The Day I Tried to Cast the Gay Demon Out of Me

A story from the archives of my nervous system.

Part I

There are stories I've never told before. Not because I've forgotten them. If anything, it's the opposite. They've stayed with me. They've lived quietly inside me for years. To be honest, I'm not entirely sure why I've kept them there.

I think, in large part, it's because one of the deepest values I've built my life around is choosing to live as an empowered human being. Every day, life and death are set before us. And every day, as best as I know how, I choose life.

That mindset has served me well. It's carried me through seasons I never thought I'd survive. It's helped me build a life I genuinely love. It's one of the reasons I'm the woman I am today. And for that, I'm incredibly grateful.

But lately I've been realizing something. Sometimes, in our pursuit of empowerment, we accidentally bypass grief. Sometimes resilience becomes a way of outrunning pain instead of moving through it. I think I've done that more than I'd like to admit.

Not intentionally. Just… because I wanted to keep moving. I wanted to believe that what happened no longer had a hold on me. That I had processed it. That I had healed.

But the older I get, the more I realize our bodies don't care how long ago something happened. Pain doesn't operate on a timeline. It lives somewhere deeper.

There are smells that bring it back. Songs. Certain words. The sound of someone's voice. Sometimes even silence. A room can remind you. A prayer can remind you. A worship song can remind you. The memory doesn't just live in your mind. It lives in your body.

And every now and then, your body gently whispers, "I'm still carrying this."

So today, I want to tell you one of those stories. There are others. Stories I've carried quietly for years. Stories that still live somewhere beneath my skin. But this is the one that feels ready.

It's the story of the day I genuinely tried to cast the gay demon out of me. I almost laugh when I say that now. Not because it's funny. But because two realities exist inside me at the same time.

One part of me genuinely can't believe I thought that was possible. The other remembers there really was a young woman who believed it with every fiber of her being. A young woman who wasn't stupid. Or naïve. Or hateful.

She was devoted. She loved God. She wanted to honor Him with her whole life. And somewhere along the way, she had become convinced that the deepest parts of who she was weren't simply sinful… They were demonic.

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At the time, I was what the institutional church lovingly calls "struggling with same-sex attraction." Even typing those words now feels strange. Not because I want to erase my past. But because I no longer believe that's what was happening.

Back then, though… That language shaped my entire reality. I knew exactly what my community believed. I knew exactly what the sermons meant. I knew exactly what was acceptable. And I knew exactly where I fit into that picture. Or rather… Where I didn't.

Because at the time, I was deeply in love. Really, deeply in love. With my first girlfriend. Looking back now, there are moments when I wish I could go back and wrap my arms around both of us.

Not because I regret loving her. I don't. I regret how much I hurt her trying not to. I hurt myself, too. And if I'm honest, I hurt other people along the way. Not because I wanted to. But because when you spend enough time believing that love itself is wrong, you become willing to destroy beautiful things in the name of becoming holy.

I didn't know any other way. I knew that if I wanted to remain accepted… If I wanted to belong… If I wanted to continue in the community that had become my family… I needed to let her go.

So I tried. I prayed. Over and over again. I begged God to take the feelings away. I fasted. I cried. I searched for every testimony of someone who claimed they had been "set free." I listened to sermons. I read books. I surrounded myself with people who assured me this was something God wanted to heal.

Every morning I hoped I would wake up different. Every night I realized I hadn't. If anything… My love for her kept growing. And with it, so did the shame. Because the more I loved her… The more convinced I became that there had to be something deeply wrong with me.

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Around that time, I was working as an office assistant in a medical practice. One of my coworkers knew what I was going through. I don't remember every conversation we had. I just remember that she genuinely cared about me.

I think that's important to say. Because it's easy to paint everyone in these stories as villains. And while I certainly believe harm was done… I also believe most of the people involved thought they were helping me. Intent and impact aren't always the same thing.

Her parents were pastors at a small Spanish-speaking church nearby. Not just pastors. They specialized in deliverance. If you've never heard that word before, deliverance is generally understood as the spiritual act of casting out demonic oppression or breaking spiritual bondage. At least… That's how I understood it then.

She told me her parents could help me. That they had seen situations like mine before. That they knew how to pray. That they knew how to set people free. And I believed her. Not because I hated myself. Because I genuinely wanted to please God.

I think that's one of the biggest misconceptions people have about stories like mine. They assume they begin with rebellion. Mine began with devotion. I wasn't looking for permission to live however I wanted. I wasn't trying to justify anything. I wasn't trying to bend Scripture to fit my life. I was desperately trying to surrender. To become whoever I believed God wanted me to be.

