Protesters picket outside the Supreme Court on Oct. 7. (Washington Blade Photo by Michael Key)
As the United States Supreme Court heard oral arguments in Chiles v. Salazar last week—a case that could overturn bans on conversion therapy in more than 20 states and the District of Columbia—a group of conversion therapy survivors gathered in Washington, D.C., to support one another and ensure their experiences are not ignored.
Some members of the Conversion Therapy Survivor Network (CTSN), a nonprofit organization that provides a safe, non-therapeutic space for survivors nationwide, began their day on the steps of the Supreme Court. The small but dedicated group of protesters held signs, waved Pride flags, and shared stories of survival. They were joined by representatives from the Born Perfect Campaign, the Human Rights Campaign, and The Trevor Project—the LGBTQ suicide prevention nonprofit that has worked to save queer lives since 1998.
The case centers on whether parents have the constitutional right to subject their children to conversion therapy under the First Amendment’s protection of religious freedom. Dozens of states have banned the practice, citing overwhelming evidence that it does not change sexuality or gender identity and often leads to long-term psychological harm. Survivors of conversion therapy are at significantly higher risk of depression, anxiety, and suicide, according to every major U.S. medical association—including the American Psychiatric Association, the American Psychological Association, and the American Medical Association—all of which have disavowed the practice.
Kaley Chiles, a Christian therapist from Colorado, brought the case after arguing that Colorado’s 2019 law banning conversion therapy for minors violates her First Amendment rights. Chiles, who provides what she describes as “religiously informed care,” contends that the law restricts her ability to counsel clients in accordance with “biblical understandings of sexuality and gender.”
During oral arguments, the Supreme Court’s conservative majority appeared sympathetic to her claim that the law constitutes “viewpoint discrimination.” Justice Samuel Alito went so far as to say the ban represented “blatant viewpoint discrimination,” signaling that the court may be willing to expand First Amendment protections to cover conversion therapy.
For survivors gathered just blocks away, that prospect was devastating.
Following the hearing, CTSN held a vigil and celebration at As You Are, an LGBTQ bar and café in Southeast D.C. that has become a haven for the queer community. On the bar’s second floor, posters from the protest were propped against the wall—“I refuse to hate myself for your comfort” and “Conversion therapy hurts kids, hurts families, hurts faith”— as two phones livestreamed survivors’ stories to TikTok. The testimonies were both wrenching and cathartic.
As the meeting began, the group held a moment of silence for those who did not survive their experiences with conversion therapy, setting the tone for the urgent need to end the practice.
Tears welled in the audience and among speakers as they took the microphone to share how conversion therapy had scarred—and in some cases nearly destroyed—their lives.
“Since when is the freedom of religion more important than ‘do no harm?’” one survivor asked, encapsulating the frustration that ran through the room.
Curtis Lopez-Galloway, founder and president of CTSN, said the only way to end conversion therapy is through awareness. “The one way we’re going to defeat conversion therapy is by education,” he said before sharing his own story. “The more people that know about the harms, the less likely they are to take their children—or themselves—into it.”
Their commitment to breaking the cycle of harm echoed throughout the afternoon. Survivors from across the LGBTQ spectrum—gay, trans, and asexual—shared their experiences of rejection, isolation, and recovery.
Cairn, who once trained as a youth minister, recalled how their church’s teachings were weaponized against them. “We prayed for the gay to go away,” they said. “The Bible was used as a weapon to make me submissive to the normal gender roles I was destined to fill.”
They remembered being instructed on how to “walk like a lady” to suppress their masculinity. “I was advised how to walk like a lady because I have swagger. I still do,” Cairn added with a small smile, drawing laughter and applause from the crowd.
But the damage ran deep. “That year in Bible school ended my career as a youth minister—but it also ended my personal faith in God,” Cairn said. “When you are told repeatedly that you’re going to hell if you choose this lifestyle, it starts to take a toll on you.”
Years later, they found affirming pastors and began rebuilding their life. “After 35 years,” Cairn said, “I started to live my life unashamed.”
Other speakers shared stories of lives fragmented by fear. “I lost 20 years of my life,” said Gwen Brossard, a queer and nonbinary person living in California. “It’s hard to settle with the enormity of the grief.”
“The inner conflict and continual effort of examining my attractions while trying to counter them left me emotionally and physically exhausted,” she said. “The therapy radically altered the trajectory of my life. I felt adrift, severed from my previous sense of meaning and belonging.”
For Al Linkskoog, a gay man who subjected himself to the practice due to the insurmountable pressure he felt from how the world treated LGBTQ people, conversion therapy’s toll was both spiritual and psychological. “They told me I was broken,” he said. “It’s an interesting, although bogus, way of trying to solve a problem—decide what the problem is before even meeting the person.”
“Being called broken is a dismal diagnosis. It means you’re already in pieces,” he continued. “Every prayer, every determination to change—nothing changed. All the years of trying to change were unnecessary. I was perfectly fine as I was.”
Years later, he said, he finally found peace. “No more need for closets. I have full run of the mansion. So now I can truly say: I am not broken.”
Sarah, who identifies as asexual, reminded the audience that conversion therapy doesn’t only target gay and trans people. “Asexuality is sometimes called the invisible sexuality,” she said. “Many ace folks encounter professionals who believe their lack of attraction is a problem to fix instead of a neutral fact of their identity.”
She challenged assumptions about what love and intimacy should look like. “Our existence doesn’t just challenge compulsory heterosexuality—it questions compulsive sexuality,” Sarah said. “We are here. We are queer. We aren’t going anywhere. We don’t need to be fixed—only to love the way we love and be loved for who we are.”
One of the most harrowing stories of the night was from Caleb Bailar, a trans man from England who was not in attendance but whose story was read by Samuel Nieves, the board director for CTSN.
“My phone was taken away, my messages read daily. I was told I was being misled and was too young to know what I wanted from life,” he recalled.
He described a form of punishment his mother practiced called “kid hell,” a conversion therapy method derived from a manual circulated among anti-trans groups. “My kid hell was to have no time truly alone,” he said. “I could not use the phone, computer, or journal in private. Whenever I would hyperventilate and scream and beg for it to be over, my mom would hold me and tell me this was for my own good.”
“Every time I expressed myself or was interpreted correctly, I would flinch and brace for punishment,” Nieves read. “Once, she threatened to unalive herself if I got a mastectomy. I found out my experience could be considered conversion torture—the horror I had endured was a map. I can joke about it now,” he added quietly.
“The pain is real, but so is the healing,” said one organizer after the stories were shared. “We can’t let the Court forget that.”
For those in attendance, the message was clear: Their survival is their protest.
As the Supreme Court deliberates the Chiles v. Salazar case, survivors hope the justices will remember that the cost of conversion therapy cannot be measured in legal briefs or religious rights—but in lives.
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