My first husband was Josh, a gorgeous, talented Broadway dancer. We met on a nationwide tour of “Legally Blonde: The Musical.” (I played Warner, the handsome, condescending jerk.) The year was 2009, and gay marriage was legal in only four states: Massachusetts, Connecticut, Iowa, and Vermont.
Thankfully, in two of those states, I had good friends with beautiful spreads of land. Surely one of them could host our wedding. Iowa turned out to be a no-go — my friend’s family was too homophobic. So Vermont it was. My friend’s property was perfect: rolling green hills, a pond with an island, the works. And my friend was happy to host our big day.
The moment Josh and I got married was historic. Josh and I were pioneers, and our marriage sent a broader message to the world. It became proof that LGBTQIA+ people are just like everyone else, that when we stand up in the presence of friends and loved ones, we make the same promises as straight couples and mean them too. Josh and I carried the banner.
And then our marriage fell apart.
Gay marriage was a headline, a cause, a triumph. But gay divorce? It was a shame to bury in the shadows.
The grief I carried in the aftermath of the divorce came with additional weight: I had let the whole LGBTQIA+ movement down. I was supposed to set an example, but instead, I became a statistic in a brand-new category.
A simple but bone-deep belief settled into me: I was unlovable. Not just unlucky in love. Not just going through a hard season in life. Fundamentally, structurally, permanently unlovable. Unfixably unlovable.
So naturally, I moved home to Utah, the epicenter of Mormonism, the faith that had nurtured me and then rejected me.
The decision to return to the root of my trauma wasn’t rational. It came in response to a message I heard in the midst of my pain. “Go home and heal,” my heart urged me. I didn’t know what else to do, so I obeyed.
There was no plan and no job waiting for me. I just felt this quiet, insistent pull back to the place where I had first learned to feel like an outsider.
Brilliant strategy.
Thankfully, though, this unorthodox plan actually worked. My healing began in the first place that hurt me.
I stayed with my parents in Daniel, Utah (population: not many), and for a while, I didn’t do much of anything. Eventually, I decided to offer singing lessons. I didn’t have a healthy relationship with my own voice. I had spent years performing for survival, and I was done. But I felt like I could help other people find their voices. As I shepherded others into healthy, joyful singing, something healthy and joyful within me started to emerge quietly. And that part of me wanted to do something completely new: build a farm.
My farm started with a pig named Oliver. Then, I found myself constructing a “The Sound of Music”-themed chicken coop. Next came a mustang, an Arabian horse, and a small collection of alpacas and pygmy goats. I cared for my charges with love and vigor. People began to notice my muddy but burgeoning farmyard, and soon, my friend Tom enlisted my help. His kids were raising steers — Chancie and Tall Tail — for the Wasatch County Fair, and they invited me to join in preparing these cattle for the big competition.
As it turns out, working with animals is a pretty effective cure for feeling unlovable. When a pig needs you at 6:00 a.m. daily, you feel a sense of purpose. The chickens that you feed and protect never question your value. And when your steers eagerly greet you on your daily visits, it’s kind of an ego boost.
In late July, I stood at the fair and watched Tom’s kids parading Chancie and Tall Tail around the arena. At that moment, I suddenly understood that earning a ribbon isn’t the ultimate goal of showing cattle. The goal is to try, and the prize is the joy of showing up. Even if you don’t win the purple ribbon, you and your work are still valuable. Raising animals taught me that even if you fail at being the perfect example of gay wedded bliss, you’re still worth loving.
Animal husbandry may be a strange path to self-acceptance. But it was mine.
Jeff McLean is a vocal coach and the coauthor of “Stay in the Room: How a Gay Son and a Mormon Father Found Themselves and Each Other.” He and his husband, Joe, divide their time between West Hollywood, California, and Heber City, Utah.
Featured Photo by Howard R Wheeler on Unsplash.