Looking back now… That part breaks my heart the most. Not because I walked into that church. But because of why I walked into it. I walked in believing that if I could just get rid of this one thing… God and I would finally be okay. And I wanted that more than anything.

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Part II

She told me there was one thing I needed to do first. Fast. I honestly can't remember if it was twenty-four or forty-eight hours. Just water. Nothing else. Her parents would fast too. We were preparing spiritually. At the time, that made perfect sense to me. If this really was a spiritual battle, then of course you prepared for it spiritually.

I remember showing up to their church early that morning. It was my first time meeting them. I had never been there before. It wasn't a large, well-known church. Just a small Spanish-speaking congregation tucked away in Miami.

When I arrived, it was just the three of us. Me. The husband. The wife. The sanctuary felt almost empty. Quiet. Still.

Looking back now, I wish I remembered more of what the room looked like. Trauma has a funny way of doing that. Sometimes it preserves every tiny detail. Sometimes it blurs entire days. I don't remember what color the walls were. I don't remember what anyone was wearing. I don't even remember what songs, if any, were playing. But I remember leaving around six o'clock that evening. So whatever happened inside those walls… It lasted nearly an entire day.

For hours they prayed over me. They laid hands on me. They spoke in tongues. They quoted Scripture. They asked the Holy Spirit to reveal what was hidden.

I sat there wanting it to work. That's something I never want to lose sight of. I wasn't resisting them. I wasn't skeptical. I wasn't secretly hoping they would fail. I wanted them to succeed. Because if they succeeded… Maybe I could finally become the person I thought God wanted me to be.

Hours went by. Nothing happened. At least… Nothing they were expecting. Eventually one of them looked at me and asked, "Do you feel anything?" "Do you feel it leaving?"

It's strange looking back because I didn't even know what "it" was supposed to feel like. What does a demon leaving your body feel like? Does it hurt? Does it move? Do you cry? Do you shake? I had no idea. I just knew I desperately wanted the answer to be yes.

At some point, they placed a trash can in front of me. I remember staring at it. Thinking… What exactly am I supposed to do with that? They told me I might cough. That I might gag. That I might throw up. That whatever was inside me needed to come out.

And the longer I stared at that trash can… The more I became convinced that if nothing came out of me… Nothing had changed. I started watching my own body. Waiting for it to do something. Anything. A cough. A gag. A tear. A scream. A miracle. Instead… Nothing.

The room slowly became quieter. Not literally. Emotionally. The excitement that had been there that morning started fading. I could feel it. No one said I was failing. But I started wondering if I was.

Eventually they decided we needed to move. I remember them saying something along the lines of, "Let's go into the other room." As if maybe… Something stronger was needed.

This part is harder to remember. Not because nothing happened. But because I think my mind protected me from parts of it. I remember looking down at the floor. I remember feeling unbearably small. And I remember shame. So much shame.

Not shame because I liked women. Ironically… By that point I had become almost numb to that shame. This was a different kind. This was the shame of believing that even their prayers weren't enough for me. That somehow… I was worse than they expected.

Their fasting wasn't working. Their praying wasn't working. Their speaking in tongues wasn't working. And somewhere inside me, a thought began to grow. How broken do I have to be… …that even this isn't enough?

I remember thinking, God… How bad am I? I'm not trying to hurt anyone. I'm not trying to rebel. I'm trying so hard. Why won't You fix me? Why would You create me like this… only to ask me to spend my whole life trying to become someone else?

Those questions didn't feel theological. They felt desperate. They came from someone who genuinely believed she was the problem. Who genuinely believed that if God wasn't answering… Maybe she was simply too broken to be healed.

Hours had passed. I was exhausted. Hungry. Emotionally numb. And then… I did something I've never admitted publicly.

I made myself throw up. Not because I felt sick. I didn't. Not because something was coming out of me. Nothing was. I put my fingers down my throat because I didn't know what else to do. I thought… Maybe this is what they're waiting for. Maybe this is what I'm waiting for.

I leaned over the trash can. Forced myself to vomit. And suddenly… Everything changed.

They celebrated. They thanked God. They praised Him for my deliverance. For my freedom. For the chains that had supposedly been broken. I remember them being genuinely joyful. Like they had just witnessed a miracle.

And I remember standing there… Feeling absolutely nothing like someone who had been set free. I didn't feel lighter. I didn't feel cleaner. I didn't feel closer to God. I felt disgusting. I felt ashamed. I felt profoundly alone. I felt like a problem that had finally learned how to perform the right ending.

