Uncloseted Media published this story on April 28.

By EMMA PAIDRA | Shlomo Satt remembers first thinking he might be gay at 13 years old after seeing an article about gay marriage in the newspaper. Growing up in an Orthodox Jewish community on Long Island, New York, Satt immediately felt anxious about what this could mean for his future.

“I think that’s when I started thinking, ‘Oh, am I that? Am I gay?’” Satt, now 30, told Uncloseted Media and GAY TIMES.

As Satt came to realize he was gay, his anxiety skyrocketed. He was aware that only half of Orthodox Jews — and 20 percent of ultra-Orthodox Jews — are accepting of homosexuality.

“In my community, it’s very shunned to be gay,” says Satt. “So it was really, really, hard for me to accept that I was attracted to other men, because I was like, ‘It’s not what the Torah says you’re allowed to be.’”

Unlike more progressive denominations, Orthodox Judaism advocates for a more literal understanding of the Hebrew Bible, known as the Torah. For example, verses such as Leviticus 18:22, which states that “You shall not lie with a male as with a woman; it is an abomination,” are more likely to be interpreted verbatim by Orthodox rabbis.

“One of the hallmarks of growing up Orthodox and queer is feeling really alone,” says Satt. “It’s not something we talked about.”

Stories like Satt’s represent what’s motivating LGBTQ people to leave Orthodox Judaism. While little research has been done, one 2023 study from Brooklyn College CUNY found that only about 15 percent of LGBTQ people left Orthodox Judaism directly because of their sexual orientation or their religious views on homosexuality. Other reasons for leaving the denomination included religious views on homosexuality, being judged, bullied or alienated, emotional abuse, trauma, wanting more freedom, and mental health issues.

“It was really hard for me to engage in [Orthodox Judaism] and not feel deep shame or trauma,” says Satt. “That’s why I left.”

Growing up Orthodox

Unlike many Orthodox Jewish families, Satt’s parents allowed him some access to technology and even played secular music like The Beatles. Still, he had no television in the house growing up and zero education about LGBTQ people.

“I didn’t even know that someone could be gay until a friend told me in sixth grade,” he says. “For most of my upbringing, it wasn’t like homophobia was espoused. It just was literally not talked about.”

After the newspaper article triggered Satt’s “gay awakening,” he struggled to keep his feelings inside. “It was really hard for me to accept that I was attracted to other men,” he says. “All I wanted was just to be straight.”

Staying silent about his emotions took a toll. He worried that his dreams of having a big Jewish family would be unattainable. “I wanted to have a wife and kids and be normal within my community, and it felt like I couldn’t have any of that if I was gay,” he says.

By around age 15, Satt’s stress levels reached a breaking point. “I had a night where I was just really, really depressed and crying to God about my sexuality. It was really hard for me to cry at that point, because I was so not tuned in with myself.” He decided to meet with a school psychologist who was part of the Orthodox community. After telling the psychologist he might be gay, the response he received was, “We can fix that.”

Satt remembers initially feeling immense relief at the thought that his sexuality could be cured. “I was so joyful,” says Satt. For the next three and a half years, he worked with members of the Orthodox community who practiced conversion therapy.

The turning point

This therapy, which has been widely discredited for decades, culminated with Satt doing a retreat through an organization called Brothers Road, where participants were encouraged to reenact their trauma in front of each other. He was forced to beat up a punching bag with a metal baseball bat, pretending it was his mother. “I don’t know what the purpose of this was, but it was horrible. And doing this for 35 adult people, it’s totally insane and super humiliating.”

After the therapy failed, Satt began to question the negative messaging he had been taught about being gay. “The things that are more innate to me, I believe, are from God. I didn’t choose to be gay, I just was gay,” he remembers thinking.

With the help of a licensed trauma specialist, Satt reconstructed his relationship to Judaism. He is still Jewish today, and has plans to pursue rabbinical school, but he left Orthodoxy behind. “I actually started really heavily diving into spirituality as a means of meaning in my life, as a means of connecting with my Jewish roots and my tradition, but in entirely different ways. One hundred percent progressive, 100 percent equitable, only learning with people who conferred my identities,” says Satt, who now identifies as a “post-denominational Jew.”

This transition hasn’t been easy. Satt has lost all contact with his family and describes losing the relationship with them as “the hardest thing” in his life.

Unfortunately, Satt’s experience isn’t unusual. An article written by the founder of Jewish Queer Youth (JQY), a nonprofit mental health organization, found that from 2016 to 2023, over 2000 queer youth from Orthodox families accessed support services provided by JQY. And amongst closeted Jewish Orthodox gay men, concerns about the impact of their sexuality on family relationships are a common theme.

Despite this, Satt says he’s experienced immense joy since accepting his sexuality, healing through therapy with an affirming Orthodox rabbi, and having a Jewish wedding where he married his long-term partner. “I started to, slowly but surely, take back my own narrative and live the life that I wanted.”

