Beneath the Veil: A Journey Toward Seeing Ourselves

Over the weekend, I heard a story that has lingered in my mind, one that speaks to the quiet tragedy of a life lived in shadows. It’s about a man in his eighties from Michigan, a man whose life, on the surface, seemed ordinary. He was married, had children, and lived through the mundane rhythm of life that many of us know so well. But beneath the surface, a much different story was unfolding, a story of secrecy, deep shame, and unfulfilled desires.

After being married for a while, he left his wife, a woman who had shared decades with him. Then, as abruptly as he left, he returned. He came back to her house, the house they had shared, because they had never divorced. I suppose it was still legally his home.

Yet even in his return, there was distance. He didn’t contribute financially, though he received a pension and other funds. Where that money went was a mystery to his wife and children. After his passing due to cancer, they began to unravel the threads of his life, hoping to find answers to the questions that had hung over them for years.

What they discovered was something they never expected: a secret life, hidden in the digital ether, subscriptions to countless gay pornographic sites, each one a testament to a part of him that he had kept locked away. The man they thought they knew, the man who had been their husband and father, had lived a life divided, a life torn between the expectations of who he was supposed to be and the reality of who he truly was.

The discovery left his family reeling, not just because of the financial burden of canceling these subscriptions without passwords, but because of the emotional weight of it all. They realized they had never truly known him. The man they loved, the man who had been a central figure in their lives, was a stranger in many ways.

I’ve thought about this man since hearing his story, about the life he led and the secrets he carried. It’s easy to judge him for his actions, to focus on the hurt he caused his family. But when I looked deeper, I saw a man who was profoundly human, a man shaped by a world that told him he had to hide who he was, a man trapped by the invisible chains of shame and repression, likely carrying his own deep wounds.

This story is not just about the man, though. It’s about all of us. It’s about the ways in which societal and religious expectations can rob us of our humanity, forcing us to live inauthentic lives. It’s about the quiet tragedies that unfold in homes across the world, where people hide parts of themselves out of fear of judgment and rejection.

The cost of living a life divided is steep. It’s a cost paid not only by the individual but by everyone who loves them. The man’s family paid that price in confusion and grief, in the painful realization that they never truly knew him. But the man paid an even greater price; he spent his life hiding, denying himself the freedom to be fully seen and fully loved for who he was.

I feel a deep sadness for him, not because of the choices he made, but because of the life he was denied, the life he might have had if he had felt safe enough to be himself. It’s a reminder of the importance of authenticity, of the courage it takes to step into the light of our true selves.

This story prompted me to reflect on some personal experiences from when I lived in Chicago.

When I first moved to Chicago from Mexico, I found myself living with a deeply religious, staunchly Republican family. They were kind enough to offer me a place with their older daughter, who had just given birth to twins with two little ones already, and I took on the role of a nanny, caring for their grandchildren. This family, the grandparents, had raised their five children in the principles of a “good, God-fearing Catholic” life. On the surface, it seemed like the ideal, devout family, structured, disciplined, and deeply rooted in their faith.

But beneath the surface, cracks in their unwavering beliefs began to show, particularly in the story of their eldest son. He too followed the path laid out for him, raising five children of his own, each brought up with the same rigid Catholic principles. Yet, life has a way of challenging even the most deeply held convictions. As it turns out, one of his children, a son, grew up and revealed himself to be gay.

What I heard followed was heartbreaking. Apparently, this young man, a beloved son and grandson, was cast out by his own parents. Disowned. Stripped of the love and acceptance that should have been unconditional. I now wonder if his parents ever paused to reflect on the irony of it all. They had lived their lives by the book, by the Catholic doctrine that they believed would guarantee them a good and holy family. And yet, here was their son, someone who defied their expectations and beliefs, now cast away from their lives.

Did they not see the glaring contradiction? They professed to follow a religion centered on love, compassion, and forgiveness. Yet, when their faith was tested, when they were given the chance to practice that love and compassion, they chose rejection and condemnation. They clung to their rigid interpretations, their fear of deviation, rather than embracing the very essence of what they claimed to believe.

I often wonder if they saw the irony. Did they ever stop to consider that perhaps this son, this beautiful, brave soul, was a gift? That he was sent to challenge them, to stretch the boundaries of their love, to push them beyond the limitations of their dogma? Could they not see that this was their test, their opportunity to live out the true principles of their faith?

