There’s this story people love to tell about us, the queer person who “overcame” their trauma. Or the one who walked away from church, came out, found glitter, and lived happily ever after. You know the story, you might’ve even tried to tell it about yourself at some point.
It’s not that it’s untrue. Many of us have survived some truly horrific things: theologies that stripped us of our dignity, churches that booted us the moment we dared to live honestly, families that offered conditional love with a smile that said “we’re just worried about your eternal soul.” And yet, we made it out. That is something to be proud of.
But here’s what no one really tells you about surviving religious trauma as a queer person: It doesn’t always feel like victory.
And Pride Month? It can shine a pretty harsh light on the pain we were never meant to carry in the first place.
So today, I want to talk about that grief. The messy, complicated, often invisible grief that sits behind the Instagram stories and rainbow flags.
Because we didn’t choose this pain and we don’t owe anyone a redemption arc.
The ‘Brave Queer’ Trope (And Why It’s Exhausting)
Somewhere along the way, society developed a fetish for queer resilience. There’s something about the idea of LGBTQIA+ people surviving oppression with a fabulous outfit and a perfectly-timed clapback that really hits the algorithm.
But what that narrative rarely includes is context or cost.
It doesn’t account for the years of internalised shame, the years of hiding, the mental health spirals, the friendships lost, the bodies we abandoned trying to be “pure,” or the therapists we cried in front of when our identity and our faith were tangled up in trauma.
It doesn’t hold space for the very real, very boring ways trauma shows up later, like disassociation when you try to attend a queer-inclusive church. Or the dread you feel every time your old pastor “likes” one of your posts. Or how you still whisper “my partner” instead of “my wife” around strangers.
This brave queer trope? It often demands that we skip straight to the end. The “I’m thriving now” part.
But some of us are still in the middle and that’s not failure, that’s real life.
Survival Isn’t a Badge, It’s a Burnout
Survival is not an identity. It is a state of emergency. It’s what happens when your nervous system adapts to constant stress. When you learn to scan a room for danger. Or when you smile politely while someone prays for your “confusion” to be healed.
Survival mode helped many of us stay alive but it wasn’t meant to be permanent. And yet, in the wake of religious trauma, some of us are still living like we need to prove we’re worthy of existing. Like we have to show the world (or our parents, or our ex-small group leader) that we’re “happy now” to make our queerness more palatable.
But trying to be the poster child for post-traumatic progress is its own kind of trap. The real work of healing isn’t always impressive.
- It’s often small. Invisible. Slow.
- It’s cancelling plans because your body said no.
- It’s deleting the Bible app and not feeling guilty about it.
- It’s sitting with the anger you were told was sinful and letting it have a voice.
Pride can be loud, bold, and powerful but it can also be the quiet decision to rest. To not perform resilience. To be human, even when your pain doesn’t have a perfect point.
Grief as a Form of Resistance
Here’s something I wish more people said out loud: Grieving what we lost to religious trauma is sacred.
- It is not weakness.
- It is not bitterness.
- It is not a failure to “move on.”
It’s resistance. Reclaiming the parts of ourselves that were buried under purity culture and doctrine. It’s saying, “No actually, I’m not fine,” even when you feel pressure to wrap it all up in a neat queer empowerment bow.
Grief can show up as anger, the kind that simmers when you see old church friends celebrating Pride like they didn’t vote against your rights ten years ago. It can show up as numbness, when you want to care, but can’t feel anything or are feeling too much. Or as a deep, unspeakable sadness, the kind that hits when you see happy queer families and realise you were told that would never be possible for you.
You are allowed to grieve all of it:
- The life you didn’t get to live.
- The version of you that never got to bloom in safety.
- The God you used to love before the church made you afraid of yourself.
Grief is not something you need to “get over” to be valid. It’s something you carry, carefully, because you care.
You Don’t Have to Be Healed to Be Holy
Religious trauma convinces us that healing is something you earn through hard work. That if you just read enough, pray enough, or therapise enough, the pain will go away and you’ll be a “whole” person again.
But what if wholeness isn’t the goal?
What if holiness, that deep, sacred worth was never something you lost in the first place?
- You don’t have to be fully healed to be holy.
- You don’t need to be 100% sure of your sexuality/gender identity, or never feel shame again, or speak confidently on podcasts about your journey.
- You just have to be here. Still breathing and still trying. Still showing up for yourself when you can.
Pride is not a reward for progress. It’s a celebration of survival. Even if that survival is messy, unresolved, and still in motion.
Let Pride Make Room for Your Sadness Too
So if you’re reading this in bed, not sure whether you want to join the local parade or hide under the covers, know that both are valid.
If you’re watching others post their gorgeous couples selfies and you feel more grief than joy, know that your reaction is not wrong. Or maybe you’re still struggling to say “I’m queer” out loud without hearing a pastor’s voice in your head, you are not behind.
- You are not less queer because you are still hurting.
- You are not less valid because Pride feels complicated.
- You are not less worthy because you carry trauma in your bones.
This month (and every month) I hope you find spaces where you don’t have to choose between celebration and grief. Where you’re allowed to laugh, cry, rage, rest, and just be.
Because Pride is for the parts of you that survived. And also for the parts that are still healing.
If you would like to connect you can find me on Instagram – @anchoredcounsellingservices or if you’re interested in therapy use this contact form.