What I Wish My 19-Year-Old Self Knew About Leaving Religion

Last night I went to see Sarah McLachlan at the Rady Shell in San Diego.

In case you were wondering, yes, it was peak Gen X vibes.

It was my first time seeing a show at the Rady Shell, and I highly recommend going if you get the chance.

Like many 40-somethings, I grew up listening to Sarah McLachlan's music. Her albums Fumbling Toward Ecstasy, Surfacing, and Mirrorball were all soundtracks to my adolescence and early adulthood.

I remember playing her albums while working shifts at the snack shop at Wheaton College my senior year. Whenever "Building A Mystery" came on, I had to run to the stereo system in the back and strategically turn the volume all the way down right before she belted out the phrase "beautiful fucked up man" (because, as you can imagine, blaring "explicit" music on campus at a Christian college was frowned upon).

Then, as soon as that lyric passed, I'd turn the volume right back up again to keep the energy up for the rest of my closing shift.

I can proudly say I mastered the art of manually censoring swear words out of secular music using the volume knob with the precision of a surgeon—and the snack shop patrons were none the wiser to my behind-the-scenes efforts to shelter their ears from debauchery.

Almost 30 years earlier…

The first concert I ever went to also involved Sarah McLachlan, almost 30 years ago.

I was home from college for the summer of 1997, and some old high school youth group friends and I got tickets together to go to Lilith Fair. We were excited about the names on the bill—Natalie Merchant, Shawn Colvin, Sarah McLachlan, Indigo Girls, Sheryl Crow—and about experiencing our first music festival. An all-female artist lineup felt especially exciting.

We arrived at the venue and took our seats, full of anticipation.

At some point, I looked around and started to notice that the vast majority of people around us were queer. And I remember beginning to feel uncomfortable.

Back then, I never really considered that I myself might be gay.

Being anything other than heterosexual was not an option in the family and faith community I grew up in. And because it wasn't an option, it wasn't something that entered my conscious awareness.

When I look back on that moment in the audience now, I can recognize that discomfort as internalized homophobia.

But at the time, all I knew was that I felt self-conscious, icky, and afraid.

If any tiny part of me had any awareness of my own queerness in that moment, being in what felt like a sea of gay people sent that part of me right back into the closet.

A lot can happen in 30 years…

Since that time, a lot of life has happened.

During my years at Wheaton, I became even more deeply committed to my faith. I went on to get a Master's Degree in Clinical Counseling because I wanted to be obedient to God's call to minister to others.

I became a worship leader at my church.

I started working as a therapist.

And eventually, I realized and embraced my queer identity while simultaneously realizing that I could not stay in the faith community I was in because of their anti-LGBTQIA+ beliefs.

I left religion and deconstructed.

I came out to friends and family. I lost some relationships, but I also gained new ones along the way.

I married my wife, Kate, during a wedding at the beach on a perfect day surrounded by 80 of our closest people.

I began focusing more on religious trauma and spiritual abuse in my clinical work, and there is a certain poetic justice in realizing that I'm now using this career—the career I originally believed was meant to serve God—to help people heal from spiritual abuse and high-control religion.

I have close friends who love and support me.

I have hobbies.

I've been able to find community and belonging outside the context of church and faith.

I've built a life that, at 19, I couldn't have imagined for myself.

It gets better

Last night, while being ministered to by Sarah McLachlan, I found myself sitting in a row with my wife and four of our closest friends, thinking a lot about my 19-year-old self—the girl who went to Lilith Fair almost three decades ago.

The girl who didn't know herself.

The girl who had no idea where life would take her.

I found myself reflecting on everything that has happened between then and now: the joys, the heartbreaks, the triumphs, the defeats. The years spent believing I knew exactly what my life was supposed to look like, followed by the years of realizing I didn't.

The years of deconstructing.

Of coming out.

Of grieving.

Of rebuilding.

Of figuring out what I actually believe, what I actually value, and who I actually am.

And sitting there, surrounded by people I love, listening to music that had been part of my life since I was 19, I found myself wanting to tell that younger version of me something.

It will get better.

It gets better.

You will find yourself.

You will find your people.

You will build a life that feels like your own.

It's going to be okay for you to be you.

Looking for support?

If you're navigating religious trauma, spiritual abuse, purity culture, faith deconstruction, or the impact of growing up LGBTQ+ in a high-control religious environment, therapy can help!

I specialize in working with survivors of religious trauma and provide telehealth therapy for adults in California, Florida, Idaho, and Missouri.

You can request a free phone consultation below to see if we would be a good fit to work together.