A Path Toward Healing for LGBTQ+ People Hurt by the Church
If you are LGBTQ+ and have been hurt by the church or organized religion, you are not “too sensitive.” You are not rebellious. You are not broken for having a body and mind that remember what it cost you to be honest about who you are.
Being rejected by a pastor. Being “disciplined” for coming out. Being told you are loved while your dignity is debated. Being asked to repent for your existence. Being pressured to forgive quickly while the people who caused harm keep their platform. Being told you are vindictive for seeking justice.
These experiences cut deep because they are not only relational betrayals. They are moral betrayals, spiritual betrayals, community betrayals.
This post is about real hurt, the kind that still shows up in your body years later. It is also about hope: healing is possible inside you, even if you never return to the places that harmed you.
The hurt is real, and it makes sense it changed you
When faith communities reject LGBTQ+ people, the injury is not simply disagreement. Belonging became conditional. Love became leverage. You were told to doubt your own perception, your own body, your own story.
Many people describe an internal split afterward.
One part of you may still long for God, meaning, community, ritual, sacred music, and the feeling of being spiritually held.
Another part of you may feel disgust, anger, suspicion, or numbness.
Another part may carry shame and quietly wonder if the rejection was deserved.
Another part may carry grief because something precious was taken from you.
Another part may go on high alert anytime religion comes up, because your body associates it with danger.
If you recognize yourself here, it does not mean you are weak. It means you adapted.
The hurting places inside that often carry church wounds
People tend to carry a few common layers of pain after spiritual rejection. You may have one, or many.
Shame
A voice echoing the message, “I am wrong.” Shame can live in the body as flinching, shrinking, self-doubt, or the sense you must earn the right to exist.
Grief
Grief for what you lost: community, mentors, ritual, shared language, music, holidays, belonging. Sometimes grief for the version of faith you hoped was true.
Betrayal and anger
Anger often rises when something inside you knows the harm was unjust. It may show up as rage, contempt, or a deep moral “no.”
Loneliness
Even when you find affirming community later, the body can still remember exile.
Fear and hypervigilance
A part of you stays alert for the next rejection, the next manipulation, the next “love” that comes with a hook.
None of these reactions are character flaws. They are evidence of injury.
The protective reactions that rise up around the pain
After harm, we develop strategies that help prevent future harm. Many of these strategies are understandable. Some are necessary for a season. Some become costly over time.
Here are a few common protective reactions after church harm.
Armor
Sarcasm, toughness, emotional distance, or “I do not care.” Sometimes this is a life raft. Sometimes it becomes a wall blocking what you still want: intimacy, spiritual connection, rest.
Watchfulness
Scanning for subtle cues of rejection or manipulation. This can be wisdom. It can also be exhausting.
People-pleasing
Staying acceptable, explaining yourself perfectly, being “gracious,” being “the bigger person,” even while harm continues.
Debating and proving
Needing airtight arguments, theology, history, and logic. Sometimes this is a response to gaslighting. Sometimes it becomes the painful job of trying to earn your right to exist.
Numbing
Avoiding anything “spiritual,” shutting down emotions, dissociating, scrolling, using substances, or staying constantly busy.
Self-attack
An inner critic repeating condemnation because it believes self-punishment will prevent external punishment.
A gentle reframe: these protective reactions are not proof you are “stuck.” They are proof you survived.
The secondary wound: what LGBTQ+ people often face from bystanders
Many LGBTQ+ people are not only harmed by rejection. They are harmed again by the response of people around them.
You have probably heard versions of this:
“They meant well.”
“All churches have issues.”
“You should forgive.”
“Do not let one bad experience ruin your faith.”
“Try to see it from their perspective.”
“Don’t be vindictive, you just need to forgive.”
Notice what often gets skipped: your story, your safety, the pattern, the power imbalance, the impact.
And here is what often happens socially: the person harmed gets assigned the job of fixing it.
It is easier to pressure the survivor than to confront the leader, the institution, the elders, the donors, or the power structure. Responsibility gets displaced onto the person most vulnerable, or most emotionally available.
That is not maturity. It is avoidance dressed up as wisdom.
What LGBTQ+ people need from bystanders
Bystanders have more power than most realize. Silence is not neutral. Silence communicates dignity is negotiable.
Here is what helps, in plain language.
1) Witness before advice
Do not rush to fix the story. Say the sentence that tells the truth.
“I believe you. That was wrong. I’m sorry you went through that.”
2) Protection, not interrogation
Many LGBTQ+ people have been treated like a debate topic. A bystander can interrupt this pattern.
“You do not owe anyone an explanation of your existence.”
3) Clear moral alignment
Vague empathy often protects the institution. Healing needs clarity.
“What they did was harmful.”
4) Accountability that costs something
If people claim support but keep funding, attending, platforming, and defending leaders who harm others, the system will not change.
“I’m not comfortable being part of a church that treats people this way.”
5) Do not outsource confrontation
If people want reconciliation, they should not ask the harmed person to lead it. If a church needs repair, insiders need to do insider work.
