Beyond Straight

Beyond Beautiful: Disability, Liberation, Love

Season 3, Episode 5 - Beyond Straight

🎧 Listen to the Episode

🧭 Episode Summary

In this kick-off to LGBTQIA+ Pride Month episode, Mandi shares her coming out story—from childhood clues and early experiences of attraction to navigating divorce, faith deconstruction, church hurt, and finding love.

Through stories of grief, authenticity, and transformation, Mandi reflects on growing up as a disabled Latina in a culturally Catholic family, the challenges of reconciling faith and 

sexuality, and the ways God pursued her long before she had language for who she was.

This episode isn't just about coming out. It's about becoming more fully yourself, trusting God's presence through uncertainty, and discovering that authenticity and faith were never meant to be enemies.

💬 Key Themes

• LGBTQ+ identity

• Faith deconstruction

• Church hurt

• Disability

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📜 Full Transcript

Mandi: Welcome to Beyond Disability Liberation Love. I'm Mandi, your Queer Christian Disabled host.

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Mandi: I've been thinking about this episode for a long time. Not because I didn't know what I wanted to say, but because coming out stories are complicated. They rarely fit neatly into a beginning, middle and end. They're messy and layered. They're emotional. And for many of us, they aren't a single moment at all. There are a million moments.

Before we begin, I want to offer a brief note about language. Throughout this episode I'll be using words like queer, butch, gay, LGBTQ, and any other identity related terms. Some of these words have historically been used in harmful ways. Much like the disability community has reclaimed language that was once used against us, many LGBTQ people have reclaimed words like queer as expressions of identity, community and pride. No language used in this episode is intended to offend.

I also want to acknowledge that this story involves other people. Out of respect for them, I'll be leaving out names and certain identifying details. This is my story to tell, but it isn't solely my story. And finally, I want you to know that this episode isn't about convincing anyone of anything. It's simply the truth of my life, the truth of how I got here and how God met me every step of the way. Maybe that's where I should begin. I think I should have known. Or maybe I did know.

Mandi: I was five years old, a little girl in kindergarten, and like many children, I loved playing house every recess, every playtime, every opportunity we got. And I always wanted to be the mom. That part wasn't unusual. What feels a little more telling now is that I was perfectly happy having another little girl play the dad. I never questioned it. I never thought it was strange. I certainly wasn't thinking about sexuality. I was only five. I wasn't analyzing attraction or questioning my identity. I wasn't secretly plotting a future coming out story. I was just playing.

And yet, when I look back now, I think about how children often know things before they have language for them Children are incredibly honest. They notice what feels natural. They move toward what feels authentic. They haven't yet learned all the rules about who they're supposed to be. And maybe that's why so many of us can look back at childhood and see little clues scattered throughout our stories. Tiny breadcrumbs, Small moments that didn't make sense then, but make perfect sense now.

Recently, I had the opportunity to read an advance copy of a book called the Hyphenate Life. One of the ideas that really stayed with me was the discussion of intersectionality. The reality that people who hold multiple, historically marginalized identities don't experience these identities separately. They overlap. They influence each other, and they create entirely unique experiences. Reading that book made me think deeply about my own childhood. I wasn't just growing up in a culturally Catholic Latino family. I wasn't just growing up disabled. I wasn't just growing up a girl. I was growing up at the intersection of all of those things. And those intersections shaped what I learned about myself. And perhaps even more importantly, they shaped what I didn't learn.

Mandi: When people hear the phrase sex education, they often think about anatomy, about biology, maybe even about pregnancy prevention and health class. What I realize now is that my biggest educational gaps weren't about science. They were about relationships. They were about identity and attraction. They were about understanding myself. Growing up. I knew how reproduction worked. I understood the mechanics. I knew not to get pregnant. I knew I was supposed to tell an adult if someone touched my private parts inappropriately. Honestly, that was pretty much it.

Nobody talked to me about healthy relationships. Nobody talked to me about desire. Nobody talked about consent beyond safety. Nobody talked to me about emotional intimacy. And absolutely nobody talked to me about queer attraction. There was this unspoken understanding that seemed to hover over everything. Being gay existed. People out there were gay. Maybe that was okay. But it wasn't something that was supposed to happen in our family. Not to us, not to me. The message wasn't always spoken directly. It lived in silence. And silence can be powerful. When something is never discussed, you learn that it's not a question you're supposed to ask. So I didn't ask. I just absorbed the message and kept moving.

