Episode 96: Just Jesus, that’s my motto with Autumn McAlpin Part 1

Welcome to the Beyond the Shadow of Doubt podcast! I’m so grateful that you took time out of your day to join me and my guest. I’m super excited to have Autumn McAlpin on the show — to give you the opportunity to get to know her, her beautiful spirit, and the incredible person that she is.

Autumn’s self-appointed mission lies at the intersection of being an LGBTQ+ mama and a member of the LDS faith. I’m really excited for you to get to know her and hear about both the peaks and valleys that come with this experience.

Welcome, Autumn.

Thank you so much for having me. It’s great to be here.

So glad to have you. I always like to get started by letting our listeners know a little more about you — your background, where you’re from, your family of origin, a bit about growing up, your faith background (I don’t assume it’s LDS since I interview people from many faiths), your schooling, and anything you feel comfortable sharing that’s pertinent to your journey. We want to know all the things.

Well, I’ll just dive in. I’ll try to tell you the short version of the story. I’m a storyteller by trade and by nature — I’ve always been a storyteller — so I’ll just crack in here.

I was a BYU baby, meaning my parents were BYU students who had babies while they were still students. I was born in Provo, Utah, and we moved around quite a bit until I was five years old, when we finally settled in Tennessee. I grew up right outside of Memphis, in a little suburb, and spent my entire childhood and teenage years there.

I was right in the center of the Bible Belt. I was the only LDS girl in my very large high school — probably 95% of my friends were Christian and identified as Baptist, Methodist, or Presbyterian. So I was really steeped in Bible Belt culture.

I remember going to my friends’ houses and seeing things like bulletin boards with cards that said, “Friends I need to save.” My name was actually one of them — I was my best friend’s project.

So yes, I was the “project of the South.” My family stood out for a lot of reasons — there were eight of us kids, while most families in town had two. My mom was a free spirit — she’d go to the dentist barefoot and just prop her feet up in the chair! Life was chaotic. This was before cell phones, before much help at all. My dad traveled constantly, and my mom managed the whole brood herself in a big old conversion van, dropping us off at sports practices and hopefully remembering to come back later.

I was the only non-athlete in my family. Everyone else was incredibly athletic, but I was the nerd — really into school, drama, and theater. I was student body president, always involved in everything. My mom raised us with a unique perspective — one that didn’t quite fit the LDS mold or the Southern culture around us.

She was from California — open-minded, creative, and spirited. We spent a lot of weekends volunteering in inner-city shelters, helping women in crisis and their children. I’d babysit the kids while my mom taught their moms classes. Those experiences shaped me deeply. Even though my neighborhood was mostly white, my weekends were filled with people of different cultures and backgrounds.

In our home, prejudice wasn’t tolerated. We were raised to be open-minded. But being LDS in the South made us stand out — people thought we were strange. I got asked things like, “How many moms do you have?” or “Are you allowed to cut your hair?” I had friends who watched The God Makers at youth group and came back asking if I really believed all that.

So I learned early what it felt like to not fit in. And honestly, I never fully felt like I fit in at church either. Maybe that’s something in my DNA.

While I’m mostly Scottish, Irish, and Welsh, there’s about 2% of me that’s Indian. One of my ancestors, Elizabeth Xavier Tate, is kind of a legend in LDS pioneer history. She was from Mumbai, India, and married a Portuguese sea captain who baptized her. She crossed the plains with the Willie Handcart Company — alone with two young children while her husband was sailing. One of her babies died along the way.

She gave up her upper-caste Indian background to come to America, to cross those plains, and to live her faith. She eventually settled in Logan Valley but faced deep racism — even within the LDS community. People ostracized her because of the color of her skin.

I grew up hearing stories about her strength and independence. She never let others’ opinions define her. She raised ten kids, taught school, and lived an extraordinary life.

Because of her, we have something in our family we jokingly call “the Tate woman curse” — five generations of strong-willed, fiercely independent women who each, in their own way, have clashed with religious or cultural expectations.

My mom, grandmother, and great-grandmother all went through divorces. They were each hurt by patriarchy and leadership structures, but they held onto their faith in God. They may not have always fit the image of the “ideal LDS woman,” but they knew who they were and what they believed.

