Episode 62: Walking Sacred Paradoxes with GanelLyn Condie Part 1

Hello, everybody! Thank you so much for joining today for the Beyond the Shadow of Doubt podcast. I am so excited for today’s guest and for you to get to know Ganel-Lyn Condie a little bit more.

I’ve been a fan for several years now. I think I was first introduced to you through the Leading Saints LGBTQ+ Summit back in 2020. That was such a pivotal summer for me and for our family, as we’re an LGBTQ+ family—my youngest identifies as LGBTQ+. The words shared in that summit were deeply needed.

There were many speakers, but I made sure to listen to you. What really caught my attention was that, although you don’t have an immediate family member who identifies as LGBTQ+, you’ve been a strong ally and have such a unique understanding of some of those challenges. I’m honored that you accepted my invitation to chat and to share your voice with our audience.

And I have to say—this still makes me smile—you commented on one of my Instagram posts late at night, around 11 p.m. on a Saturday. I wasn’t expecting it, and it totally made my evening. We’ll come back to that later.

But first, I’d love for you to introduce yourself and share your story—whatever feels comfortable.

Thank you for having me. I’m honored to be here and grateful for this connecting conversation. I love how God uses podcasts, interviews, and books in small, miraculous ways. Sometimes someone just happens to stumble upon a message exactly when they need it—and I believe that’s divine.

So it feels full-circle to hear that something I helped create found you during a season when you were seeking.

As for me—on paper, my background includes fourteen published books, three recorded talks from back when people still bought CDs, and over nine years of radio and television work. I’ve been a regular guest on Good Things Utah for about seven years, speaking monthly on topics that always circle back to mental health.

I have a teaching degree with a minor in psychology, and I’m the mother of two children—now both grown—which means I’m a brand-new empty nester. I’ve also hosted four weekly podcasts, the most recent being Talk of Him, which was award-winning and focused on scripture-based conversations of faith. The show was recently and unexpectedly canceled, which has been a loss for me and my co-host, John Fossum.

John’s brother is gay, married, and has children, and I’ve learned so much through those personal and faith-centered conversations we shared. So right now, I’m in a season I call sacred waiting. It’s uncomfortable, but I know God is in it, even though I don’t yet know what comes next.

I’m currently building an interfaith community called All Faith Keepers and have taped a pilot for a potential new podcast. I’m really excited about creating dialogue between faiths—because whether you’re a Jewish mom, a Baptist mom, a Catholic mom, or a Latter-day Saint mom, we all share the same heart for our children.

When it comes to my LGBTQ+ friends, I’ve found them to be some of my greatest teachers. You mentioned my allyship—it’s true, I don’t have an immediate family member in that community, but I’ve learned so much about Jesus, paradox, and stewardship through my relationships there.

A few years ago, I was at the wedding of Charlie Bird and Ryan Clifford. A friend introduced me to someone new and said, “This is Ganel-Lyn.” The person paused and said, “So… are you gay?” I laughed and said, “No, but my name sounds like I am—and if people knew I was an ally, they’d never mispronounce it!”

So yes, I have loved ones who identify as LGBTQ+, and I’ve felt called to hold space in that intersection—especially within my own faith community.

Nine years ago, my 40-year-old sister Meg died by suicide. That loss changed everything. It pushed me into full-time work creating conversations around mental health, suicide prevention, and faith. At the time, few people were speaking about it openly in church spaces, but the landscape has evolved, and I’m grateful.

Meg’s story has now reached people across the world, saving lives and softening hearts. I see myself as her voice on earth—her big sister continuing her mission.

One of my former podcasts was called The Middle—and that’s really what life is, right? We’re all living in the middle of something. The part where there’s no neat bow or tidy ending, just ongoing stories and sacred paradoxes.

If today’s conversation can help someone feel seen or less alone, then we’ve done our job. Someone shared a quote with me recently:

“Being heard feels so much like being loved that it’s hard to tell the difference.”
I hope that’s what people feel listening today.

That’s all so beautiful. You’ve said so many powerful things already. This space needs more people like you—people who can hold paradox and compassion at the same time.