Mandi: When I was 12 years old, I had my first kiss. It was with a girl. What I can tell you is that nothing about the experience felt traumatic. Nothing about it felt wrong or dangerous. It was simply a moment. And yet, years later, I found myself carrying an incredible amount of guilt about it. The kind of guilt that doesn't come from your own heart. The kind that grows because you've absorbed messages from the people and systems around you. I reached out to her and I apologized. I apologized for a kiss. I apologized because I genuinely believed I had done something wrong. Because that is what shame does. Shame takes an ordinary human experience and convinces you it's evidence of your brokenness. Looking back now, I feel so much compassion for that younger version of myself. She wasn't trying to rebel. She wasn't trying to reject God. She wasn't trying to be difficult. She was trying so hard to be good, Trying so hard to be faithful. Trying to fit herself into a box that was becoming increasingly uncomfortable.

For years afterward, whenever someone asked about my first kiss, I told a different story. I told them about being 14 years old on a youth exchange trip to Ireland. That was my first kiss with a boy. And because it fit the narrative everyone expected, it became my official answer. It was easier, safer, cleaner. And that's what many of us learn to do when parts of ourselves don't fit the story we've been handed. We edit and revise. We curate. We tell the version that feels safest, even when it's incomplete. As I got older, I became very good at keeping certain things tucked away. I dated boys. I had crushes. I built a life that looked exactly how everyone expected it to look.

But attraction isn't something you can erase just because it's inconvenient. And eventually, those feelings showed up again, this time in college. I don't remember her name anymore, but I remember exactly how she made me feel. She had what I would now describe as a soft, butch energy, confident, comfortable in herself. The kind of person who walked into a room and immediately caught your attention. And one day, it hit me. The butterflies I felt around certain men, I felt them around her, too. That realization caught me completely off guard. Not because it wasn't true, but because I had spent so many years believing it couldn't be true. I didn't know what to do with that information. So I did what I had always done. I pushed it aside, I explained it away, I minimized it, and I moved forward.

At that point in my life, I still believed that if I ignored something long enough, eventually it would disappear. I had no idea that God was already beginning a much bigger journey. One that would eventually ask me not just who I loved, but who I truly was. If college taught me anything, it was that attraction doesn't disappear. After that crush in college, I did what I had always done. I filed the experience away. Maybe I just admired her. Maybe I wanted to be like her. Maybe I was overthinking it. Maybe it wasn't what I thought it was. And honestly, that became a pattern. When you've spent years being taught that certain possibilities don't belong to you, you become very skilled at finding alternative explanations. You become fluent in self editing.

Mandi: I continued building the life I thought I was supposed to build. I got married. I became a mother. I poured myself into family, faith, community, and all of the things that mattered deeply to me. And for a long time, I truly believed that was the end of the story. Not because I was pretending, not because my marriage wasn't real, and not because I didn't love my husband. I did. Our marriage was real. Our family and our love was real. But sometimes two things can be true at once. We can genuinely love someone while still not fully understanding ourselves. I think that's something we don't talk about enough, especially in Christian spaces, especially in conversations about sexuality. The narrative is often presented as though every person who comes out always knew exactly who they were, as though there was some secret certainty hidden beneath the surface. But that wasn't my experience. My story wasn't about suppressing a fully formed identity. My story is about discovering one. And discovery takes time. Years later, I met the woman who would eventually become my wife.

And if you've been listening to this episode, thinking, Mandi, how many times are you going to mention soft butch energy? The answer is, apparently a lot. Because there it was again. That confidence, that comfort in herself, that grounded presence. There was an attraction there, but it wasn't something I allowed myself to sit with. I was married, and because of that, our friendship felt safer. Friendship didn't require me to ask hard questions. Friendship didn't require me to challenge the narrative I had spent decades building. Friendship let me stay comfortable, or at least as comfortable as someone can be when they're avoiding parts of themselves. We were friends, good friends. And life continued, at least on the surface.

