I was born in September 2002. I was only four months old when my mother left me in the care of my father to go abroad perhaps in search of a better life, or another man. My father, unable to care for me, left me with my grandmother. As I grew up, I was often bullied and called adopted, a child with no real parents, an outsider.
I have three older half siblings from my father’s first family, and one older sister from another woman. I was the only child of my father and mother, and there were two children from my stepmother. My mother and my siblings’ mother are not married to my father.
When I was 2 or 3, my father took me with him to live with his new partner. I was just a child, so I called her “Mama,” thinking she was my mother. But I started to wonder. Whenever my father wasn’t around, she would beat me with hangers. I never told anyone; I was too scared. At 3 years old, I was already caring for her newborn baby, and if the baby cried, I was the one who got hit. When my father and she eventually separated, I realized she was never my real mother.
We went back to my grandmother, and I was truly happy. Every Sunday, I would be dressed in my best clothes to attend church. My father called it a “holy activity.” I would close my eyes and sing the Our Father with my hands raised, crying, though I didn’t fully understand why. I just knew there was a God, and I called Him, Father.
But my father would leave again. And whenever he came home, I would rejoice because it meant we’d go to church again. He’d dress me well, and I’d feel proud to be with him and with God. But eventually, his visits became months or even years apart. Each time, he had a new partner. As a child, I thought this was normal.
He once took me to a baptism where his new partner was immersed in water for healing. I was overjoyed to join. I’d always wanted to be baptized. I even jumped into the water out of excitement. But when I came out, something in me felt incomplete. I held that quietly in my heart, waiting for my father to tell me I was now truly baptized. But that moment never came.
Later, my cousins would tease me again, calling me adopted, reminding me I had no parents. I cried alone. I didn’t understand. My father was alive; my grandmother loved me. But their words hurt. Deep inside, I knew they were just children, unaware of what they were saying. Still, the pain lingered.
My grandmother was Catholic and would bring me to prayer gatherings. We had an image of Our Mother of Perpetual Help at home, and when it accidentally broke, I cried bitterly, even though it wasn’t my fault. My grandmother taught me to pray the Rosary. She had a handwritten prayer guide, and I memorized it quickly. Soon I was the one leading the prayers. They were amazed.
Even though my father’s religion was different, I loved going to church with my grandmother. I didn’t know the differences between religions. I only knew there was one God.
I started kindergarten at a Christian school called “God’s Children,” and it made me happy. I felt like I truly belonged to God. But when I was about to enter Grade 1, everything changed. My aunt told my grandmother that they needed to put me under their name, “for school purposes,” so I wouldn’t be bullied. I didn’t understand the implications then. They said they would support my education in exchange for my obedience. My grandmother warned me not to agree, but I wanted to study so badly I said yes.
One day I found my original birth certificate and read my mother’s name. I was overjoyed. But my aunt tore it in front of me, telling me it was fake, that I had no right to know my parents, that they were worthless. That broke something in me. I still loved my parents even if they weren’t around.
I once joined my grandmother in church without being asked. That was my first time entering St. Peter Parish. In silence, I prayed a seemingly impossible prayer: “Lord, help me find my mother.”
Years passed. My aunt and grandmother often fought over me. My aunt kept turning me against my grandmother. I began avoiding my father and even my grandmother. I was being brainwashed to never love or acknowledge my parents. I started feeling worthless. I once confided in my grandmother, but my aunt humiliated me in public and threatened me not to tell anyone again.
At times, my grandmother would leave for the province and leave me with my uncle who had special needs. The little money she left wasn’t enough for food, so I’d save my school allowance just to eat. That’s when my depression began. I started feeling distant from everyone, even from my grandmother. We no longer prayed the Rosary except when someone died.
I grew spiritually hungry. Whenever someone invited me to church, I’d go to any church believing God would understand. But something always felt missing. They criticized other faiths, and I didn’t understand why. I kept searching. I even went back to a Protestant church to wait for my father, hoping he’d return, but he didn’t.
In Grade 10, I learned that my grandmother and her siblings were migrating to Hawaii. Because of issues with my birth certificate, I couldn’t go. I was terrified of being left behind with my aunt.
Around that time, a friend invited me to church. I secretly went, even though my aunt wouldn’t allow it. That was when I started attending Bible studies. But when I was caught, my aunt got angry and said going to church would lead me nowhere—because she followed a different sect (Dating Daan). After that, the invitations stopped.