I love your idea of the middles. We’re all living in them, aren’t we? Maybe there isn’t even a clear “end”—maybe it’s just a continual unfolding.

Exactly. If we really believe in eternal progression, then technically, we’re always in the middle.

And that’s why it’s crucial to have faith friends—the people who hold space for you when you’re exhausted. Just yesterday, I cried to one of mine about my show ending and my new empty-nest season. Having someone who can sit with you in that uncertainty helps you keep walking.

From a mental health perspective, that’s also vital. When people ask me what causes suicide, I tell them it’s exhaustion. When the pain feels unending and relief seems out of reach, people lose hope. That’s why we must create safe spaces for honest connection.

You mentioned stewardship—that we’re all stewards of something—and that deeply resonates.

For me, as a parent of an LGBTQ+ child, I’ve felt called to be an advocate. I didn’t have a background in podcasting or coaching, but I felt compelled to start this—to talk about faith journeys and normalize the process of wrestling, questioning, and expanding.

I love that. I tell my children often that faith is a conversion path, not a destination. It’s a process—flat tires, broken air conditioners, detours, all of it.

My daughter is currently serving a mission, and even she’s had moments of deep questioning. It surprised her at first—“Why now, when I’m supposed to be so sure?” But she’s realized that’s how faith matures. It moves from simple to complex and, if we stay with it, back to a simple—but deeper—understanding.

When people ask how I can advocate for marginalized communities and still remain deeply rooted in my faith, I tell them this:
We’re all on a faith journey. We’re all wrestling.

Some people view faith through a straw—so narrow that they miss the full picture. Others have such an open mind that everything falls out. The goal is to find balance—to engage the questions without abandoning the light.

Faith crises aren’t failures. They’re invitations to deepen our roots. Like trees in a storm, the ones with deep roots may look battered, but they survive and grow stronger.

So when we’re questioning, triggered, or deconstructing, we can reframe it: “My roots are growing deeper.”

Ask yourself daily:

“What does support look like today?”

Find your faith friends—the ones who can hold the hard conversations that don’t always fit in Sunday School.

That balance you describe—zooming out without losing grounding—is such an important distinction. I think that’s why some people avoid the wrestle altogether. It’s not easy work; it takes energy on every level—mental, emotional, spiritual.

You also touched on something I want to revisit—mental health. You said your stewardship is suicide prevention, and that really stood out to me. For so many people, faith journeys intersect deeply with mental health.

Yes. And part of that stewardship is learning to make space for those who find church too painful right now. God isn’t panicked by our pauses.

I recently spoke with a neighbor who stepped away from church for a while because of trauma. She’s still finding her way.

I often use the metaphor of the bridge versus the window. As parents, especially when our kids are young, we act like the bridge between them and God—getting them to church, school, activities, keeping them safe. But as they grow, they start making their own choices.

We often try to keep being the bridge—stretching ourselves to hold them on the path. But that’s not our role forever.

Instead, we can be the window.
If we keep our windows clean—doing our own work, addressing our trauma, our triggers, our stories—then when our kids look through us, they can see God.

We don’t need to panic or play savior. God’s not panicked. Our job is connection, not correction.

Even God’s children don’t always listen to Him—so why do we think we can control ours?

Life is one long divine degree program. Some semesters are harder than others, but everyone graduates eventually.

For me, church and covenants are how I connect with God. But for others—especially those with trauma—those same practices might feel painful or triggering.

That’s such a helpful way to frame it. And I love that you used the word “trigger.” It’s become common, but not everyone really understands it. You put it perfectly—what feeds one person’s soul may be deeply painful for someone else.

For me, sitting in my faith community can sometimes be triggering because there’s still not much space for my family. Everything is gendered, divided, and it’s hard to feel like there’s room for my child.

Exactly. That’s why I teach about stewardship.

Your stewardship as a parent of an LGBTQ+ child is sacred—and different from theirs. When you go to church, there may be few people who fully understand your stewardship, just as others won’t understand mine.

That’s why compassion and space are so essential. We can’t always remove the trigger, but we can hold space for one another’s sacred journeys.