He Was Sent to Be “Fixed” — But He Was Never Broken

_{By: Pamela (An American Perspective)}

We don’t talk about it much in my family, but when my brother was seventeen, he was sent to a nunnery for three months. Not for prayer. Not for peace. He was sent there to stop being gay.

It was the late 1970s. He had just come out to our parents — not with a big declaration, just a few trembling words. In their fear, they did what they thought was “right.” They called it a “spiritual retreat.” In reality, it was an early form of what we now call conversion therapy.

There were no chains or physical punishments. But there was silence, scripture, and long conversations about sin. The message was constant: who you are is not okay.

When my brother came back, he wasn’t the same. He smiled less. He stopped drawing. He carried himself like someone smaller than before. Years later, he told me it wasn’t just the shame that stayed with him — it was the isolation. The betrayal of knowing his own family believed he needed to be erased in order to be loved.

That truth has haunted me. Because even as a young teenager, I loved him exactly as he was. But I stayed silent.

Today, the United States still debates whether LGBTQ+ identities are something to “affirm” or “correct.” We see lawmakers banning books, erasing history, and defending so-called “therapy” that promises to change young people who never needed fixing in the first place. We like to tell ourselves we’ve progressed, but my brother’s story shows how little fear has changed — only the language around it.

This is not just a story about one boy in the 1970s. It’s a story about what happens when fear speaks louder than love. And it’s a reminder of what families owe each other: not perfection, not agreement on everything, but safety. A home where you don’t have to fight for the right to exist.

My brother did eventually rebuild his life. He found love, joy, and a community that embraced him. But the silence between us — the years where I did not speak up — took longer to heal. That is the cost of complicity, even if it comes from fear.

If I could go back, I would tell him what I know now: You were never broken. You never had to be anything else to be loved.