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Part III

That was about thirteen years ago. For a long time, I didn't know what to do with that memory. So I did what I've done with so many painful things throughout my life. I kept moving. I told myself it was in the past. That I'd survived it. That there was nothing left to revisit.

But healing has a funny way of asking us to come back. Not because it wants to trap us there. But because there's usually something we couldn't see the first time around.

When I think back to that day now, I don't remember it as the day I was delivered. I remember it as the day I learned what shame is capable of convincing a human being to do.

Shame convinced me that love needed to be extracted from me. That my heart couldn't be trusted. That my deepest capacity to love was evidence of my deepest brokenness. It convinced me that if I prayed harder… Fasted longer… Cried more… Or finally threw up into that trash can… Maybe God would love the version of me I was trying so desperately to become.

Looking back now… What breaks my heart isn't that I walked into that church. It's why I walked into that church. I wasn't looking for permission to do whatever I wanted. I wasn't trying to justify my desires. I wasn't trying to rebel. I was looking for God. I genuinely wanted to please Him. I genuinely wanted to be faithful. I genuinely wanted to become whoever I believed He was asking me to become.

I think that's an important distinction. Because people often assume stories like mine begin with defiance. Mine began with devotion. And somehow, somewhere along the way, devotion became confused with self-erasure. For years, I thought those were the same thing. I don't anymore.

Today, when I hear the word deliverance, I don't think about demons leaving bodies. I think about lies losing their grip. I think about shame slowly making room for love. I think about waking up to what has always been true but was buried beneath fear. I think about all the ways we've been taught to distrust ourselves. Our bodies. Our humanity. Our questions. Our tears. Our love. And little by little… Learning to trust again.

Maybe that's why I no longer see deliverance as becoming someone else. I see it as returning to who we were before fear convinced us we needed to disappear. For me, deliverance has looked like recovering parts of myself I was taught to abandon. My voice. My body. My curiosity. My dignity. My humanity. Even my questions. Especially my questions.

Because somewhere along the way, I stopped believing that questions were the opposite of faith. I started seeing them as one of faith's most honest expressions. I don't believe God has ever been intimidated by my questions. I think people have. And maybe that's an important distinction too.

One of the things I've wrestled with most over the last decade is this: If I believe every human being is made in the image of God… Then why was I taught to spend so many years trying to become less human? Less emotional. Less embodied. Less myself. Somehow, I confused holiness with distance from my own humanity.

Today, I think holiness might actually look a lot more like becoming fully human. The kind of human who can love deeply. Grieve honestly. Question courageously. Remain curious. And still find God there. Not despite those things. Within them.

I also want to say something that feels important. Sharing this story isn't about proving anyone wrong. It's not about shaming the pastors. Or my coworker. Or the church. If I'm honest, I think most of them genuinely believed they were helping me. Intent and impact are different things.

I can believe they loved me. And I can also tell the truth that what happened harmed me. Both things can be true. That's the kind of world I live in now. A world where multiple truths can exist at the same time. Where people can be sincere… And still be wrong. Where love can exist… And still cause harm. Where healing doesn't require rewriting history into heroes and villains. It requires telling the truth. As honestly as we know how.

I think that's why this story finally felt ready. Not because I've completely healed from it. I haven't. There are still moments when my body remembers before my mind does. There are still worship songs that tighten something in my chest. Still prayers that carry echoes of fear. Still parts of me that I'm gently learning to welcome home.

Healing, I've learned, isn't forgetting. It's changing your relationship to what happened. And my relationship to this story has changed. I no longer feel embarrassed for the young woman who walked into that church. I feel compassion for her.

She wasn't weak. She wasn't gullible. She wasn't stupid. She was doing what so many of us do. She was trying to be loved.

And today, if I could sit beside her in that sanctuary, I wouldn't tell her to have more faith. I wouldn't tell her to pray harder. I wouldn't tell her to throw up into that trash can. I'd take her hand. I'd look her in the eyes. And I'd tell her something I wish someone had told me thirteen years ago.

There is nothing wrong with your capacity to love. Your love was never the demon.

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If this happened to you… Or to someone you love… I don't know that I have the perfect words. I don't know that there are perfect words.

But I hope my story reminds you that you're not alone. I hope it reminds you that healing is possible. Not the kind of healing that asks you to disappear. The kind that slowly, patiently, lovingly… Invites you back to yourself.

And if that's what deliverance has become for me… Then maybe… Just maybe… I was never looking for an exorcism. I was looking for freedom. And after all these years… I think I'm finally beginning to understand the difference.

With love and compassion,

Ashley Diana Leon