Mandi: But beneath the surface, other things were happening. My marriage was struggling. And when I say struggling, I don't mean we were having a rough season. I mean we were reaching the end. Not legally, not publicly, not officially, but emotionally, relationally, internally. Sometimes relationships end long before a paperwork catches up. And that's where we were. We both knew something wasn't working. We both knew something had shifted. We just hadn't fully named it yet.

Around that same season, I became close to another friend. She was someone who showed up for me during an incredibly difficult period of my life. She listened and supported me. She was someone who cared. When you're hurting Those things really matter. What started as friendship gradually became something more complicated. Not intentionally, not dramatically, just slowly. The line between friendship and something deeper became harder and harder to see until eventually it wasn't really a line anymore.

And then we kissed.

Looking back, that moment felt less like a beginning and more like an acknowledgment. An acknowledgment that something important was happening. But it scared her, and I understand why. She was still figuring out her own boundaries, still figuring out herself, still figuring out what she wanted and what she didn't. So our friendship went on hiatus. And while I was disappointed, I respected that. Because sometimes people need space. Sometimes growth requires distance. Sometimes timing matters.

At the time, though, I didn't realize how significant that experience would become. I didn't realize it was another breadcrumb, another clue, another invitation to pay attention.

Mandi: By the time 2021 arrived, my marriage was effectively over again. Not legally or officially, but we both knew. There comes a point when you stop trying to convince yourself that things are okay. There comes a point when honesty becomes unavoidable. And that's where we were. The divorce wasn't creating the ending. It was formalizing one.

Around that same time, my future wife and I found our way back to each other, and something shifted. Not suddenly and again, not dramatically, but undeniably. There was no pretending anymore, no explaining things away, no finding alternative interpretations. We both realized there was something more between us. And for the first time in my life, I allowed myself to acknowledge it. At first, I didn't acknowledge it publicly or loudly. It was private. It felt beautiful and terrifying. It can feel like freedom and fear at the exact same time. Within six months, we were living together, building a life together and planning a future. Yet most people had no idea, because while our relationship was growing, I was still carrying enormous fear. Fear of what people would think, fear of disappointing people, fear of losing community. And one of my biggest fears was hurting my children. And there's the fear of losing church and God. Not because God is threatening us, but because we've been taught that God's love is somehow tied to our conformity, that acceptance is conditional, that belonging has requirements. And at that point in my journey, I hadn't yet fully untangled what was God's voice and what was everyone else's.

Eventually, I shared publicly that I was getting divorced, and what happened next surprised me. People showed up, offered support, and checked in. People expressed concern, including my church community. And one thing everyone seemed to agree on was how wonderful my new friend was. My future wife. But nobody knew that they thought she was simply a good friend stepping up during a difficult season. People told me how lucky I was, how grateful I should be, and how incredible she was. The funny thing is, they were right. She is incredible. What they didn't realize was that the reason she showed up so consistently wasn't simply because she was a good friend. It was because we loved each other. At the time, though, that truth still lived mostly in private, and carrying that secret was exhausting.

Mandi: While my relationship was growing stronger, I was beginning another journey entirely. The journey of coming out. One conversation at a time, one trusted person at a time, one terrifying act of honesty at a time. And as you'll hear, these conversations didn't always go the way I hoped they would. In fact, some of the most painful moments of my life were still ahead of me, but so with something else. Freedom. Even if I couldn't see it yet. If coming out were only about discovering your identity, I think it would be hard enough. But for many of us, especially those of us who are part of faith communities, coming out isn't just about understanding ourselves. It's about navigating everyone else's response to who we are. And that's where this story gets harder. Because while I was becoming more honest with myself, I was also beginning to tell other people the truth.

What I quickly learned was that many people were less interested in how I was doing than they were and how my choices might impact everyone else. One of the things that surprised me most was how often people centered my children in conversations about my sexuality. Now, don't get me wrong. I understand why I adore my children more than anything. They are the most important people in my life. Of course, people cared about them. But what was painful was how rarely anyone asked about me. Instead, I heard the same questions over and over. How are the boys going to handle this? Will this confuse them? Will this hurt them? Are you sure you're thinking clearly? Are you sure this isn't just a reaction to your divorce? Are you sure you're not rebounding? And underneath all of those questions was another message. A message that was harder to hear. What if this isn't real? What if this is temporary? What if this is a mistake? Some family members wondered if I was experiencing some kind of extended postpartum depression. Others suggested it might be hormonal. Others seemed convinced I was simply emotionally vulnerable.

