Episode 65: You Have a Seat at My Table with Inoke Tonga Part 1

Hey, everybody. Welcome to the Beyond the Shadow of Doubt Podcast. I’m so thrilled you’ve joined us today, and I’m even more thrilled to have my guest, Inoke Toga, with me. This is kind of a surreal moment for me. I was first introduced to Inoke through a previous podcast — I think it’s been several years now — through Faith Matters.

At that time, I was pretty early on in my journey as a parent of an LGBTQ+ child. So this is a really cool moment for me, Inoke, to have you here. Welcome, and thank you for taking time out of your schedule.

Really cool story — after I was introduced to Inoke through the Faith Matters podcast, about a year and a half ago I was returning from the Lift In Love Mother’s Retreat that was held in Utah. I had on my sweatshirt that said “Their Mothers Knew It,” which was the theme of our conference. My family and I were sitting at the gate, and the person next to me tugged my sleeve and said, “Hey, tell me about your shirt.”

I was thrilled to share about it. Actually, no — you said, “By chance, what is the history or meaning behind that?” That’s what it was. I shared the story of the 2,000 stripling warriors and how the story of those mothers who trusted and knew the strength and valor of their sons reflected how we mothers at that retreat felt. We knew of the divinity of our kids.

So I got to share that with you, Inoke. And you said, “Let’s connect on Instagram,” and we did — and I was already following you! You had a little fan in the mom’s peanut gallery.

The connection came after we found out you were already following me. It was so funny. I was coming back, I believe, from coaching — all my girls were there that I was coaching at that time — and we were flying back to Denver.

And we were headed back to Dallas.

That’s right! The connection came after the fact — you asked me about the shirt, and then through our conversation we connected the dots. Yeah, good memory. I turned 50 last year, so I need you to help me remember details like that!

It was such a meaningful encounter. And you know, my mother always taught us: there’s no such thing as coincidences, especially with God. That moment came right after the whole Valor incident happened, when I was just starting a new year of coaching. It was so needed. After all the struggles I’d gone through, I questioned myself a lot — whether speaking out was the right thing, whether I’d been too emotional sharing my story.

All those doubts led up to that moment, and I treasure it because it reminded me how important it is — for people like me, and people like you — to share our stories. Especially within LDS and Christian communities that don’t always support the LGBTQ+ community. It was a miracle that it happened. The timing was divine.

It was for me too — very much for me.

I 100% agree. It wasn’t coincidental. I very much felt divine intervention in connecting with you. That was really special.

Well, you mentioned an incident that had happened, and I definitely want to dive into that. But before we do, would you please share a little bit about you — your upbringing, your family, your education, your LDS faith? Were you born in that faith? Whatever you’re comfortable sharing — tell us all the things.

Absolutely. I was raised LDS. I served a full-time mission in Nicaragua where I learned Spanish and Creole. Growing up, my parents — especially in the Tongan culture — lived by the saying, “It takes a village to raise a child.” Many of my siblings and I were raised not just by our parents but by our extended family and community. My brother was raised by my uncle, I spent time with my grandmother and aunts, and every summer I’d move between family members’ homes to spend time and learn from each of them.

I attended Tonga High School and later the LDS Church High School, Liahona. Everyone was LDS. It was both a blessing and a curse — a strong sense of community, but not much exposure beyond it. We were never really tested in our faith because everyone believed the same way.

Later, I came to realize the trials my parents had shielded us from. After high school, I moved around a lot for school — from Utah to Virginia, then back to Utah for study abroad. I studied international business and philosophy, with a minor in Spanish. My original plan was to go to law school and pursue corporate law.

But life had other plans. I ended up in retail management for a while, and then for the past five years, I’ve worked in healthcare specializing in kidney health. Coaching has been my side passion for about ten years — mostly volleyball for high school boys and girls.

I’ve been in Colorado for about seven years now. My senior year of college, around 2016, I started to feel off — like something wasn’t right. At 25, there was pressure to date, get married, have kids. But it never felt right, and deep down, I knew why. I’d been suppressing my feelings about being gay my whole life.

In April 2016, after praying intensely, I felt a strong impression that I needed to move — to leave Utah. In the Tongan culture, that was huge. You don’t move out of your parents’ home. Family takes care of family. So moving to Colorado was a big deal — and people wondered what I was “running away from.”

