When Halle Martin, 23, toured Azusa Pacific University as a high school senior, she felt a spiritual nudge to attend. “I’m a pastor’s kid, I grew up in church,” Martin tells Her Campus. “And something about APU just felt right. I had this affirmation like, ‘You’re supposed to be here.’”
But once on campus, the disconnect set in. When Martin was a junior, she had a “kind of sexual awakening” as a bisexual woman. And, growing up as an Evangelical Christian, she grappled with the fact that her identity would be viewed as a sin by the church. “I remembered praying as a kid that none of my siblings were gay, and wondering if I was — but I didn’t have the language,” Martin says.
For queer students attending religious universities, the experience can be isolating. Some campuses enforce policies that prevent openly LGBTQ+ students from participating in leadership. Others limit visibility by taking disciplinary actions against LGBTQ+ folks, or banning protest efforts altogether. And yet, even in those conditions, students are building a community.
“I didn’t find true community until choir,” Martin says. “Turns out most of them were queer, too — they just hadn’t come out yet. One by one, we did. Our group chat is literally named after that.”
For some, community is discovered in shared struggle. Sam*, a junior at Walla Walla University, says her upbringing in the Seventh-Day Adventist church shaped every part of her life — including her schooling. “I tried to switch to public schools but wasn’t allowed to,” she says. “When applying for colleges, I only applied to one because my parents painted it as my only option.”
Put yourself in new spaces. That’s how you find people who align with you.
Sam*, 20
But even at Walla Walla, she’s found slivers of belonging — especially through Haven, the school’s unofficial LGBTQ+ club, and small in-person protests. And though Sam says she’s always struggled to find community, she’s actively navigating ways to meet other folks that align with her. “Getting off campus helps,” she says. “Visit local coffee shops. Put yourself in new spaces. That’s how you find people who align with you.”
Ross Gurule, also a junior at Walla Walla, found connection almost immediately. “I formed a solid group of friends during our freshman orientation week, and I’m still close with them,” he says. But that didn’t shield him from discrimination. While running for student body president, he claims he was removed from the race for being in a same-sex relationship — a decision that prompted a protest attended by hundreds of people. “One of the most impactful moments was the closing,” he recalls. “Together we all sang ‘See the Love.’ It really captured what we were trying to accomplish.”
Being out has given me opportunities for people to approach me and come out to me, which has helped build community.
Lucie Seese, 20
Despite institutional roadblocks, these students are choosing to stay at their religious universities — and not just to prove a point. They stay because of the people they’ve found, the spaces they’ve created, and the futures they’re helping shape.
Lucie Seese, a junior at Geneva College, started their school’s unofficial Queer Student Union after organizing a protest against an anti-LGBTQ+ speaker that was set to appear on campus. As one of the few out folks on her campus, Seese shares they’ve received their fair share of backlash. “I’ve been called demon-possessed or a witch every semester,” they say. “But being out has given me opportunities for people to approach me and come out to me, which has helped build community.”
Community gave me the strength to keep showing up — even after they tried to silence me.
Ross Gurule, 20
After the protest, Seese says the QSU piqued the interest of several students looking for community. “So many people reached out to join,” they say. “I wanted to show other queer students that they weren’t alone.” Though, according to Seese, the QSU can’t officially advertise or receive campus funding, it’s become a vital lifeline. “I honestly don’t think I’d still be in college without the QSU and my community.”
Across these campuses, community isn’t always loud — but it is transformative. It’s late-night group chats, whispered support, and affirmations written in chalk on public sidewalks when intolerance attempts to silence pride. It’s watching someone else come out and realizing you’re not alone — even when it feels like it.
When you’re constantly told you don’t belong, finding people who say, ‘I see you, I love you, and I’m here’ — that’s everything.
Halle Martin, 23
For queer students on conservative religious campuses, community isn’t just comforting — it’s essential. “Community gave me the strength to keep showing up — even after they tried to silence me,” Gurule says. “It reminds me I’m not alone, and I’m not wrong.”
Seese put it even more simply: “We protect each other. When the institution fails us, we hold each other up.”
“It’s life-saving,” Sam says. “You need people who get it. People who remind you that your existence isn’t up for debate.”
And for Martin, that solidarity was sacred. “When you’re constantly told you don’t belong, finding people who say, ‘I see you, I love you, and I’m here’ — that’s everything. That is church.”