After my marriage ended, everyone had theories. Everyone had explanations and opinions. Except very few people asked the question I desperately needed someone to ask. Mandy, how are you? Are you okay? What has this journey been like for you? I felt incredibly alone. Not because people weren't talking, but because nobody seemed to be listening. And that's a different kind of loneliness, the kind where you're surrounded by voices but still feel invisible. One of the greatest surprises of that season was who showed up for me. Because while many people were trying to understand me from a distance, one person was walking through the pain with me.

My ex husband... and I want to acknowledge something that can sometimes get lost in coming out stories. There was real grief in the ending of our marriage for both of us. People sometimes want neat narratives. They want heroes and villains. They want one person to blame. But life is rarely that simple. Even while hurting, even while processing enormous changes in his own life, he showed up for me in ways I will always be grateful for. He stood beside me during difficult conversations. He talked with family members. He helped create stability for our children. He supported me when many people couldn't. I think that is worth honoring. Because love doesn't always disappear when relationships change shape. Sometimes it evolves. Sometimes it becomes something different. And sometimes it remains present in unexpected ways.

Mandi: As all of this was unfolding, something else was happening. Something much quieter, much deeper. Long before I ever came out, God had already started preparing me. And the word many people use for that process is deconstruction. Now, I know that word makes some Christians nervous. For some people, it immediately brings to mind people abandoning faith, rejecting God, walking away from Christianity. But that wasn't my experience. For me, deconstruction wasn't about losing faith. It was about examining, was about asking difficult questions. It was about pulling apart beliefs I had inherited and asking whether they actually belonged there. That process started years before I ever came out.

Around 2018, long before my divorce, long before my relationship with my wife, long before I knew where any of this was heading. God was already inviting me into deeper questions. Questions about disability, questions about justice, questions about belonging. Questions about whose voices had shaped my understanding of Scripture. And questions about who gets excluded and why. Questions about whether fear was ever supposed to be the foundation of faith. Little by little, things I had always accepted without question started to unravel. Not my faith, just the assumptions surrounding it. And those are two very different things.

One thing I've reflected on a lot since coming out is how differently I experienced church than many people I know. I know many LGBTQ people whose faith was built almost entirely through community. And when those communities rejected them, it shattered everything. I understand why. Church communities can be powerful, beautiful, transformative. But my faith developed differently partly because of disability. Growing up disabled often means learning how to navigate spaces that weren't designed with you in mind. It means learning independence early. It means learning how to adapt. And in many ways, that's how my faith developed too. Of course, people influenced my faith. Church influenced my faith. Pastors. But they were never the foundation God was. Even as a child, my faith felt personal. I prayed because I believed God was listening. I trusted God because I experienced God's presence. I talked to God because I believed God cared. That relationship existed long before I understood theology, long before I understood doctrine, and long before I understood sexuality. God pursued me first. And because of that, when people disappointed me, it hurt deeply. But it didn't destroy my faith. People were never the source of my faith.

Mandi: Eventually, though, the collision between my private life and my church life became unavoidable. Ironically, I didn't come out at church. God kind of did it for me. At least, that's how it feels now. It started with a Christmas photo. A simple photo, the kind of thing most people post on social media all the time.

But someone saw it, and they became concerned enough to approach church leadership. Eventually, I received a request for a meeting. I already knew what the meeting was about. I knew before I logged on. I knew before the first question was asked. And when they finally asked me directly whether my partner and I were dating, everything suddenly felt very still. I had already made a decision months earlier. I wasn't ready to publicly announce my relationship. I wasn't ready for some grand coming out moment. But I had promised myself something. If someone asked me directly, I would not lie. Not about her, not about us, and not about myself. I had spent too many years hiding, too many years carrying shame that didn't belong to me. Too many years editing my story. I couldn't do it anymore.

