In December of 2016, my parents surprised me with a rare opportunity: our family would be making a trip to Mecca to perform Umrah, a deeply spiritual pilgrimage. Umrah consists of visiting Islam’s most sacred mosque and several other religiously significant sites to perform prayers.

The chance to go on a trip like this is incredibly important, as it is spiritually demanding and not to be taken lightly. One has to be in a clear state of mind and have a dedicated intention to visit for the purest of purposes before going on this journey. For this reason, I had to really pause and reflect on my current spiritual state before embarking on the trip.

Growing up, I had no one I could talk to about sexuality without judgment or fear of repercussions. I had to come to terms with my sexuality piece by piece, in secret and on my own. Never being able to approach an adult or spiritual leader regarding this issue amplified my feelings of loneliness and left me at a loss for what I was going through. It reinforced my fears that I was suffering through this alone.

As with any secret, the longer one carries it around, the heavier it becomes. The shame surrounding queerness only added to the stress of carving an identity in adolescence. Because I had no healthy outlet, I found that the only way I could cope with balancing school and family while struggling to understand myself was through numbing. I would constantly shut down my emotions and lie, not only to others but to myself. Have you ever fallen asleep on your arm, only to wake up and find that it has gone completely limp? It’s attached to you and yet so foreign — you can’t move it or feel with it. This is what had happened to my heart after years of numbing. Constantly burying the truth from others and myself had left me empty on the inside. It had robbed my character from understanding or valuing authenticity.

Struggling to fit in

I didn’t think there was anything inherently wrong with me being queer or Muslim — they had simply always been inherent parts of me for as long as I could remember. But the queer and Muslim communities had consistently reminded me of all the ways I couldn’t belong. I often met gay men who would ask me why I bothered being Muslim, as they assumed that it was an oppressive religion that couldn’t possibly serve me in any way. When I explained that it was a personal choice that worked for me, they would assure me that only self-hating queer people could be part of any organized religion. Others were more explicit in their prejudice, refusing to befriend me solely on the basis of my ethnicity or religion. I quickly learned that even in spaces where I was surrounded by people who were like me, acceptance was still conditional.

Being accepted in the Muslim community was just as much of a challenge. A few years ago at an event for Muslim students, I attended a Q&A session where young adults could ask imams questions about issues that they face as Muslim young adults. One person asked, “How do I deal with a friend of mine who is Muslim yet openly gay?”

The room quickly fell silent. Homosexuality was rarely discussed in such settings, so I was eager to hear the imam’s answer. He looked down at his hands for a moment, and then finally spoke.

“Homosexuality, like many struggles,” he began, “is an unnatural urge that one has to learn to control.” He looked about the room. “Much like with drinking and premarital sex, one has to rein in their desires.”