6) Presence through grief
Grief comes in waves. Do not require someone to be “over it” to be acceptable. Presence is rarer than advice.
What LGBTQ+ people need to see from the Church to feel safe again
Some people will never return to church, and that can be a wise, faithful choice. Not every door needs to reopen, especially when there is no repentance, no acknowledgement, and no leadership by example. Returning to an environment where wrong is called right is not healthy (Isaiah 5:20).
Still, many LGBTQ+ people long for spiritual community. The question becomes: what would make it safe enough to consider returning?
Not slogans. Not “Everyone is welcome” banners with unchanged policies. Not a sermon series on “love” that never names harm.
Safety is built through repair.
1) Truth-telling without minimization
Churches must name what happened as wrong, not “messy” or “a misunderstanding.” This includes naming behaviors like shaming, exclusion, coercive counseling, gossip, and retaliatory leadership.
2) Real accountability for leaders
If leaders harmed people, “stepping aside for a season” or “asking for forgiveness” is often not enough. Accountability needs transparency, independent oversight, and real consequences. Downplaying consequences communicates that the harm was not a big deal. It also misrepresents God’s heart for the vulnerable, especially when harm happened in His name.
3) Repentance that centers impact
“I’m sorry if you were offended” is not repentance. Repair names what happened, what it cost people, and what will change.
4) Teaching and policy change
If the core framework still treats LGBTQ+ identity as disordered, shame will keep being produced. People can feel the difference between genuine change and rebranding.
5) Repair-oriented action
Provide trauma-informed pastoral care. Create reporting pathways without retaliation. Offer support to those harmed. Invest resources in repair, not PR.
6) Insiders lead the accountability work
This is crucial. LGBTQ+ people should not have to educate the church, argue for their humanity, or absorb the backlash of change.
The strongest signal of safety is when insiders risk comfort, reputation, and belonging to protect those who were harmed.
If you are a church insider reading this, here is a hard question: are you asking LGBTQ+ people to be brave, or are you being brave?
Healing begins inside, even if the system never repairs
Healing is not mainly about winning arguments. Healing is about restoring inner connection, safety, and trust in yourself.
Here are a few gentle starting points.
1) Respect your protective instincts
Instead of shaming anger, numbness, avoidance, or suspicion, try a softer sentence:
“Of course this is here. Something in me is trying to keep me safe.”
2) Find what is underneath
When you can, ask:
“What feeling is this protecting me from?”
Often the answer is grief, shame, fear, or longing.
3) Offer yourself what you did not receive
Not advice. Not a lecture. Not a demand to forgive.
Witness.
“You should not have been treated that way. You did not deserve it. I’m here with you now.”
If you are Christian, you might add a prayer of presence rather than escape:
“Jesus, be with me here. Especially in the places inside me that still feel rejected.”
4) Separate forgiveness from access
Forgiveness is often pressured as a way to restore access to unsafe people. Healing needs a clearer frame.
You can release what you need to release without reopening a door leading to harm.
Boundaries are not bitterness. They are protection.
5) Let your body set the pace
If you have lived through spiritual trauma, some parts of you will need time before you approach anything religious. Respect that.
Slow is safe.
6) Rebuild spirituality in a way that honors your body
Many people rediscover spiritual safety through embodiment: breath, consent, gentle prayer, music that does not shame, community that does not demand silence about harm.
Your body is allowed to be part of your spiritual life.
7) Get to know Jesus again, slowly
Explore what your inner world believes about Jesus and His presence. Notice what happens inside when you picture Jesus. Be honest. Consider how you need Jesus to show up for safety and trust to grow. Consider asking for those things, directly.
What I would want my younger self to hear
If you grew up LGBTQ+ in a rejecting church, there is often a younger place inside you still carrying this belief:
“I am the problem.”
Here is a different message:
“You were not rejected because you were unlovable. You were rejected because a system chose certainty and control over compassion and truth. You didn’t deserve that. You are allowed to protect yourself. You are allowed to let people misunderstand you. You are allowed to seek God without returning to unsafe spaces.”
Closing: you do not have to do all the repair alone
If the church harmed you, the church has repair work to do. It is not your job to make it easy, palatable, or quiet.
Your job is your healing.
To stop abandoning yourself.
To respect the protective instincts that kept you alive.
To witness the vulnerable places still carrying exile.
To let compassion become embodied, not demanded.
If faith is going to be part of your life again, it should not require self-erasure. It should lead to deeper truth, deeper freedom, and deeper love.
And if you never return, you can still reclaim what was stolen: your dignity, your inner connection, your right to exist without apology, and your right to a spirituality that does not harm you.
Carter Doyle, PMHNP-BC, is a psychiatric nurse practitioner and founder of Leaf Psychiatry. He provides trauma-informed, integrative mental health care for adolescents and adults, helping people heal from both acute crises and long-standing trauma. Carter has completed EMDR training and Level 1 and Level 2 training through the IFS Institute, and he blends parts-informed work with evidence-based, spiritually sensitive care to support clients moving from inner conflict and shame toward clarity, compassion, and wholeness.
