For Queer girls, who have considered suicide, when the church wasn’t enuf

Writer’s Note:

July is Minority Mental Health Awareness Month. My grief over losing my Nana still feels as fresh as it did 2 years ago. She was my foundation, my teacher, and the only person who showed me truly unconditional love. I’m honoring her by finally telling my story in full, by using my voice instead of burying it.

For the past 9 years, I have been on a long journey of healing that eventually led me back to myself. This essay is one of the most vulnerable pieces I’ve written. I wrote it in the spirit of Ntozake Shange, whose words carried me through my own coming-of-age.

My hope is that in reading it, you feel less alone and know that your story is worth honoring. If you or someone you love is struggling, please see the resources at the end of this piece.

With love, Chanel

Trigger Warning

This essay contains discussion of suicide, suicide attempts, and religious trauma. Please take care of yourself as you read.

Without further ado, a reflective essay:

For queer girls who tried to pray the gay away.

For queer girls who sang gospel songs and hymns to drown out their fear of rejection.

For queer girls who sat in pews, shrinking smaller and smaller, waiting for a sermon that never came.

For queer girls who maintained their faith, despite the silence, neglect, and condemnation of their church community.

The church used to be my sanctuary. Every Sunday and Wednesday, I walked through the glass doors of the Church of God in Christ institution I attended. The warmth of the building and the people inside brought me a comfort I didn’t even know I needed.

The summer before high school, that shifted.

Summer 2003, I spent every chance I could with a new friend — a girl I secretly had a crush on. I didn’t know it then, but that summer would change my entire life.

For the next 16 years, I did everything I could to bury that part of myself. I became a people-pleaser, especially with my mother. I thought if I went to the right college, dated a “nice guy,” and pursued the degree she wanted, then surely my life would go smoothly enough that I wouldn’t have to worry about my bisexuality affecting my life.

“Since I’m attracted to men too, I’ll only entertain men. Then no one even has to know I’m Bi,” I would tell myself.

But the conflict between my “secret” identity and my faith began to eat me alive. The silence, the fear of rejection, the shame — it showed up in my body. I didn’t know what else to do but turn to the church. I needed the sanctuary, the altar, Jesus Himself. So, one Sunday, I went to a service.

To my surprise, the senior pastor was no longer leading the congregation. After asking around, I learned the board had forced him to step down because he divorced his wife. What made it worse was that he had once shared with the church that his wife was abusive toward him.

“If they could cast out a pastor for protecting his own life, what would they do to me if I walked in with a girlfriend?” I wondered anxiously.

That was the last church service I would attend for the next three years. During that time, my mother and I stopped speaking. My partner cheated on me. And depression grabbed me by the collar. My world became one of isolation, shame, and exhaustion.

One night, I looked up and realized I was driving through a red light at a busy intersection. Somehow, no cars came close to hitting me. I kept driving toward my mother’s house, desperate for an apology, for some sign we could talk again. But when I pulled up, I couldn’t even get out of the car.

“I know what I want to happen. But let’s be real — what’s more likely to occur?” I questioned.

I already knew the answer. So I put the car in drive and left. As I drove, the thoughts got darker. Thoughts of not wanting to be alive anymore. But I was a mother of two. I knew that was a problem. So instead of going home, I drove myself to the local mental health facility.

After that suicide attempt in 2017, I entered a six-week intensive outpatient program. I sat in group therapy every day, telling the truth for the first time in years. I followed it with 52 straight weeks of talk therapy and six months of psychiatric counseling. My doctor prescribed me medication that helped steady my nervous system.

The medicine wasn’t magic, but it gave me a fighting chance. After six months, I weaned off and began to build new practices: meditation, journaling, leaning back into music — not just listening, but talking about it in community. Over time, I realized how beautiful it could be to experience spiritual connection outside of church walls. Because “the church” is not a building. It is a body. A living, breathing spirit. And when the building no longer comforted me, I learned to become my own sanctuary.

On February 22, 2022, I came out as bisexual.

Queer community became my family. In their laughter and resilience, I found the warmth my heart had been longing for. “The church” was no longer enough — and I was okay with that, because on this journey, I grew closer to God than I had ever been inside those walls.

This journey has been enlightening, painful, and beautiful. I tried to end my life at 27 years old — but this year, I will be 37. I am still here. Still healing. Still becoming more myself.

Every day I woke up and chose to fight — that was a prayer all on its own. Coming out and walking through life as my authentic self saved me. Choosing to stay alive was my ultimate act of worship to God.

For queer girls, who have considered suicide, when the church wasn’t enough:

You are not broken.

You are worthy.

Your faith is alive.

You are still here.

And that alone is sacred.

I am in this with you.

I am you.

I love you.

RESOURCES

If you or someone you love is struggling:

• In the U.S., dial or text 988 for the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline

• For LGBTQ+ youth, reach out to The Trevor Project: 1-866-488-7386 or text START to 678-678

• If outside the U.S., please look up the hotlines available in your country — someone is ready to listen.