“The only sin you can commit worse than murder is same-sex attraction.”
I was 14 years old, sitting in my Church of Jesus of Latter-Day Saints (commonly called Mormon) Sunday school class when I first heard those words. I remember every detail of that hour: the blue tie my teacher wore, the harshness in his voice, the way the sunlight hit the wooden pew where I sat. I can still see it all as if it happened yesterday.
“Do they know about me?” I remember thinking, my stomach twisting. “What will happen if they find out?”
This was the early 2000s. Reparative therapy, or conversion therapy, was common. The Church didn’t speak of people as “gay” or “lesbian”—instead, you “suffered from same-sex attraction” because it was considered a “lifestyle” and a “choice.”
I had realized I was gay just a few months before that class. Life suddenly felt heavy, oppressive. At first, I prayed every day that my feelings would disappear. I buried myself in religion, trying desperately to be “normal.” When that didn’t work, some mornings I wished I wouldn’t wake up at all. Fear was constant. I knew that if I wanted to survive—and one day be happy—I had to leave Utah. College became my lifeline, my ticket to freedom. I focused on school with a single-minded intensity and, eventually, I was accepted to Boston University. There, I found my people. I found friends who would become family. I blossomed in ways I hadn’t imagined possible.
I came out to the world when I arrived at BU, though not to my family. I wrestled with the tension of knowing they loved me, yet realizing their belief system could never fully accept who I was. It was a quiet pain, one I carried alone.
After graduation, I returned to Utah in 2007. I had escaped once, but now I was back in the place that had been a source of so much fear and shame. I lived in my mom’s basement, without many friends, feeling like I had failed somehow.
Then, in 2009, he came along. Brian entered my life as the friend I had desperately needed. By late 2010, we couldn’t pinpoint the moment, but our friendship had shifted—we had become partners. I knew, in that quiet, undeniable way, that he was the person I wanted to spend my life with. It wasn’t a fairy tale; I hadn’t imagined marriage or children for myself. Those were things I thought impossible. Yet, happiness began to seep in, even as the shadow of religious guilt lingered.
The world changed around me, slowly but surely, and I began to allow myself to live more fully in my truth. Less than a year later, Brian was attending family functions and vacations with me. Six years into our relationship, he proposed—on the Tower of Terror at Disney World, no less (but that’s a story for another time). We had never spoken of marriage before, and yet it happened. This was not supposed to happen for me. But we married a year later.
After our wedding, the inevitable questions about children began. Our answer was always cautious: “If we can afford it.” We discussed adoption extensively, particularly through foster care, but for us, the timing didn’t feel right—though we knew it was a beautiful option for many families.
Then came the unexpected. On December 21, 2017, we received a text from a close friend: “This is huge. Are you still thinking about adoption? I know a young woman who is pregnant, and her ideal home for the baby is with a gay couple. Would you like to meet her?” Our jaws dropped. It felt almost unreal. But of course, we were interested.
A week later, we met the prospective birth mother, whom we’ll call K. It felt like a first date. We shared our stories, our family backgrounds, how Brian and I met, and why we wanted to start a family. She listened quietly but attentively. Three hours later, we left, hearts full but grounded, expecting nothing.
Then, on Super Bowl Sunday, my phone rang. It was K. “I’ve met with several families, and I’d like to place my baby with you and Brian.” She told us she was having a girl. Tears filled my eyes. Gratitude washed over me. She was entrusting us with her child—her life—and I felt the enormity of that decision.
At five months along, K allowed us into her world in a way few adoptive parents experience. We attended her doctor’s appointments, listened to the baby’s heartbeat, and fell in love instantly.
K went into labor on June 4—our second wedding anniversary. Brian and I were among the first to see her. Before naming her, Brian whispered, “That’s her. That’s Sydney.” And just like that, our hearts grew in ways we hadn’t imagined.
The following days were transformative. Utah law requires a 24-hour waiting period for a birth mother to relinquish parental rights. We spent those hours together in the hospital room, talking, laughing, and marveling at our daughter.
As two men raising a child in a conservative state, we had prepared for judgment or hostility. But instead, we were embraced. Nurses praised our commitment, shared their own adoption stories, and welcomed us. It was an early testament to the love and support Sydney would have throughout her life.
Sydney’s adoption was finalized on December 20, 2018—our forever “Family Day.” We knew we had love to give, but we had no idea how much she would expand our hearts. She is the greatest blessing of our lives.
“The only sin you can commit worse than murder is same-sex attraction.”
Those words have faded, though they lingered far too long in my mind. Love truly conquers all. Fifteen years ago, I might have taken a “straight pill” to please a religion or appease people I feared would judge me. Today, I wouldn’t trade a single moment of the life I’ve built.
I am grateful—for a society that continues to evolve, for a husband who is my partner, confidante, and best friend, and for a daughter who gave me my most important role: Dad. Those years of darkness shaped me, taught me empathy, taught me self-love, and ultimately, gave me a life I could have only dreamed of.
