I never imagined I’d share this part of our lives so publicly. But after years of silence, perhaps it’s time. Time to speak the full truth—not to seek applause, not to spark debate, but to offer a window into the journey of love, faith, and family.
When I found out my son was g-a-y, the earth shifted beneath me. As a Christian mother, I was hit with a storm of emotions—fear, confusion, heartbreak. But above all, a quiet voice kept reminding me: love your child.
(If you enjoyed this post and want to try out the same ingredients and tools I use, feel free to check them out below!
These are affiliate links, which means I earn a small commission at no extra cost to you. Thank you for supporting my work 💛
- 7.5 Quart Cast Iron Dutch Oven: https://amzn.to/4dcUqms
- Lodge Pre-seasoned Cast Iron Skillet: https://amzn.to/3TyyMSA
- Bamboo Seasonings Box with Mini Spoon: https://amzn.to/4dfHzA6)
The truth is, my husband Nate and I had seen the signs long before Darius had the words to explain them. There’s something intuitive in a mother’s heart—you just know. But we never forced the conversation. We waited. We honored his right to discover himself in his own time.
One day, everything changed. I opened the iPad and saw a photo of Darius in one of my wigs, ruby red lipstick, and striking a fierce pose. That wig? We jokingly called it “broke-down Rihanna”—it had the exact shaved sides and swoop bangs from her Loud Tour era. I laughed, but I also knew—it was time to talk.
That afternoon, after theater practice, I picked him up. The silence in the car felt heavy. When we got home, we sat in the kitchen and I asked gently, “Are you g-a-y?” He broke into tears and nodded. Nate wrapped him in a hug and said, “It’s okay. We love you. Just as you are.” We held each other, and for a moment, the house was full of both tears and grace.
Even after that moment, I struggled. I went to the basement and prayed like I never had before. I asked God to help me love Darius without judgment, without shame. I didn’t want to carry love laced with fear—I wanted the real thing. Pure. Honest.
Darius once tried to soften it for us by saying he was “80-20.” Later, when he felt safer, he said, “Actually, it’s 100.” That honesty? It took more courage than I can imagine.
One memory still pierces me. At 14, Darius came to a men’s prayer service at church. The pastor looked at Nate and said, “You need to spend more time with your son. He’s around his mother too much.” Darius was just a child. He didn’t understand the undertone of what was being said. I didn’t fully get it either—until the next Sunday, when that same pastor preached that g-a-y people would go to h-e-l-l. My baby sat in the back pew, silent, shattered. Later he asked me, “Am I a d-e-m-o-n?” He was thirteen.
Yes, our faith teaches that h-o-m-o-s-e-x-u-a-l-i-t-y is a s-i-n. But it also teaches that God is love. That we are not the judge. That each soul walks their own path. And if I am to follow Christ, then love—radical, unrelenting love—must be at the center of it all. So we chose love. Every single time.
It stings when people assume Darius turned out g-a-y because Nate was absent. Nate was never absent. He was present, attentive, hands-on. He coached. He cooked. He had deep one-on-one moments with both our sons. That narrative of “missing fathers” is a lazy, harmful myth.
What breaks me is how many children have been thrown away by their families. During the A-I-D-S epidemic, I heard stories—kids as young as 12 abandoned and dying alone in hospitals. Nurses refusing to enter their rooms. Saying, “I wish you'd just d-i-e so we can free up this bed.” These were babies. What kind of world does that to its own?
I still can’t fathom how church leaders—fathers—could cast their own children aside. That will never be us. Darius is welcome in our home. He is welcome in our church. He can walk in with a purse, or in full glitter—whatever makes him feel whole. Because that’s our job as parents: to love, not to edit who our children are.
People say, “You didn’t know?” Oh, we knew. But we also knew it wasn’t our story to tell. It was his. And we honored that.
This journey has changed me. Darius has changed me. At 45, I’m still learning—about faith, identity, and the power of empathy. My son has taught me to love more deeply, listen more carefully, and release my need to control what I don’t understand.
I’m not proud of Darius because he’s g-a-y. I’m proud of him because he’s good. Because he speaks truth to power. Because he shows up for people who are hurting. Because he’s kind, courageous, and compassionate.
And to any parent reading this—especially Christian ones—hear me when I say this: Don’t let doctrine make you a stranger to your own child. Believe what you believe, but love louder. Love unconditionally. Love like Christ did—no disclaimers, no “only ifs.”
And to anyone struggling to come out, I see your bravery. It takes more strength than most people will ever know. Keep holding your truth. You are worthy of love—exactly as you are.
