"The Broken Son: Bound by Strings

At nineteen, I was living a lie, and everyone around me was convinced it was the truth. My mother beamed with pride, the church whispered their approval, and my engagement was paraded around as proof that I was exactly who they had molded me to be. A good son. A faithful preacher. A man ready to marry and build a godly home.

But inside, I was falling apart.

For as long as I could remember, my life had never truly been mine. Every decision and every expectation had been set for me—who I should be, what I should believe, even who I should love. And now, I was on the verge of sealing my fate, standing at the edge of a future I didn't want, with a woman I didn't love, in a world that would never accept the truth about me.

But how could I say no? How could I fight back when every path had already been carved out for me?

I tried. After my engagement, I threw myself into the role of a devoted fiancé, convincing myself that if I prayed hard enough, if I buried myself in scripture, if I simply obeyed, maybe—just maybe—the doubt and emptiness would fade.

That fall, I traveled to preach a revival at my fiancée's home church. It was a big deal—three weeks of preaching, worship, and doing what I had been told was my calling. The congregation was welcoming, and for a moment, I let myself believe that this was right, that this was what I was meant to do.

But the feeling never lasted.

No matter how many sermons I delivered, no matter how many hands I shook, no matter how many times I bowed my head in prayer, I couldn't escape the weight pressing down on me. It was like wearing a mask that didn't quite fit, a role I had been cast in but could never fully become.

I told myself it would get better. That with time, I would learn to be happy.

But the sadness never left. The depression was always there, lurking beneath the surface, a quiet whisper that no amount of scripture or prayer could silence. Because deep down, I knew the truth.

I was living a lie.

And sooner or later, that lie was going to crumble.

All this time, I knew that if I didn't do something, I was eventually going to hurt her. She was a sweet girl, and I cared about her like a friend, but I couldn't feel the way she did about me. I didn't love her, not in the way I was supposed to. So, we broke it off and went our separate ways.

But that wasn't the end of it.

My mother and the church didn't let it go. They pushed me to tell them what had happened—why we broke up, what had gone wrong. But how could I explain it to them? How could I tell them the truth when I knew they didn't care about me—they only cared about the image I presented? What would happen if I told them I was gay?

From the ages of nineteen to twenty-three, my mother continued to set me up with other girls, convinced that I just needed the right woman to "fix" me. The pressure built up until one day, I lost my temper with her. I told her it was none of her business.

That was when I learned the truth—she didn't want me with a woman because she thought I deserved love. She didn't want me with a woman because she thought I'd be happy. No, she wanted me with a woman because she thought it would "cure" me. She thought that if I just had the right woman, and the right life, all my feelings would disappear, and I'd become the man she had always envisioned.

I still hadn't told her I was gay. This was all an assumption on her part, a belief that if I just fell in love with the right girl, everything would fall into place. But deep down, I knew I could never live up to her expectations, and it was breaking me from the inside out.

My twenty-third year was a quiet time. Everything that had built up over the years finally caught up with me. I needed a change. I needed to focus on something else, something that could give me purpose beyond the role that had been forced on me.

That was when I decided to go back to school. I enrolled in the YES program to earn my diploma, something that felt like it could finally set me on a different path.

The decision wasn't easy. My mother still clung to the belief that I didn't need an education—that the pastor was right, that I could preach without a high school diploma. She sided with him, but I had made up my mind. I would graduate, no matter what they said.

Since I didn't have any high school credits, I had to complete all four years of high school to graduate. I threw myself into it, and in eight months, I finished it all

—graduating with honors and being inducted into the honor society.

Going back to school was one of the best decisions I ever made. It gave me a glimpse into a future where I could be someone different, someone free. It made me think about the possibilities beyond the life my mother and the church had laid out for me, and for the first time, I could see a future that was mine to create.

Being in school allowed me to become more comfortable with myself. I was starting to see a future that didn't revolve around the roles others had cast for me. It gave me space to breathe, to think, and to finally, for the first time, consider coming out to someone. I chose my cousin as the first person to test the waters.

One afternoon, we went for a ride, just to hang out like we used to. But this time, it felt different. In the past, those moments were confined to my room or at my house because my mother never let me out of her sight. Even now, it wasn't much better. She had my cell number and expected me to answer when she called. If I didn't pick up on the first ring, she assumed I was doing something I shouldn't. It didn't matter if I was at work or in a meeting; if I didn't answer, she accused me of hiding something. There was no space, no privacy. But despite the weight of it all, this ride felt like a small act of freedom—just the two of us, away from everything that had kept me bound for so long.

I knew it was time to take the step. He'd been there when I used to preach, so I knew the news would catch him off guard. As I told him, I watched his face closely, feeling my heart hammer in my chest. I braced myself for judgment, for rejection—anything that would confirm my fear of being abandoned. But instead, he surprised me.

He told me he kind of already knew. And just like that, a weight lifted from my shoulders. He didn't just accept it—he was supportive, offering words of reassurance that made my heart feel a little lighter. For the first time, I felt like I wasn't carrying the world alone. It gave me the smallest bit of courage.

But even with that, it still took months before I could gather the strength to tell my mother.

My entire life, she had made it clear what would happen if any of her children turned out gay. She said she would throw us out, make us leave without a second thought. And the worst part was the way she said it—her tone, cold and sharp, as if she had already made her peace with it. She even went as far as to hint that physical harm would follow, and those words were engraved in my mind from a very young age.

I couldn't forget the things she'd said about my older cousin when he'd come out. I could still hear her voice when she spoke about his family, the venom in her words, the shame she'd placed on him. The memory of her anger twisted in my mind, wrapping itself like a web I couldn't escape from. I fought every day to release it, but it clung to me, tightening its grip.

But I was tired of living a lie. I was tired of pretending to be someone I wasn't, of hiding who I truly was just to keep the peace. I wanted to stand up to her, to face the fear, and to finally stop running. Even if the cost was everything, I was ready to take that step. I was ready to be myself—no matter what she might do. I was ready to be free, even if it was just an inch i needed it.