So I answered honestly. Yes, we were together. And everything changed. Within moments. I was removed from my leadership position. A role I cared deeply about. A role connected to a summer camp program serving children in foster care. Work that really mattered to me. Work that I really loved. I was told that church leadership would not tell the congregation. At the time, they probably thought that was compassionate. But it didn't feel compassionate. It felt like permission to remain hidden, like an invitation to keep a secret. As though secrecy was somehow a gift. As though shame was mercy. The message wasn't spoken directly, but I heard it anyway. You can stay, you can belong, you can remain part of this community. But only if you stop being who you are. Only if you repent. Only if you return to the version of yourself that made us comfortable.

And then at the end of that conversation, they prayed. They prayed that my children wouldn't become confused. I remember hanging up, sitting there and crying again. Not because I thought they were right, not because I believed God was disappointed in me, but because I was grieving. Grieving the loss of people I loved, grieving the loss of belonging, grieving the realization that some relationships were only sustainable when I was hiding. And that realization is devastating. Because what you discover isn't that people stopped loving you. It's that some people were only able to love the version of you that served their understanding of the world. And that hurts a lot.

Mandi: Over the next couple of years, friendships continued to disappear. Some quietly, some dramatically, some with explanations, and some without. One by one, people removed themselves from our lives. And every loss hurt. Because contrary to what some people think, coming out wasn't a celebration followed by a happily ever after. It was one of the loneliest seasons of my life. What should have been filled with joy, what should have been filled with community, and what should have been filled with support was often filled with grief. But here's the thing. While people were leaving, God wasn't. And that became impossible to ignore. Because in every season where someone walked away, God sent someone else. Every time a door closed, another opened. Every time I felt abandoned, I discovered I wasn't. Not by God, never by God. And eventually, I began to realize something.

Maybe the story wasn't about losing people. Maybe the story was about discovering who could remain when authenticity entered the room. And in the final part of this episode, that's what I want to talk about. How can I still call myself a Christian? How God pursued my heart before he ever challenged my theology. And why, after all these years, I believe more strongly than ever that authenticity and faith were never enemies in the first place.

There's a question I've asked more times than I can count. The question people ask with curiosity and concern. The question people ask with skepticism. The question people ask because they genuinely don't understand. How can you still be a Christian after all of that? After the church hurt, after losing friendships, after being removed from leadership, after being told your relationship or was sinful, and after being treated like a problem to solve. How can you still believe? It's a fair question. There were moments when I asked it myself. Not because I was losing God, but because I was trying to understand where God ended and where people began. For so much of my life, those things had become tangled together. One of the greatest gifts deconstruction gave me was learning that they are not the same thing. People are not God. Churches are not God. Pastors are not God. Theologies are not God. And thank God for that. Because if my faith had been built on people, it probably wouldn't have survived.

Mandi: One of the things I wish more people understood about deconstruction was is that it isn't necessarily a rejection. Sometimes it's an excavation. Sometimes it's a rescue mission. Sometimes it's the process of digging through years of assumptions and inherited beliefs to find the thing underneath that was actually true all along. For me, deconstruction felt less like losing faith and more like losing certainty. Those are not the same thing.

I lost certainty about a lot of things. I lost certainty about interpretations. I lost certainty about traditions and about who was right. I lost certainty about which voices deserved authority in my life. But I never lost certainty about God. In fact, if anything, I became more convinced of God's presence because while people were debating theology, God was showing up. While people were arguing about doctrine, God was pursuing me. While people were telling me who I was supposed to be, God was inviting me to be honest. And that's what surprised me most, Because I expected God to begin with my mind. I expected God to begin with theology. I expected God to begin with arguments. Instead, God began with my heart.

Looking back, I don't think my coming out journey started intellectually. I think that's one of the biggest misconceptions people have about LGBTQ Christians. People assume we studied enough books and eventually changed our minds, or that we found the right arguments or the right interpretation or the right scholar. And while those things eventually mattered, that's not where my journey began. My journey began with relationship with presence, with God consistently inviting me toward authenticity. It began with God showing me over and over again that pretending was hurting me, that hiding was hurting me, that shame and fear were hurting me. And the more authentic I became, the more peace I experienced. Not less, more. That's what confused me at first. Because I had been taught that stepping outside of God's will would create distance between us.

