My palms were sweating as I walked up the main school driveway, past the statue of Mary that I’d walked past every day for some 11 years. This day, however, was different. It had been a year since I walked by that statue, and even in that relatively short time, I already felt like an outsider.
A few weeks earlier, I had received a Facebook message from a former colleague of mine at the school, located outside Boston.
“Hey Jim! I wanted to pass along information for an event happening a week from Friday at school,” read the message. “No pressure to attend, but we wanted you to know that you are absolutely welcome!”
Attached was an invitation to attend an event that even just a few years earlier I could never have imagined receiving: a welcome reception for LGBTQ alums.
I held this secret always close to my chest. Fear of being “found out” always sat with me for those 11 years.
I sat on that invitation from my former colleague for a few days. Going to the event would likely mean running into colleagues, who would ask why I was back at the school. I had spent the formative professional years of my life here, having left in the spring of 2024 for a new job in the Catholic world. Aside from a few colleagues, I had never “come out” to the school community. I held this secret always close to my chest. Fear of being “found out” always sat with me for those 11 years.
Years earlier, while I was still working at the school, Pope Francis’s “who am I to judge?” comment compelled me to begin dialoguing with a handful of trusted teachers and colleagues about my sexuality and my struggles. Through all these conversations, I kept hearing “you will be loved and you will belong…let that fear go.”
As I kept hearing things like this, peace entered in and touched my heart. The more this kept happening, the safer I felt, so much so that I decided to accept my friend’s invitation.
And so there I was, walking into the school, fear still overwhelming me to the point where I found myself a few times ready to retreat back to my car.
Through all these conversations, I kept hearing “you will be loved and you will belong…let that fear go.”
I walked into the main office, where I found my former colleague who had reached out to me, along with a few other gay alums. At that moment, two worlds collided, worlds that I had long kept separate: the personal and the professional. There was no turning back.
As we walked through the hallway, down to the faculty and staff dining room where the event was to take place, memories from the school flashed in front of me—my time as a student, my time as a professional. None of them seemed to prepare me for this moment. What would this time bring?
When we arrived in the dining room, I finally paused and caught my breath. I was out of the public eye of others in the building. I felt safe.
Then, something caught my eye on an easel.
“This afternoon, you’ll be invited to stamp your thumbprint on this display,” explained one of my former colleagues. “There’s also an option to sign your name and your year of graduation to the thumbprint. Adult allies in the building are welcome to join in the event for the second half, and will have the opportunity to add their thumbprint to the periphery of the display.”
Some unexpected grace soon found me.
More anxiety. Former colleagues would be coming in for the latter part of the event. It was a defining moment for me and I had a choice to make: to stay or to leave. I made small talk with folks I knew in the room to keep my mind occupied.
But some unexpected grace soon found me. I paused to remind myself that, among the other alums gathered, I was in good company through shared struggles.
The end of the school day arrived and colleagues filtered into the dining room. Cake and cookies lined a table in a way that felt familiar from faculty and staff birthdays, baby showers and colleagues’ marriages. This time, the celebration was for a different cause. But was this something I was ready to celebrate—being different, being gay? I still wasn’t sure.
Then the conversations began—gay alums mixing with straight colleagues. I felt sheepish. I wanted to shrink in a corner. I wasn’t feeling myself.
I fell back back to belonging in the best sense of the word. It was an unspoken reality of why I was there, but no one seemed to care.
Soon, familiar faces greeted me. Friendly conversation. But my worst fears, of being made to feel like an outsider, like I didn’t belong, never materialized.
In those moments, I fell back back to belonging in the best sense of the word. It was an unspoken reality of why I was there, but no one seemed to care. I felt free. I felt like myself again.
I dabbed my thumb on a sponge soaked in orange paint and pressed my thumbprint to that display, signing my name below the wet paint to own the thumbprint. Freedom overwhelmed me. I felt safe. I hadn’t felt safe in a very long time.
For too long, I had let this part of myself trail behind the rest of me, like a dog on a leash trailing behind its owner on a walk. I thought I’d never have to deal with being gay, that I could just avoid it altogether and move on. But the more I avoided this part of me, the greater the longing became to feel free and complete, like the final piece to a puzzle falling into place.
When we can find the courage to let all the God-given aspects of who we are be realized, that’s when we’re most alive, most able to love, and most able to belong.
Coupled with these feelings, of course, was—and is—my Catholic D.N.A. I’ve only ever worked for Catholic schools. And there’s a deeply personal reason for this. In public middle school, I was bullied. I had no idea at the time why. But I knew I was “different.” Teachers urged my parents to find a new school for me. That began my journey with Catholic education, a gift that I’ve dedicated my career to helping others be able to obtain. Still, I struggled with accepting myself fully.
At a recent spiritual direction meeting, my director said, “Jim, you can’t let Jesus in because you can’t love yourself.” He was right. Attending that alumni event was a first step for me. And I hope it helps others, too.
For the LGBTQ Catholic school teacher, nonprofit employee or volunteer who feels like they can never come out, I encourage you to find the grace to do so when and how you feel most comfortable. I hope you never feel you need to hide. I still remind myself, “No one who lights a lamp hides it away or places it [under a bushel basket], but on a lampstand so that those who enter might see the light” (Mt 5:15). When we can find the courage to let all the God-given aspects of who we are be realized, that’s when we’re most alive, most able to love, and most able to belong.
Being LGBTQ is a part of the larger whole of who we are as human beings—created in the image and likeness of God.
I am reminded in the most unexpected of places that a sense of belonging doesn’t have to disappear because we’re fearful of being fully recognized for who we are. Being LGBTQ is a part of the larger whole of who we are as human beings—created in the image and likeness of God. When we lose sight of this, as I had done in the hours leading up to this event, we become “other than” who God calls us to be. We let fear win out over authenticity. We let fear define us.
I left the school that afternoon, walking again down the driveway past that familiar statue of Mary. I remembered Pope Leo XIV’s closing remarks from his first papal address: “Our Mother Mary always wants to walk with us, be close, help us with her intercession and love.”
Let’s never forget those who walk alongside us, like Mary, whether they be colleagues, friends or family. One of the greatest gifts we have as LGBTQ Catholics are the allies who surround us every day and build up belonging in places where we felt we could never belong.