The following year, 2017, I had a breakdown — and a breakthrough. My relationship with God changed completely. I stopped seeing Him as an unreachable figure and started talking to Him like a real father. One day, I cried out, “Why did you bring me here? What am I supposed to do?” And the answer that came to my heart was clear: it’s time to be honest — with yourself and with God.

That meant coming out.

It was terrifying but freeing. I wrote a blog post sharing who I was: “I’m a child of God, a brother, a son, and I’m also gay.” I changed my number and blocked my family for a year because I wasn’t ready to face them. They were hurt, of course — they learned about it through that post. But I kept saying, “This isn’t about you. This is about me.”

It took about a year to reconcile. My youngest brother — my baby brother, really — reached out and asked me to come to his high school graduation. I couldn’t say no. Even though my mom and I had had a huge fight the day before, I went. When we saw each other, we both cried. That was the start of healing.

My relationship with my father deepened too. He’d always been the peacekeeper. He didn’t react much at first — he just kept loving my mom harder through it all. And that taught me a lot.

Now, years later, both of my parents are incredibly supportive. My youngest sister came out last year too, and my parents handled it beautifully — which honestly made me happy. It showed me how much they’d grown and unlearned. I didn’t need them to get it right with me; I just needed to see they’d evolved enough to love her fully.

That’s beautiful. What’s the age difference between you and your sister?

About five years. She came out this year, actually. After the Colorado Springs shooting at a gay club, she was angry and heartbroken. We talked about it, and I made a post about how blessed I was to walk this journey with my sister. That became her coming-out moment too. Since then, she’s just been glowing — free, bubbly, happy. It’s like the weight lifted.

And my family’s reaction? Completely loving. No hesitation. It was healing to witness that. I’ve learned we have to give our families grace too — it took me 27 years to come to terms with who I was, so I can’t expect them to do it overnight.

That’s such a tragically beautiful full-circle story. If this were a movie, it’d have all the emotions — highs, lows, redemption. And you’re right, it takes real compassion to acknowledge your family’s process too.

Thank you. My mom actually said something two years ago that really hit me. She told me, “I don’t care who you love — your life is what matters.” But she also admitted she’s scared. With everything going on — riots, shootings — she often asks, “When are you coming home?” I understand that fear.

Yeah, as a parent, that resonates. So many of us worry about our LGBTQ+ children’s safety. Thank you for sharing that.

And thank you for helping normalize faith journeys that aren’t one-size-fits-all. They’re messy, complicated, and beautiful.

I noticed how you said your relationship with God became real — that’s powerful. And how you reached a point where you couldn’t keep pretending anymore. That honesty is such a core value, yet so many kids are taught to hide this part of themselves. It’s a painful contradiction.

What do you think kept you from sharing your truth sooner?

Honestly? Embarrassment and shame. Those two go hand in hand. I was the “pretty boy” — that’s what my mom called me. My cousins all played football; I played soccer and volleyball — the “girly sports.” I got teased a lot. The word “f—-t” got thrown around casually.

In immigrant families, a lot of people don’t fully grasp how harmful certain words are. They just repeat what they hear. So growing up, I heard that a lot — from cousins, classmates, even church leaders. I didn’t fit the masculine mold.

My dad was highly respected in the Tongan and LDS communities, so I felt extra pressure not to “embarrass” the family. I learned to overcompensate — to act tough, get into fights, talk big, hang with cousins who were feared. It was all a mask to hide who I really was.

Even after coming out, shame still creeps in sometimes. People often assume I’m straight, and when they ask, “Do you have a girlfriend?” there’s still that pause before I answer. It’s an ongoing journey — unlearning shame and embracing who I am fully.

There’s so much cultural and religious weight in that. What part did your religious upbringing play in the fear and hesitation?

More than 80% of it, honestly. My church leaders often told me I wasn’t busy enough — that “an idle mind is the devil’s playground.” That stuck. I buried myself in work and activity, trying to “fix” myself.

In the LDS church, boys do Boy Scouts, girls learn homemaking — ironing, nurturing, all that. Gender roles were deeply ingrained. And being different meant feeling like something was wrong with you.