Reconciling Love and Loss: Being Gay in a Family That Couldn’t Understand”

By Frank Marchese

There’s a kind of silence that echoes louder than words—a silence that follows after you’ve come out to the people you thought would love you no matter what. For years, I carried that silence with me. It became a shadow that followed me through birthdays, holidays, and milestones that I wished my family could have shared in.

When I came out, I hoped that honesty would bring healing. Instead, it brought distance. My family, rooted in traditions and beliefs that didn’t make room for someone like me, couldn’t see that my love was as pure, as real, and as sacred as anyone else’s. Their inability to understand left a wound that time alone couldn’t mend.

I think the moment I truly realized I wasn’t accepted was at my own sister’s birthday. What should have been a celebration felt like walking into a room where I no longer belonged. The air was thick with tension and quiet judgment. I tried to mask that discomfort the only way I knew how at the time—by numbing it. I took one too many Xanax and mixed it with wine, trying to drown the feeling of being unwanted. But pain always finds its way to the surface.

At one point, my uncle put his hand on my shoulder, and when I didn’t respond the way he wanted, he grabbed me harder. In that moment, something inside me snapped. I turned around and swung at him—not because I wanted to hurt him physically, but because I was hurting so deeply inside. It was years of rejection, silence, and feeling unloved boiling over. That moment was when everything in my family truly broke apart. The divide that had been growing quietly for years finally became impossible to ignore.

After that, home didn’t feel like home anymore. The air grew heavy with unspoken words, awkward glances, and quiet disapproval. Nights became unbearable, so I began sleeping in my office inside the Religious Education building at the church where I worked. I told myself it was temporary—that things would get better—but each night alone under the dim light of my desk lamp reminded me how much had changed.

My friends eventually found out what was happening. Without judgment, they opened their doors, their couches, and their hearts. Some nights I’d stay at one friend’s house, other nights at another’s—carrying my life in a backpack, holding on to pieces of hope that someone still cared.

My breaking point came when one of those friends—who would later become my best friend—insisted that I stop bouncing from place to place. She told me, “You deserve more than surviving. You deserve to live.” From that moment on, her home became mine. It was the first time in a long time I felt truly safe, seen, and loved for who I was.

But it wasn’t just safety that I found—I found family. My real family. My chosen family. In them, I discovered the love I had always longed for. I gained two new sisters—women who have stood by me through every storm—and through them, I gained a whole new generation of love: nieces and nephews who call me “Guncle Frank.” Every time one of them runs up to hug me or calls my name with excitement, I’m reminded that family isn’t defined by blood; it’s defined by love. I cherish each of them as my own.

My chosen family made every birthday, every holiday, and every celebration feel like I was one of their own. I was included, valued, and surrounded by people who wanted me there—not out of obligation, but out of genuine love. For the first time in years, I felt like I belonged. I had purpose again. I wasn’t the outsider watching joy happen around me—I was part of it.

Through my journey of conversion to Judaism, I’ve come to understand that family isn’t defined by who shares your last name, but by who shows up when the world grows quiet. My congregation became my anchor. My Rabbi became my teacher, my guide, and—most importantly—someone who reminded me that divine love doesn’t exclude.

Reconciling love and loss means accepting that both can exist side by side. I still grieve the family I wish I had, but I also celebrate the one I’ve found. I no longer chase the approval of those who can’t understand me; instead, I honor the truth that my life, my faith, and my love are all reflections of something holy.

To anyone who has faced the pain of being misunderstood by those who raised you—know this: your story doesn’t end with rejection. It begins with resilience. You are not alone, and your love is worthy.