One day, while browsing Facebook, I randomly added someone whose surname felt familiar. Then one day, I overheard my father mention my mother’s full name, and it matched the surname of the guy I added. So, I messaged him and asked if he knew her. He replied, “She’s my sister.” And just like that, I found my mother through chat. She was abroad.
At that time, I was already planning to leave home because of the verbal abuse and threats.
I entered a same-sex relationship out of being curious in my identity, thinking I had found love, care, and safety. She helped me escape. Her mom let me stay with them. I thought I was finally free. But every night, I still felt a strange emptiness calling me somewhere I couldn’t explain.
This girl and I became each other’s support through family issues. But she screamed at her mother, and it hurt me. I told her she should still love and respect her. Our relationship had many ups and downs. We separated and reunited several times.
Eventually, my grandparents abroad helped me pay for my studies after learning the truth about how I was treated. I finished high school, took a short course, and started working. But even as I worked and kept busy, my anxiety would return.
Sometimes, I’d walk alone at night, hearing voices telling me to jump off a bridge. But each time, I’d suddenly find myself in front of St. Peter Parish Shrine of Leaders kneeling, lighting a candle, staring at the altar. I didn’t know how I got there. I wasn’t even Catholic, but something was calling me, guiding me.
I wondered why I was in a same sex relationship. I didn’t really want to be bisexual or lesbian or LGBTQ at all. Was I must supposed to be? Was I doing right?
There was a lot of judgement in the almost five years of being in a same sex relationship. They said we were going to hell. Despite hearing that, we still believed in God but sometimes did question ourselves. It wasn’t where I wanted to be. We tried to fix our relationship, but I still felt the same emptiness. We eventually ended for good.
I realized I had always felt this void. I had forgotten how to smile, how to pray. But I remembered I once prayed to God to remove from my life those who spoke ill of me and hindered my growth. Maybe that prayer was answered.
In December 2024, I decided to attend a Misa de Gallo church event. I didn’t expect much, but something changed. I completed all nine days, and the priest’s homilies moved me. One of them had such a gentle, peaceful presence that my fear of priests faded. I kept coming back to the same church, St. Peter Parish Shrine of Leaders, and would later realize that St. Peter was walking with me, silently guiding me back to the faith all along.
That was the moment I felt truly free. I thought I was longing for someone, but it was God’s love I needed all along.
Even in my childhood, I felt it deep inside, but I forgot Him because of being in a same sex relationship. I went back to the church and searched for something that I felt was calling me.
One day, I attended a healing Mass, and daily pain I’d felt in my lower abdomen disappeared. Since then, I’ve attended their monthly healing Masses.
Then on the Feast of the Presentation, I stood at the back of the church. As the priest lifted the host, I saw a vision. Jesus stood behind him, His heart glowing like a candle’s flame. His light passed through the priest and reached me. I was fully awake, but it felt like a dream.
That moment was the start of my conversion.
I went home shaken. I cried and prayed. Is it really Jesus? Why did the light come from his heart? Was He showing me mercy? I asked him to forgive me. After that day, I started reading and searching deeper.
Then a dream came. I saw an image of Our Lady left lying on the ground, abandoned. It hurt me deeply to see her that way. So I picked her up. And as I lifted my gaze, I saw that I was now surrounded by saints I didn’t yet recognize. They stood silently around me like protectors in the dark.
Still shaken from the dream, I went to Mass. I didn’t know then that it was the Feast of Our Lady of Lourdes. But when I entered the church, I saw something that stunned me. The same image of Our Lady from my dream was standing at the front of the church. And on the right side of the church were the very saints who had encircled me in my dream.
Later, I discovered who they were: St. Joseph, St. Dominic Savio, and St. Peter. Looking back, I realized that it was Peter who had been silently guiding me all along.
On a different night, I had a panic attack and aimlessly wandered in the dark. I didn’t know where to go. I just kept walking until I found myself standing in front of the church. It wasn’t a coincidence. It was a call. The more I searched, the more I understood.
When the feast of St. Peter came, the truth I was looking for was revealed. Peter was the rock. The Church was home. And I had never really been alone.
When the Lord calls you, He will keep on calling even if others try to hold you back.
I asked God to send someone who could guide me and help me grow in faith. He answered quickly with two men I never expected would become such a blessing in my life. I thank God every day for them for guiding me gently, listening with patience, and helping me grow in the Catholic faith.
I used to think being Catholic was just a label, but everything changed. I met people who truly encouraged me and filled my heart with faith. I want to be like them to share the Gospel, be a light to others, and give it all back to Jesus, because He deserves it. It all came from Him.
-Xyril Mae, newly baptized Catholic, writing from the Philippines