Mandi: Yet the opposite was happening. The more honest I became, the closer God felt. The more truthful I became. The more alive my faith became. The more I stopped performing, the more I experienced grace. That doesn't mean the journey was easy. It doesn't mean there weren't tears. There were so, so many tears. Enough tears to fill years. Enough tears to fill entire journals. Enough tears to fill prayers I didn't even have words for. But through every one of those moments, God remained. Not once did God abandon me. Not once did God stop pursuing me. Not once did God withdraw his presence. One of the themes that runs through Scripture again and again is pursuit. God pursuing Adam and Eve in the garden. God pursuing Moses in the wilderness. God pursuing Jonah when he ran. God pursuing Peter after his denial. God pursuing people who were convinced they had wandered too far.

And when I look back at my own story, that's what I see. A God who pursued A God who pursued a little disabled girl playing house in kindergarten. A God who pursued a 12 year old carrying guilt she was never meant to carry. A God who pursued a college student trying to explain away her attraction. A God who pursued a woman navigating divorce, motherhood, fear and uncertainty. A God who pursued me through church hurt. A God who pursued me through grief. A God who pursued me through loss. Not because I had everything figured out. Not because I had the right theology, not because I had reached the right conclusion. But because that's who God is. And that's what love does. Love pursues.

As I've been reflecting on this season's theme of transformation, I keep coming back to something I've said before. Transformation is not becoming someone else. Transformation is becoming more fully yourself. And that's exactly what this journey has been. People often assume coming out changed me. But honestly, it didn't. At least not in the way people think. It didn't make me a different person. It revealed the person who was already there. The same Mandi who loves Jesus. The same Mandi who loves disability justice. The same Mandi who loves community. The same Mandi who cries during movies. The same Mandi who talks too much. The same Mandi who wants everyone at the table. The same Mandi who believes liberation matters. The same Mandi who believes love matters. The same Mandi who believes authenticity matters.

Mandi: Coming out didn't create a new person. It gave me permission to stop hiding the one who already existed. One thing people don't always realize is that coming out never really ends. There wasn't one moment where I announced my sexuality and then moved on with my life. I'm still coming out. Every time someone assumes my wife is my sister. Every time I fill out paperwork. Every time I enter a new space or meet new people. Every time someone asks questions about my family. In a world that wasn't designed with many of my identities in mind, coming out remains a regular part of my life.

The difference now is that I do it differently. I do it with confidence. I do it with peace. I do it with a deeper understanding of who I am. And maybe most importantly, I do it with the profound trust that God isn't standing on the other side of my authenticity waiting to reject me. God is standing beside me. Always has been, always will be.

Mandi: If you've listened all the way through my story, thank you. I appreciate you holding space for it and for honoring it. Thank you for allowing me to share something so personal. If there is one thing I hope you take away from today's episode, it's this. God is never asking us to become something someone else. God invites us to become more ourselves. Not smaller versions, not safer versions, not versions shaped by fear, but the fullest versions, the most authentic. The version of us that was created in love. And while this episode tells part of my story, it isn't the whole story. Not even close. There's so much I want to share about faith, authenticity, queerness, disability, and all the things God has taught me throughout this journey. But that's for another episode. For now, I'll leave you with God pursued me before I had language for who I was. God pursued me while I was hiding, while I was grieving, while I was questioning, and while I was still becoming myself. God pursues me still.

And before I go, I have one quick reminder. Today is the very last day to grab a physical don't hide the Pride sticker sheet. This collection was created to celebrate LGBTQ pride, disability, pride, and allyship in a bold, joyful, and unapologetic way. It has been incredibly meaningful to share this project, especially alongside an episode as personal as this one. The digital sticker pack will continue to be available through the end of June, but the physical sticker sheet is a limited release. At midnight tonight, physical sticker sheet sales will close and they will not be returning. So if you've been thinking about ordering one for yourself, a friend, friend, a family member, or someone who could use a little extra reminder that they are loved, seen, and worthy of belonging, now is the time. Thank you for supporting my work, this podcast, and the conversations we're building together. And until next time, remember disability, liberation, love are always beyond beautiful.

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