So I was raised in a world of nuance. Some of my mom’s relatives weren’t religious at all but were incredibly good humans. Others were devout but not always kind. That shaped how I saw things. From a young age, I understood that being religious doesn’t automatically make you good, and being unreligious doesn’t make you bad.

When I turned 18, my family had what they called a “BYU or bust” rule. They’d only pay for BYU, so off I went — even though I didn’t really want to. I definitely didn’t plan to get married young like my mom… but that’s exactly what happened.

I met my husband in high school at EFY (Especially for Youth), reconnected at BYU, and got married soon after. He’s from Georgia, and though I wanted to marry a California boy, I convinced him to move west — and we’ve lived in California our entire married life.

We raised four kids here, all born by the time I was 29. For over 20 years, I’ve worked as a writer, filmmaker, and storyteller. Today, I mostly work in the nonprofit space — especially with LGBTQ+ causes since our son came out as gay three years ago. I also volunteer at our local women’s shelter and food pantry, helping people in crisis, just like my mom used to.

Wow. That’s a lot — in the best way. Thank you for sharing that. I can feel your strength, and I can definitely feel the spirit of Elizabeth in you.

I’m very grateful for these women. They’re truly amazing.

It’s so important to know our stories. They’re literally part of us — written into our DNA. The more I learn, the more I see that.

You mentioned you have four biological children. Do you have more?

Yes! We have a few bonus kids — all adults now. A couple are LGBTQ+ young people whose parents didn’t embrace them. They spend holidays with us or come by when they need a safe space. I’ve also been a foster mother. For two years, until May of this year, we had a teenager living with us. We’re known in our community as a safe house — if a kid gets kicked out, especially for being LGBTQ, our couch is always available.

That’s incredible. I think many people still don’t realize how real that is — kids being kicked out for who they are. Thank you for being that safe space. What a powerful thing to be known as — the safe house in town.

It’s funny — after our foster son left, we got two applications the next week from kids who I think were just trying to move closer to the beach! So yes, we took a little break after that.

You’re allowed to catch your breath.

Yeah, it’s necessary.

Your legacy of faith is strong, and the roots are deep. You described yourself as growing up in nuance, never really fitting into any one “box.” So, knowing that, what role did your child’s coming out play in your faith journey?

By the time our son came out in 2020 — the “year of the cocoon,” as many call it — I had already gone through several spiritual awakenings. As a youth, I always felt tension between my LDS faith and the world around me. In my twenties, I dove into church history and wrestled with things like polygamy and patriarchy that didn’t sit well with me.

Working in the entertainment industry, I was surrounded by gay, bi, and trans friends. I made a film featuring well-known drag queens. So, when my son came out, it wasn’t a shock — I had already been exposed to LGBTQ+ communities for years.

What was hard was realizing he’d known since he was eleven but didn’t tell us until he was seventeen. It broke my heart that he carried that alone for six years.

He’s always been my most obedient, kind, and faithful child. He read scriptures, followed rules, and never lied — so there was no question in my mind that he was telling the truth. When he came out, he also said he was done with the Mormon church and struggling with mental health. That was the hardest part — the mental health piece.

But we were fortunate — it was 2020, and the world had slowed down. We had space to cocoon as a family and process everything. He came out to a few close friends; some were wonderful, some weren’t. One even cut him off completely.

He’s talked openly about his religious trauma and PTSD. Since coming out, he’s only been back in a church building twice — once for his sister’s mission homecoming and once for a cousin’s baptism. Both times triggered strong PTSD.

I’ve received clear spiritual confirmation that he’s not meant to be there right now — maybe not ever — and that’s okay. He’s safe, and I trust that.

For me, this journey has been as much about understanding religious trauma as it has been about understanding being gay. One big thing I learned is that I should’ve asked more questions early on. Our son has said that — he wishes we’d asked more. I think I was just unsure what to say.

Now, three years later, our family’s faith has completely evolved. My oldest daughter is a returned missionary and still active in the church. The rest of us are each finding our own spiritual path. We take it one day, one week at a time.

That’s all any of us can do.

Exactly.