In casting him away, they weren’t just rejecting their son; they were rejecting the very heart of their religion. They were choosing fear over love, judgment over compassion, hypocrisy over grace. It’s a painful irony, one that I’ve seen play out far too often in the lives of those bound by rigid beliefs.

It makes me reflect on the purpose of faith itself. Isn’t faith meant to be a guide toward love, kindness, and understanding? When faced with someone who challenges our preconceived notions, shouldn’t our first response be compassion? And yet, so often, religion becomes a tool for exclusion rather than inclusion, for judgment rather than understanding.

I feel deeply for that young man, for the pain he must be enduring. To be cast out by those who are supposed to love you unconditionally is a wound that cuts deep. But I also feel a strange sorrow for his parents. They have lost out on the chance to know their son fully, to embrace him for who he truly is. They’ve closed themselves off from the transformative power of love, clinging instead to the safety of their rigid beliefs.

It’s easy to see their actions as pure hypocrisy. And in many ways, it is. But I also see fear, the fear of confronting the unknown, the fear of stepping outside the boundaries of their carefully constructed world. It’s a reminder to me, and perhaps to all of us, of the importance of living our faith in a way that embraces rather than excludes, that loves rather than judges.

In this story, I see the complexity of human nature, the struggle between fear and love, and the profound opportunity for growth that comes when we choose compassion over condemnation. It’s a lesson I carry with me, a reminder of the kind of person I strive to be, the kind of person who, when faced with a challenge to my beliefs, chooses to love anyway.

There’s another story from that same family, one that has stayed with me for over thirty years, always a quiet thread of reflection I often pull on. The mother of the children I cared for had a secret, one that was revealed to me in passing, almost as if it were a forgotten whisper of her past. Before her marriage, before the life she built with her husband and their five children, she had another child, a child born out of wedlock, given up for adoption the moment he entered the world.

She was a young woman then, with a promising career ahead of her, and in the eyes of her deeply Catholic parents and quite possibly their community, this child was a transgression, a blemish on the path she was meant to walk. Unmarried, with a child, she faced a choice that wasn’t really hers to make.

The societal and religious pressures left little room for anything but giving the baby away. The weight of expectation, of living a life that conformed to the rigid standards of her faith, bore down on her.

Years later, I would see her mother, the grandmother, the matriarch of the family, at Christmastime. She was a formidable woman, a pillar of strength and pride, especially during the holidays. She would stash away gifts, an obscene number of them, perhaps an overcompensation for the grandchild absent each holiday, for her grandchildren, each carefully chosen, each a testament to her unwavering love and pride. She beamed with joy as she prepared to shower her grandchildren with these tokens of her affection.

But as I watched her, I couldn’t help but wonder. Did she ever think about that first grandchild, the one who wasn’t there, the one whose existence had been swept under the rug of societal propriety? Did she ever wonder if he was okay, if he was being treated well by the family who had taken him in? Was he also doted on by the family that chose to raise him? Did the thought of him ever weigh on her heart as she watched her other grandchildren open their gifts, laughing and playing under the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree? If she ever wondered about any of this, she never showed it at all.

And for me, observing the family as an outsider, gathered and merry, I couldn’t reconcile the immense love and pride she showed for her present family with the absence of love for the child who had come into the world at a time deemed “wrong.” How could such love and compassion be so readily withheld from that little soul, simply because he came out of turn? It was a stark reminder of the limits imposed by the rigid beliefs they held so dear.

I suppose, in the 1980s, the world was different. The stigma of an unwed mother was harsh, unforgiving. Communities like theirs, steeped in Catholic doctrine, left little room for mistakes, especially ones that were visible and lasting. The choices available to that young mother were shaped not by love but by shame and fear, fear of judgment, of ostracism, of being seen as less than worthy in the eyes of her faith and her community.

Now, as perspectives shift, we see teen pregnancies depicted on TV, glamorized even. The pendulum has swung, but the past remains. The scars of those earlier judgments linger, and I often wonder how they reconcile with them. How do they make peace with a doctrine that literally robbed them of the chance to embrace that child, to build a loving relationship with their firstborn and first grandchild?

It’s something that continues to make me question what the church is truly teaching.

Does it teach love, kindness, and compassion, as it professes? Or does it instead impose a rigid framework that leaves little room for the messiness of human life and love? How can a faith that is meant to guide its followers toward love and forgiveness be the same one that compels them to turn away from their own flesh and blood?

