I’ve been there—sitting quietly in pews, singing/leading worship, reading the bible, leading bible studies and playing the part. For many LGBTQIA+ individuals within religious communities, masking becomes a daily ritual, an instinctive armour we wear to protect ourselves. But underneath, there’s the growing tension between who we are and who we’re expected to be. The stakes are often high: community, family, belonging, faith. What may start as subtle alterations in expression soon becomes a full-fledged mask—one that often leaves scars we only start to understand once the mask is removed. The weight of that mask? Pure exhaustion.
In this blog, I want to dive deep into the experience, the psychological impact, and, yes, the possibility of healing from the trauma and internalised queerphobia that often follow. If this resonates, know that you’re not alone in this experience and that there’s light and even a bit of humour to be found as we move toward healing.
The Cost of the Closet: Why Masking Feels Necessary
Masking, for many of us, wasn’t a conscious choice. It was survival. Growing up in/or being exposed to a religious space meant absorbing messages about who we’re “allowed” to love and how we’re “supposed” to act. Heteronormativity and rigid gender roles are often stitched into the fabric of these environments, leaving little space for variance. For a young queer person, it doesn’t take long to realise that being your true self might mean exile—from your church, your friends, and sometimes, even your family.
So, we adapt. We become masters of language, avoiding “gendered” pronouns when talking about crushes or using gender-neutral language whenever we can. We laugh at the right jokes, don’t flinch at the wrong ones, and edit our stories to fit the narratives we know won’t make waves. The mask becomes a strange combination of comfort and confinement.
The Exhaustion and Physical Toll of Chronic Masking
Masking is often imagined as a mental or emotional process, but its impact on the body can be just as profound. When you spend years adapting, concealing, and constantly monitoring yourself, that internalised tension doesn’t just float away—it settles in. Many of us who mask in religious communities come to realise, often later, that the weight of hiding our true selves is felt in our bodies as well as our minds.
Chronic masking is a cycle of stress, and stress takes a toll. Over time, the “flight-or-fight” hormones that flood your system during moments of high alert. Moments we’ve all had when we felt exposed or at risk—become a near-constant presence. These stress hormones weren’t meant to linger, and when they do, they can lead to exhaustion, weakened immunity, digestive issues, and even chronic conditions. For me, and I imagine for many others, this wasn’t something I noticed until I was well into a journey of deconstruction and healing. The headaches, the muscle tension, the relentless fatigue—they were all signals I’d become so accustomed to that they just felt like a part of life.
And then there’s the exhaustion of simply holding back—holding back affection, opinions, or expressions that could portray something “different.” This kind of emotional restraint is a 24/7 job, and it can turn even routine social interactions into monumental drains on your energy. There’s the fear of being found out, the constant self-censorship, and the mental gymnastics of keeping all parts of your life compartmentalised. It’s no wonder so many of us struggle with burnout, even when we’re still young.
The Impact: Religious Trauma and Internalised Queerphobia
Masking for any extended period, especially in a space that claims to be about love and acceptance, is traumatic. Religious trauma often takes root in the contradictions we face, and for queer people, those contradictions can be unrelenting. The teachings say “love one another,” but with caveats. “God loves you” can feel empty when paired with messages about “fixing” or “redeeming” what is seen as our “sinful” nature.
Over time, these messages morph from external beliefs into our internal monologue. This is where internalised queerphobia creeps in, like an unwanted guest who’s made a bed in your mind. Instead of being openly rejected, we start rejecting ourselves. We question our worth, question our right to love, and doubt our capacity to be both queer and whole. The voice in our head becomes critical and corrosive, echoing the condemnation we’ve internalised from the outside world.
The Subtle Ways That Masking Changes Us
Masking isn’t just an external performance; it seeps into every part of us.
I’ve seen it in myself, in the tension I carry and in the cautiousness I often approach relationships with. It makes you hyper-vigilant, constantly scanning for danger, for a hint that someone might suspect something “different.” It can show up as perfectionism, as people-pleasing, or as a compulsive need to “fit” with others’ expectations.
Even humour—one of our greatest tools for coping—can become a hiding place. We laugh off remarks that sting, make jokes that deflect attention, or even mock parts of our own identity. It’s a survival skill, yes, but it’s also exhausting. Living life at half-measure robs us of authenticity, and after a while, we might even forget who we were before we put on the mask.
Healing from Masking: Reclaiming the Parts We Hid
Healing, thankfully, is possible. It’s a journey, not an endpoint, and often, it starts with small acts of reclamation.
This process of self-reclamation means revisiting the beliefs we’ve inherited and deciding, one by one, if they still serve us. Often, they don’t. For me, it meant finding the courage to embrace my identity as a Queer woman, not just in secular spaces but within myself, where the old messages had taken hold.
Therapy, particularly trauma-informed modalities like Brainspotting or EMDR, art therapy or somatic work, can be profound for unearthing the parts of us buried under shame and doubt. Talking with others who have lived a similar journey is powerful, too. Connection becomes medicine; community becomes a place of healing rather than one of fear. Slowly, we begin to soften toward ourselves, letting go of the inner critic and embracing the full spectrum of who we are.
Laughter as Medicine: Finding the Humour Amidst Healing
As strange as it sounds, humour has been a companion on my healing journey. There’s a special kind of absurdity to the lengths we went to hide—avoiding rainbows, dodging topics about sexuality, seeing something demonic within Pride Month and awkwardly sidestepping “dating” conversations. Looking back, some of it is oddly funny, in that bittersweet way that comes from knowing you’re finally safe enough to laugh about it.
Finding humour in the painful parts doesn’t erase the trauma, but it gives us breathing space. Laughing with others who “get it” is a reminder that we’re not alone and that, in all the seriousness of healing, there’s room for lightness, too.
Moving Forward: Embracing the Authentic Self
Reclaiming authenticity isn’t about becoming someone new; it’s about returning to who we’ve always been beneath the mask. It’s about learning to be at peace with our queerness, with our softness, with the vulnerability we once hid for safety. This isn’t a one-size-fits-all journey—everyone will have their own version of what healing looks like. But if you’ve made it to this point, know that you’re already doing the work.
We can’t change the past, but we can honour our resilience.
You can grieve the years we spent hiding and celebrate the courage it takes to live openly.
We can find humour, hope, and community in spaces where once we felt only silence.
And most importantly, we can finally be free to take the mask off, one gentle step at a time.
For anyone out there reading this: I see you. And there’s so much more beauty, love, and freedom waiting for you on the other side.
Reach out for support if you need!