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I’m embarrassed. I shouldn’t want to go. It’s humiliating to be a queer person who wants to be Mormon. To love something so deeply, and to know that it will never love me back. Despite everything, the church feels like home. I’m desperate for it, even though it’s obvious that the church doesn’t want me.

Because he’d be there, in his purple tie. He always gives the best hugs. I could use a good hug today. He came with me when I had to step out of sacrament meeting, when it was too much for me. He sat with me in the foyer, stayed with me while I cried.

She’d be there, in her black boots. I think she’s giving a talk today. I miss the smile she’d give from the pulpit, like the next thing she said would be specifically for me. I bet her talk is about the Christ she believes in, the one who loves everyone so fiercely. When she talks about Him, I believe in Him too.

She’d be there, in her flowy, handmade dress. She’d save me a seat so I didn’t have to sit alone. She would catch my eye and we’d try to hold in laughter when a speaker said something stupid. Or we’d share an annoyed look when a speaker said something bigoted.

But he’d be there, buttoned up in his suit and tie. I imagine he’d tell me that he missed seeing me at church. But I can only think about the interview when I came out to him. He offered to set me up with LDS family services, so that I could get therapy to fix it. He’d probably say he didn’t mean it that way if I asked him.

And she’d be there, in a dress from her mission or something like that. I’ll admit I’ve never actually met her before. But she’s texted me a lot. She invited me to the temple, because I was on a list of “endowed sisters.” I told her that I’m not allowed to have a temple recommend as a trans person. She kept texting me, inviting me to a myriad of other relief society activities. I asked her to stop texting me.

And they won’t be there. I wish I could describe them. But they stopped going long before I did. I wish so badly I could make the church a safe place for them, even more than I wish I could make it safe for me. I don’t know if they ache to be there the way I do. Probably not. I’d feel their absence anyway.

But most of all, that will be there. That oppressive weight of knowing I’m not wanted. I’ve felt it my whole life, and it has become unbearable. No matter what, the church does not want me. No matter if my friends hug me, or smile at me, or laugh with me, or save me a seat. No matter who loves me. And I love them too. I love them with my entire heart. But I can’t keep engaging with an organization that hurts me like this. I don’t want to be where I’m not wanted.

I could’ve gone to more than one QSA event. I went to one, when my non-binary friend invited me. Probably because they clocked me. I really was such an obvious egg. I would braid my hair up and tuck it into a beanie every day. I wanted to cut it so bad. But I was going to go on a mission, and when have you seen a sister missionary with short hair? I have very few pictures of my beanie era. Probably because some part of me knew to feel embarrassed about wanting it. About wanting to be different than I was. But I went to one singular QSA event. I don’t remember what the actual activity was. I spent the whole time sitting on the scratchy carpet, verging on an anxiety attack. Somehow, I won a giant inflatable turtle, a pool toy which was clearly chosen because of the rainbow logo on the side of the box. I was terrified of my parents seeing it, and somehow guessing that I got it at a queer event. But I kept it for as long as I could. I never did blow it up, though.

I could’ve actually answered my RA’s questions. I get the feeling my RA clocked me too. Them being another closeted enby, albeit one who was out as gay. I remember sitting in the alcove outside my room between the wall and the vending machine, studying or goofing off. My RA walked by and asked me pointedly if my ring meant anything. I wore my ace ring nearly every day in college. Because I knew I was asexual, and I was desperately grasping for some connection to my queerness, some symbol that I knew who I was, at least a little bit. But back then queerness was still too dangerous to admit. So, with the vending machine suddenly humming much louder in my ears, I told them it didn’t have a meaning. Even though I’m sure they could see me. They could see that it was an ace ring. And they could see my beanie, my sports bras, my baggy shirts. Another time they told me that they kept seeing a transphobic ad from the LDS church on YouTube. And I tried to reassure them that it wasn’t targeted, because I was getting the ad too. And while I don’t remember, I can only imagine that they looked at me like I was stupid, looked at me like “obviously you’re trans too.” But I was oblivious.

I could’ve been friends with the first person I came out to. Because I did, at the very end, get to be non-binary just a little bit. I started going by a different name towards the end of college. This was after my mission, after I cut my hair. But I had decided that I was gender non-conforming. Absolutely no transness here. I had a class with someone I knew from before my mission. And one day in class after the professor announced my name for some reason or another, they scooted their chair over to me, and asked in whispers what my new name was. I told them. Then they asked what my pronouns were. And my heart stopped. I panicked. But they were enby. They were safe. And so I told them. “They/Them, but don’t spread it around.” And that is the moment that I knew I was non-binary. It was terrifying and exhilarating. The memory still makes my heart race. But they just nodded and reached for the pin on their jacket. They were wearing a pronoun pin, black bold words on a white background, that said THEY/THEM/THEIRS. They unhooked that pin and handed it to me, and told me to wear it when I was ready. I quickly stuck it in my pocket and took it home, where I hid it inside my pillow. Luckily, I didn’t lose it by storing it so poorly, and it’s still one of my most treasured possessions. But I only spoke to them in passing after that. I was still too scared of my own queerness. I still think about them often. I still find myself, at random times, hoping that they’re ok.

I could’ve gone through the ups and downs of my college experience as myself instead of as some approximation, too scared to see myself, and too scared to let others see me. College was never easy for me, and being myself would not have made it easier. But it would have made it better.

I could’ve had a community. There are so many enbies in my story. But I was so terrified of knowing myself that I couldn’t bring myself to know them. I could’ve known them. I could’ve loved them. I love them now. They were my guides on a journey I didn’t know I was on. But I will only ever know them as I did then. And that is a tragedy.

I could’ve done a lot of things. I mourn those things. I imagine my college self, out, and in community, and loved for who they are. I imagine the complications it would have caused, to be an out non-binary Mormon young adult living in Utah, and I mourn those too. I mourn who I could’ve been. There isn’t a remedy for this. I will always mourn that potential, those possibilities, those struggles, the love that could’ve been.