Over the past year, if you’ve spent any time around me, you’ve probably noticed a shift. It’s been…a journey. One that’s pulled me back into my Catholic roots, sparked a deep love for Our Lady, and lit up something in me I didn’t even know was missing.
I’ve always been a tech nerd, a finance junkie, someone who appreciates life’s pleasures. But lately, something deeper has taken hold. It started with Fatima—a miracle approved by the Church where Our Lady appeared and changed the course of history. That hit me hard. Then I stumbled across writings about Saint Padre Pio, the miracle-working priest who passed not that long ago. His words about the Mass? They stirred something in me. Suddenly, I found myself drawn to every Holy Day of Obligation. Books on the Saints and Church Fathers followed, and slowly, it felt like I was waking up to a faith I’d grown up with—but never really lived.
People have noticed me trying to walk this Catholic path more seriously. I’m still figuring it out, still flawed, still learning. (Perfection’s a post-mortem deal anyway, right?) And yes—I’m gay. That hasn’t changed. It’s a big part of who I am, and it’s something I carry with me into this journey of faith.
What surprises me, though, is how rarely I get asked where I stand now on homosexuality or gay marriage. I get it—it sounds like a tightrope walk: being gay and Catholic. Feels like oil and water. Some assume I’ve had to “choose a side,” now that I’m leaning deeper into the Church. So here’s where I really stand.
For me, it comes down to humility. We’re all trying to figure out what’s true and what’s right, aren’t we? Even the most brilliant minds—scientists, scholars, theologians—disagree. And that’s not just with religion. Even in science, facts shift as new discoveries come to light. History is full of ideas we once swore by that turned out to be totally wrong. Sometimes the correction is loud and dramatic; sometimes it’s quiet and humbling. Either way, the point stands: no matter how certain we feel, we don’t know everything.
And that includes me. I’m no different. I can feel 100% sure about something one day, only to be proven wrong later. When that happens, I hope I have the humility to say, “I missed it,” especially if my belief affected others. Life can be like that—we chase what we think will bring peace, only to feel that emptiness sneak in again.
Now, on gay relationships? If it’s two people loving each other honestly—not using, not harming—I don’t see how that’s inherently wrong. That’s where my gut lands. But then I pause and ask: what do I really know that God doesn’t already know better? He created all of this—me, you, the whole world. If I believe that, then I have to consider that maybe there’s a reason behind His design that I don’t fully grasp yet. Thinking I know better? That’s the same trap pride always lays out—and it never ends well.
Some truths, I think, only become clear with grace. Not through debate, not even through experience. And honestly? I think if you already believe in God, it doesn’t take a lightning bolt from the sky to consider that maybe there’s a bigger picture we’re not seeing. For me, reading about Fatima was enough to trust that something bigger is guiding all this. That faith and logic don’t have to be enemies.
So these days, I’ve consecrated myself to Our Lady, and my prayer has become simple: “Lord, either help me understand why You might say no to what I want… or give it to me anyway—a happy family, a loving husband.” Sure, it’d hurt if He says no. But I also know He doesn’t owe me an explanation. I’m just one small soul in the vastness of His creation. I trust He’ll do what’s best, even if it’s not what I expected. That’s not me being more holy or better than I was before—it’s just me learning to trust more, and maybe hold my own desires with a looser grip.
I’ve had relationships I thought would complete me, only to watch them fall apart. Padre Pio nailed it: true happiness isn’t down here. Down here, the best we can find is a quiet peace—and even that usually comes when we stop chasing highs and start listening for stillness.
These days, I’m beginning to understand the kind of humility Mary lived, and the Church teaches. For years, it didn’t make sense to me—not even a little. But now? It’s starting to.
Anyway, thanks for reading this far. This is just me thinking out loud, sharing a snapshot of where I am. I don’t have all the answers—probably not even half. But I’m walking, asking, listening. And that feels like a good place to start.