prayed with me stopped speaking altogether.

The grief was layered. I didn’t just lose a role. I lost a future I thought we were building together. And yet, I haven’t stopped worshipping. I haven’t stopped believing Jesus sees me and sings over me, even when others won’t let me sing in front of them. Sometimes I lead worship in my kitchen, tears and all. God still meets me there.

I haven’t given up on the church. I want it to be what it promised to be — a place where the Spirit moves freely, where the broken are loved, and where truth is welcomed, not punished. I want young LGBTQI+ Christians to grow up without fear that love will disqualify them from service.

If lament is an act of hope, then this is mine: I’m still singing.