I have wrestled. And I’ve wrestled again. I’ve wrestled til the word wrestle lost its meaning. And here I am sitting in front of a computer to tell the world that I am tired of wrestling.

I grew up in a loving home. One that taught me so many beautiful things. I have a valuable wealth of knowledge that always points back to a lesson my dad patiently, and sometimes impatiently, taught me. My mom has the biggest heart and I will never forget the moment she taught me to always, “Err on the side of grace.” Both of my grandparents imparted a love for the kitchen and it is one of my most valuable talents.

But sometimes the most warm, loving beginnings can't provide enough protection to carry you safely to your destiny without pain. And if we are honest with ourselves, we all share an unusual, often painful relationship with our childhood. The major melodies are often muted by a few minor moments that are stuck on repeat, like a scratched record. And we spend the majority of our twenties trying to pick apart, analyze, and heal this fragile part of our once naive and lighthearted existence.

Like the first time I heard the word gay hurled at me as an insult. It was as if an arrow flung straight from his lips and lodged itself into my gentle, effeminate body for everyone to see. Or the time my heart fluttered at the awkward butterflies of a first crush. Or the time I saw the offensively conservative FOX News report on Catholicism’s stance on homosexuality. I remember laying on the floor of my childhood home and what was once vibrant, gorgeous butterflies quickly turned to ghastly, secluded bats and I realized my secret could never escape the caverns of my heart. Or the first time hope billowed in my soul in 2005 when I pleaded with a hopeful gaze toward God for change. Or that next morning, when I opened my eyes and found their unchanged, shameful gaze still drawn to what I despised. “I must not be devote enough,” I thought to myself. “I need more accountability so I can live a life of solitude and prove my worthiness of change.”

And just like that, we are sent into a world, carrying a knapsack of moments that weave together a gloriously rich story. And until we take time to unravel the knots of pain, shame, and fear, we will never get to see how beautiful our stories are.

My name is Zachary Ryan and I am gay. I knew from the moment I laid eyes on my first crush in second grade that I was different from all the other boys my age. Contrary to popular belief, I was never given a choice in my sexuality. I believe I am divinely worthy of love. I believe hell is any place on this earth where we are forced to disconnect from our truest selves. And I lived the majority of my life through hell. I also believe heaven is humanity's collective journey towards wholeness. Each day, I discover new grace that takes me further down this narrow path.

I grew up in a relatively small, conservative town. Led by my greatest fear, I came back to Greenville after college. I believed if I didn’t discover the secret to being heterosexual in college, I was destined towards the “fiery pits.” Skillful anecdotes of fear flooded my mind. Christian self-help books weren’t enough, my daily pleading wasn’t enough, dating other women wasn't enough, leading Bible studies wasn’t enough, leading worship wasn't enough. God must have forsaken me and it was time to seek counseling. I was looking for Conversion Therapy. It was the only way out of this nightmare and into the golden-paved roads of heterosexuality.

Though my intentions were pure, I didn't find what I originally intended. And thank heavens, I didn't. There were a few close calls with some Theophostic prayer sessions, but nothing worked quite like Conversion Therapy promised. Instead, I landed a job at a conservative, evangelical church, whose identity was shaken by an inclusive stance on homosexuality at the denominational level.

“The gays are ruining the church in America.” I would hear in staff meetings.

“The practice of homosexuality is incompatible with Christian teaching.”

The final report was in and I was deemed incompatible with the Christian teaching I so deeply admired. These phrases plagued me at night. I laid awake searching for answers in my growing library of same-sex attraction literature: “Gay Conversations with God,” “What the Bible Really Says about Homosexuality,” “Seeing Black and White in a Grey World,” “Strength in Weakness,” “Does Jesus Really Love Me,” “Washed and Waiting,” “Unafraid.” This extensive research only led me to one outcome.

I was stuck. I was becoming sick with how much shame I was holding inside my little chest. So I ran. I wanted to run sooner, but I was frozen in so much pain and fear that I didn’t have the strength to move my feeble legs through the muck of lies that I woke up believing each day.

In 2018, I left a full-time, benefits-included, 3%-matched-retirement, missionary-focused, salaried job to slay some of the greatest espresso east of Raleigh. And in those fragile moments of freedom, I didn’t know if I would sink or swim.

But something began to shift the moment I gave myself permission to unsubscribe from belief systems that didn’t work for me. One day, after a dead-end conversation with a friend, I surrendered: “If the Good News is truly Good News, it MUST be Good News for EVERYBODY.” I was discovering the institution of Evangelical Christianity was preaching a Gospel message that was primarily good news for the heterosexual, white-washed, married, 2.5 kid families, 15% tithers. The Good News of evangelical christianity began to look eerily similar to the American Dream.

So I gathered my existence and all my belongings and we set off on a terribly bumpy, narrow, lonely path. I was taught that Scripture is greater than Experience. But on this journey, I chose to let my Experiences take me beyond where Scripture could tread.

Saying the words, I am gay for the first time on April 29th, 2015 was painful. It was flooded with months of tears as I mourned the heterosexual life I desired to live. I wrestled through the mourning. I wrestled with the people in my life who told me eternity would be better if I remained single. I wrestled through the loss of a heterosexual relationship. I wrestled through the first signs of internalized homophobia. I poured myself out in pages and pages of journals. It all seemed so unfair and as each of these layers painfully peeled off of me, I found the softness of my existence at the core. I let the light into the caverns of my heart and started to explore the depths of who I spent my whole life trying to hide.

However, I didn’t always like what I found. For example, my heart’s natural response to negativity is victimization. It was the best way to survive in evangelical christianity. Being the victim gave me a way to cope with the uncontrollable, gay desires that I had. If I didn’t claim them, then I wouldn’t be held responsible for them within the structure of the church. But letting the light in is a magical way of becoming. Only until we come face-to-face with who we are can we begin the path towards wholeness.

As I grew towards my becoming, I lost quite a bit. The days were long and drawn together, it was an emotionally charged cluster fuck that I never thought I would escape. But who I became through all of this was more vibrant than any dream I ever had of becoming heterosexual. I asked my dearest friend and ally Elizabeth if she could go back in time what message would she pass along to middle school Zach. Her response brought tears to my eyes:

Hi Zachy! I can only imagine how tough the days and the nights are. I’m sorry I’m not there to hug you through this. The energy that it takes to conceal your truths must be exhausting and I know you question God’s goodness and love. I promise that when we finally cross paths, you will have people who hold you tightly not in spite of who you are, but because of all that you are. You deserve every good thing.

It wasn’t until this moment that I realized the importance of my story. This is not a full recount of my story nor is it a dramatic, performative coming out story. Instead, I wanted to leverage every ounce of who I am to create space for people like me. People who are tired of wrestling with their truth and self-acceptance.

Coming out is a sacred journey, one that is uniquely yours. It will never solve our problems. We are humans, layered with complex emotions. We are so much more than our sexual and gender identity, yet these identities are precious treasures that deserve space to be explored. Pride month is never long enough to give the adequate representation we crave. And a million apologies can never soothe the trauma from cramming ourselves into a heterosexual, binary world.

But what I do know, I believe with every cell of my being. The world would be lost without you. Whatever form of higher power or deity or universe or god that you so desperately want to encounter has infinite love for you. They delight in you and in your perfection. And as we wiggle our way free from the grips of hell, and tear down the gatekeepers of heaven together, I hope you find your existence is worthy of divine, romantic love.

Photos by @madynoelphoto