When it comes to coming out, these Utahns say it's a marathon, not a sprint 

Page Petrucka's bright, bubbly face and cheerful smile have graced many screens, stages and classrooms. Last year, she played a diner owner in the Hallmark movie A Cozy Christmas Inn. It was a sequel to Christmas Under Wraps, in which she also appeared.

"I love the stage—being in someone else's shoes," she said. "Theater and film allow me to make people feel something."

Petrucka said she discovered her theatrical passion in high school and that it's what she wants to do for the rest of her life. And that discovery came a few years after she began to recognize another love that lived within her.

"When I was 11, just barely in the [Young Women's] Beehive class at church. I felt something for this gal who was a Mia Maid. Back then, I couldn't put my finger on it," Petrucka said. "Now I know I had a crush on her."

For many years, she didn't want to admit her same-sex attraction. She said she was deeply rooted in the Latter-day Saint faith and thought she might not really be gay. As a result, her coming out was a long time coming.

She felt discouraged in her 30s, wondering how her life would work out. "I wasn't living authentically, and I wasn't happy," she recalls. In her 40s, Petrucka earned her doctorate in fine arts, emphasizing acting, directing and playwriting. She also lived one street away from Ty Mansfield, a marriage and family therapist who co-founded North Star, a faith-based support organization for LDS people addressing sexual orientation and gender identity.

"Ty and his wife allowed me to admit the truth about myself," Petrucka said. "The self-protective walls I had built started crumbling after that."

So, she started coming out at 43. And after she left Utah and moved to Kansas, she found that people there didn't care about her sexual identity. "They loved me for me," she said. "My sexual orientation wasn't an issue."

In the future, Petrucka wants life to be that way for everyone—where acceptance is so broad that there's almost no need to "come out" in a traditional sense. And yet, she also believes that coming out offers healing benefits in today's society.

"Some people are very fearful and feel it is scary," she said. "But the sooner you take the leap and come out, the closer you are to loving and accepting yourself."

Petrucka says that while some immediate family members still struggle to accept her, her nieces and nephews are happy to hang out. She's looking forward to soon spending time with a niece in New York City. Until then, she's staying busy and living her best life teaching theater and spending time with her boxer dog.

Petrucka's also convinced that finding a wife is in her future. "I'm telling you, she's out there," she said. "I gotta find her."

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• Researcher Lisa Diamond says self-examination is a lifelong process.

Petrucka's story parallels insights offered by Lisa Diamond, a distinguished professor of developmental psychology, health psychology and gender studies at the University of Utah. Her research focuses on sexual orientation development, sexual identity and bonding. For example, Diamond says that during the pandemic, when people were trapped indoors with only their own thoughts, it was probably familiar for them to ask, "What do I want?" or "What do I believe?"

Diamond feels that it is a false notion that people reach a singular moment of certainty regarding their sexual orientation, never to be reexamined for the rest of their lives. Human development, she said, is lifelong, and perceptions in a person's 20s or 30s can become clearer over time.

"I'm 51," Diamond said. "A lot of my high school friends, once they hit 45, started to look at a lot of thoughts and behaviors and reasoned, 'Maybe I'm not as self-aware as I thought."

She continued: "All of us have wild parts, protective parts and scared parts. Becoming authentic and loving yourself is a way of saying, 'I am many things.' Pride could be a reminder to try loving all the parts of ourselves without judgment."

Turn it Off
Kent Carollo initially had no words for the difference he sensed about himself in elementary school.

"My interests and tendencies didn't align with my peers. I wasn't like other boys," he recalls. "I was drawn to the arts, music and, eventually, theater."

But while those around him didn't share his interests, pursuing them offered him a sense of community and he developed friendships with several "comfortably out" young men.

"While I didn't see all of myself in those people, I suspected that I was gay," he said.

Carollo grew up in an orthodox LDS home where the dialogue regarding same-sex relationships was "absolutely not." He said the message he lovingly received was that no one he knew, nor himself, could be gay.