The rabbinical perspective

While one 2025 study published in the Archives of Sexual Behavior found that some ultra-Orthodox communities are moving away from uniform rejection of homosexuality, gay rights remain controversial in many Orthodox communities. For example, Chabad, a major movement within Orthodox Judaism, states on its website that when it comes to queer desires, “even if it burns inside for a lifetime, the best thing for you, for your health, and for your ultimate satisfaction in life is to subdue and re-channel that desire.”

Mark Dratch, an Orthodox rabbi in Jerusalem, says that there is a limit to the accommodations an Orthodox synagogue can make.

“The sense of alienation, the sense of depression and the person’s emotional and sometimes physical well-being, that’s part of a rabbi’s responsibility,” Dratch told Uncloseted Media and GAY TIMES. “So I think there’s room to be welcoming and embracing, while at the same time living with this kind of dissonance of what tradition requires.”

Though Dratch ultimately views queerness as being in opposition to Orthodox Judaism, he still believes it is his duty to try and support LGBTQ congregants. “I may not like this part of you, but if I don’t embrace you, then we’re going to lose the other 95 percent of your Jewish commitment,” he says.

Dratch says LGBTQ Jews would be welcome to attend services in his synagogue, but he wouldn’t marry a gay couple. “It may not be good enough for some LGBT people in these communities,” he says. “They want to be more than tolerated.”

Marceline’s story

It’s not just gay people who struggle. As early as 9 years old, Marceline Franco locked herself in her bathroom and wrapped a towel around her head, trying to picture herself as a woman. Assigned male at birth and raised in a Syrian Orthodox Jewish community in Brooklyn, N.Y. Franco felt intense guilt for wishing she was a girl.

“I desperately, more than anything, wanted to be a woman,” says Franco, now 30 years old. “I would sit in the bathroom as my only safe space to cry and pray and beg.”

Staying quiet about wanting to dress as a woman and go by a girl’s name put an immense amount of stress on Franco. “One of my fantasies as a kid was that I could wake up in a woman’s body. But in the bed next to me was a clone of me that could live out the rest of my life as my family and community would have wanted,” she says. “I felt horrible that I would rob them of me.”

A shared experience with conversion therapy

By the time Franco entered college, she decided to see an ultra-Orthodox therapist. “Over the next four and a half years, I participated in some version of conversion therapy,” she says. “[My therapist’s] view of it was more of a fetish/escape, and that it was something that I could learn to control and basically bury.”

Franco’s therapist taught her to think of herself in four parts. When Franco suggested that there was a fifth part — a girl — her therapist shut the idea down. Franco found the elimination of this part of her troubling. “It was the erasure of my transness with this person in a professional setting, which is deeply, deeply problematic,” says Franco.

Similar to Satt, conversion therapy didn’t work. And after watching queer comedian Hannah Gadsby’s comedy special “Nanette” for a college class, Franco began to question her therapist even more and started reconsidering her religious upbringing.

“I no longer was able to hold the belief that the Torah was true,” she says. “I realized that I may be holding onto religion to protect myself from coming to terms with the grief of being alone in the world … and justifying staying closeted.”

Franco ultimately left organized Judaism behind.

Six months later, she came out as trans. In order to explore her gender, she cut contact with her family. However, upon trying to reestablish a relationship with them as a woman, things did not go well. “I was nearly barred from my own grandfather’s funeral and I was barred from a family Shabbat meal mourning him. Two weeks later I was kicked out of my cousin’s wedding for showing up dressed as myself,” she says.

“The grief is immeasurable. It is nearly impossible to mourn people and relationships that are actively still living in this world. … And to move through all these major life moments alone has been really difficult.”

Despite this loss, Franco still practices elements of Judaism that resonate with her and has found joy and meaning in her transition. “Once I just started speaking my mind, saying how I felt, it stopped being confusing. I stopped hating myself for having these feelings. I just started loving myself.”

How Satt and Franco learned to move forward from religious trauma

Both Satt and Franco left the Orthodox communities they grew up in.

Still, Satt says Judaism has been the healing force for him. “It brought me back into a relationship with God, The Infinite, The Sum of All Good,” he says. “It ultimately made me feel very connected to myself, to humanity and to my heritage.”

Satt is thrilled that some rabbis are fighting for more inclusivity in the Orthodox Jewish space, but unless more begin to follow in their footsteps, he believes LGBTQ Jews will continue to disaffiliate from the denomination.

Though Franco no longer practices Judaism, she still finds meaning in some of the lessons she learned when she was.

“When my therapist was my mentor, she had me start to look at the world as having divine providence. And I did see a lot of that in my life. To this day, I still do,” she says. “And I just have reinterpreted that God doesn’t care that I’m Jewish or not. God loves me as I am.”