I Wanted to Become a Nun: What Happened?

When I was about eight years old, I knew what I wanted to be when I grew up. The other kids in my class wanted to be astronauts or dancers. I wanted to be a nun. 

I was extremely devoted to religion at a young age, which was strange in my family, because we only went to church about once a year (if that.) I was in my school’s church choir, and I loved it. I dragged my family to church, went to Communion every month, and looked up to my pastor unlike any of my peers. If we had yearbook superlatives in the third grade, mine would have been “most likely to become a pastor” (because no one knew what nuns were except for me.) So the big question- how did I turn out a gay atheist? 

The reason why I wanted to be a nun, in short, was that I didn’t know I could like girls. I felt nothing in the romance department for boys, so I thought, “I’ll just turn to Jesus!” This quickly grew into an obsession with everything religious, and I knew every nook and cranny of the church. I gave a tour to my Bible class, teaching them things even the teacher never knew about the building. I fully believed in my “fate” as a follower of God, but that stemmed out of my fear of Hell.

I was concerned for my closest friends if they did not have the same beliefs as me. I did not have the emotional maturity that comes with accepting others’  beliefs because I was worried that they would be condemned to Hell. I prayed that they would not “insult” Jesus and the word of the Lord. As an eight-year-old, I’d pray that adults who crossed my path stayed pure until marriage. Usually, these types of children are ones who grew up in the faith and were taught early by their parents. I was not even baptized, as my parents wanted me to make my own choice based on how I connected with religion; however, they did not account for how manipulative the pastors they surrounded me with could be. I was a young girl, hearing that all of my mistakes and sins would be erased if I just believed. Great deal, right?

But my mistakes weren’t truly mistakes. They were the result of internalized homophobia and an emotionally unintelligent child. My knowledge of emotional maturity was little to none, and so was my knowledge of the queer existence. 

I went to a religious school, but my peers just sat through the chapel, not listening to anything that went on during the sermons. I, on the other hand, sat on the edge of my seat, wanting to absorb all of the information spoken. This went on until I was about twelve years old, which was coincidentally when I found out why I never liked boys like my friends did.

No one discussed homosexuality at my church and no one outside of the church told me about it, either. I truly understood the concept at age twelve after watching The L-Word on TV and scouring social media. I had been around some queer people before, but I could not grasp the fact that it could be something that I could ever identify with. I knew that there were some churches that accepted queer people, but I was scared— terrified that I could be rejected and kicked out of a place that I knew and loved so much. 

I went through my old diaries the other day, and I found an entry that was about not liking boys like all of my friends: “I don’t think I could ever date [a boy,] or even marry [one.]” I didn’t understand what I felt, but I knew that it wasn’t “normal.” So, I turned to Christianity. I became a devout worshiper at age eight. Unfortunately, it never filled the void, it never told me that I was normal. I prayed and prayed to someone, anyone to try and fix me. No one answered. 

Even though I do not believe in God anymore, I still find myself worried I will end up in Hell or that I made the wrong decision. But, with whatever I think, no one knows for sure what happens after we die. This is the fact that has been plaguing me since I was eight, and I do not know if I will ever make it go away. 

So, I wanted to be a nun. And then I didn’t. But it was not because of my loss in faith- that happened later. It was my loss of hope that I could ever be “normal.”

By Caroline Lackey