"If you suspect such," he said of his upbringing, "don't entertain that part of yourself and move on."

Carollo said the queer side of himself didn't solidify until after he had served an LDS mission, graduated from college and married a woman, who he described as "incredible."

"I was genuinely happy with her," he said, "but not genuinely happy with myself."

During his marriage, Carollo said he was terrified of becoming a father. He worried that he would be a bad influence or a dysfunctional parent. It prompted him, for the first time, to confront his sexuality and pay a visit to a therapist.

He and his wife later agreed to divorce. For him, it represented the closure of an internal conflict.

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• Kent Corollo and Cole Rasmussen met at a barbecue.

"My wife was understanding," he said. "We communicated throughout the process, and I felt understood."

Carollo then found himself in a new phase of coming out, living authentically and establishing a new way to practice his faith and spirituality on his own terms. In time, at a backyard barbecue for volunteers from an LGBTQ+ nonprofit, he met Cole Rasmussen.

"Cole introduced himself, then left the gathering," Carollo remembers. In time, Rasmussen reached out on Facebook, saying it was nice to encounter Carollo at the barbecue. They swapped a few messages and met up for dinner, Carollo recalled.

Their relationship didn't take off immediately. Carollo was newly out, navigating his sexuality. He briefly dated a few other men, but said he found himself drawn back to Rasmussen.

"Dating was overwhelming," Carollo said.

After falling in love during COVID, the two married three years ago. Carollo said he is proud and glad that all of their family members attended the wedding. The two are now parents to a fur baby—a Jack Russell terrier named Olive.

To those beginning a similar journey, Carollo suggests: "The most important thing you can do is take the time to evaluate who you are. You don't have to decide anything quickly—there is no right or wrong way to express your identity."

Carollo added that a person doesn't have to instantly replace their ideals—like those of Mormonism—with another. Some may find a way to include a prior faith community in their lives, and others may not.

"The most important thing is to take the time to evaluate who you are," he said. "You are the best authority on what you need."

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• Brayden Singley says he now feels “weightless.”

Spin Cycle
Choreographer and dancer Brayden Singley recently finished a Broadway tour of Fiddler on the Roof. He says his Fiddler experience was exceptional, and that its themes of challenging traditions echoed his own journey that began with his earlier life in Utah.

"Many of my friends and family figured I was gay growing up," he said, "but they let me figure it out on my own."

Singley was all-in as a Latter-day Saint, he said, serving a mission and then staying in touch with his former companions. "I was quite happy as a closeted gay member of the LDS church," he said. "But there was always something deep down that weighed on me."

Singley said that when he would pray, he would regularly include apologies to God for his gay thoughts, as well as pleas to be healed. "My highs were extremely high, but my lows were very low and frequent," he recalled.

When Singley moved to New York, queer people who were comfortable with themselves surrounded him. As a result, he started shedding some of his belief traditions.

"My faith taught me that I couldn't be happy being who I was and loving who I wanted to love," he said. "I felt that I could either be kicked out of my faith or choose to leave. I chose to leave."

Singley has had three boyfriends since he started dating in 2020, and he has now been single for about a year. He said it would be wrong to describe him as unhappy before and happy now, but he added that he struggled for a time with defining and describing the different kind of happiness he experiences today.

Singley said he used to feel trapped in a circular pattern, but that changed after coming out and stepping away from his former faith.

"I realize the difference in my happiness now is freedom. There is no more cycle," Singley said. "My highs are frequent—daily even—and my lows are few and far between. I used to be happy and trapped, but now I am happy and free. I didn't realize that happiness could feel weightless until now."

Diamond, the University of Utah researcher, said that everyone who goes through the coming-out process and comes out the other side experiences periods of self-doubt. But with empathy and compassion, she said, they can arrive at a place of personal pride as well as community Pride, which Diamond described as a beautiful opportunity for LGBTQ+ individuals to check in with, love and celebrate themselves.

"Take pride in your everyday life and honor yourself," she said. "Take a look at yourself with love, empathy and courage."