These stories, of the son disowned for being gay, of the child given up because he came at the wrong time, have shaped my understanding of faith and its complexities. They have forced me to confront the contradictions between the principles of love and compassion that religion espouses and the actions it often compels its followers to take.

In both cases, love was conditional, confined within the narrow boundaries set by their beliefs. And yet, what could be more divine than extending love and acceptance to those who need it most, especially when it challenges our deeply held convictions? These stories have left me questioning the true teachings of the God they worship, a God who, if He is love, would surely want His followers to embody that love in all its forms, without exception or exclusion.

After reflecting on all of this, I watched Will & Harper. The story Harper told broke my heart. So much despair for one life lived hidden. Seeing Will navigate his new relationship with her friend was like peering into the heart of what it means to be human, the deep, aching desire we all have to be seen, to be accepted, just as we are. It touched on the very essence of the stories I have shared, stories of people trapped in the confines of societal expectations, religious dogma, and the relentless pressure to conform. These stories remind us of the profound pain that comes from hiding, from being forced to live inauthentically, from yearning for acceptance in a world that often denies it.

The film stirred something deep within me, a question that has lingered for so long. Is there ever a moment in humanity’s evolution where we truly learn to see ourselves without the veils of gender, without the stigma imposed by religion? Can we reach a point where we are not defined by the roles we are expected to play, by the boxes we are forced into, but by the fullness of who we are, our souls, our essence, our humanity?

Throughout history, we have been conditioned to see ourselves and others through narrow lenses. Gender, religion, culture, social status, they have all served as filters, distorting the true image of who we are. They’ve dictated what is acceptable, what is worthy of love, and what must be hidden. But what Will & Harper so beautifully showed is that beneath all those layers, we are all just seeking the same thing: to be loved and accepted for our true selves.

I often wonder what it would take for humanity to shed those veils. Would it be a gradual awakening, a collective realization that the labels and judgments we cling to only serve to separate us? Or would it come in moments of profound individual breakthroughs, where each person comes to see themselves clearly, without the weight of imposed identities?

In many ways, I believe the journey starts with self-compassion. Before we can truly see and accept others, we must learn to see and accept ourselves. To strip away the layers of shame, fear, and expectation that have been placed upon us. To look in the mirror and see not a man or a woman, not a sinner or a saint, but a human being, whole, imperfect, and worthy of love.

Religions, for all their teachings on love and compassion, have often been the source of the very stigmas that prevent us from seeing ourselves and others clearly. They have imposed rules about what is right and wrong, what is pure and impure, what is acceptable and unacceptable. And in doing so, they have blinded us to the simple, profound truth: that we are all, in our essence, the same.

Perhaps the evolution of humanity lies in learning to move beyond these constructs. In realizing that gender is but a part of who we are, not the entirety. In understanding that love and acceptance should not be conditional, but a given. In embracing the diversity of the human experience, not as something to be feared or judged, but as something to be celebrated.

I hold onto the hope that there will come a time when we can all see each other, and ourselves, with clear eyes. When we can look beyond the superficial and see the radiant, flawed soul within. When the walls built by gender roles, religious dogma, and societal expectations crumble, leaving behind only the truth of our shared humanity.

Until then, we must continue to challenge the narratives that limit us, to question the beliefs that cause harm, to create spaces where authenticity is not just allowed but celebrated. And perhaps, in doing so, we can move a little closer to that moment of true understanding, true acceptance, and true love.

These stories are a call for compassion, for understanding. They are a reminder that behind every façade is a human being, struggling with their own fears and desires. It’s a call to look beyond the surface, to see the humanity in others, and to offer them the grace to be who they are.

As I think about my own journey, about the healing work I’ve done around my mother wound, I realize how much of my life was spent trying to be someone I wasn’t, trying to fit into a mold that was never meant for me. And in that realization, I find a deep well of compassion, not just for myself, but for everyone who has ever felt the need to hide.

To those who feel trapped by their own secrets, by the weight of shame and fear, I offer this: you are not alone. Your true self, the parts of you that you’ve kept hidden, is worthy of love and acceptance. The journey to authenticity is not easy, but it is worth it. It is a journey of peeling back the layers, of shedding the masks, and of stepping into the fullness of who you are.

The stories above are a reminder of what’s at stake. They are a reminder that living inauthentically comes with a heavy price.

But they are also a reminder of the power of compassion, of the healing that can come when we choose to see each other not as the world tells us we should be, but as we truly are, beautiful, flawed, and profoundly human.

☥