Episode 134: Coloring with the 64 box of crayons, part 2 w/ Allison Dayton CW mention of death by suicide

I’m so happy to have Alison Dayton here with me. I’ve been waiting for some time to have her on, and I’m thrilled she could find a window in her busy schedule. Thank you so much, and welcome.

Of course, I’m excited to be here.

Especially since you’re going out of town tomorrow for vacation—this means a lot.

Yes, this is my last thing to check off before I head out.

Wonderful. For those who don’t know, Alison is the founder of Lift and Love, a nonprofit organization. My podcast reaches people from all faith backgrounds, so I always like to give guests the chance to introduce themselves and share their origin story. I believe everyone’s faith story is unique and beautiful. Alison, tell us about your family, where you grew up, and what faith background you were raised in.

I was born in Palo Alto, California, the youngest of five children. My dad was in school there, and we attended church with some remarkable people, like Eugene England. My dad had been baptized but wasn’t raised active in the church. When he married my mom, who grew up in the church in Salt Lake City, they decided about a year into marriage to start going again. They were surrounded by amazing people—Elder Wirthlin was in their ward—and my dad was so impressed by their goodness that it led to his conversion.

Shortly after I was born, we moved to Salt Lake, and I’ve lived here ever since. I was born into the church, with pioneer ancestry on both sides. Polygamy runs in every family line.

When I was 14, I realized my brother Preston was gay. He’s nine years older than me, and we were very close. In 1973, he told my parents. At the time, the “treatment” was shock therapy, and tragically, he endured that as a 14-year-old. He later served a mission, tried hard to live the gospel, but eventually came to accept who he was. Still, the pain was deep. In 2017, he ended his life.

That was devastating. He wrote that he just couldn’t do it anymore. Part of the tragedy was that he didn’t want to leave the church—he loved it and believed in it. But he felt he didn’t belong. Watching that tore me apart, especially as I was also raising a son who I suspected was gay. I didn’t want him to grow up disconnected, like my brother.

That experience shaped everything. I realized LGBTQ people are part of our church, our families, our communities. In the LDS tradition, we call each other brothers and sisters, saints, members—we are all part of that. I felt a deep pull to help parents, especially moms, so that they could better support their children.

My parents had learned, after early missteps, to embrace and love Preston. They did the hard work, and I felt like I could build on that. When my son Jake came out after high school, I knew I needed to help other parents. Around 2019, I started Lift and Love—first as an Instagram account, then expanding into support groups and resources.

We’ve grown to hosting 12 support groups a month, suicide prevention trainings, conferences, and retreats. In 2022, we held our first mother’s retreat with over 100 moms—it was incredible. The biggest thing people feel when they find Lift and Love is relief: “I’m not alone.”

And you are not alone. Statistically, in a ward of 300 people, about 23 are likely LGBTQ. Yet it can feel isolating, because we don’t often talk about it openly. That’s why creating safe spaces is so vital.

You mentioned earlier the generational differences. My brother’s generation was treated as if being gay was deviant. The next generation said, “It’s okay, as long as you don’t act on it.” Today, more parents are protective—they’re standing by their kids and saying, “There’s nothing wrong with you.” That protection sometimes causes friction with religious institutions, but it also shows a real cultural shift.

I’ve also noticed mothers often move faster in their support than fathers. Women in conservative religions already know what it’s like to navigate less-visible roles, to feel marginalized, so they’re often more flexible. Fathers, generally speaking, may be more rule-oriented and slower to adapt. But families as a whole are becoming more protective.

This brings us to doubt. For many, supporting a queer child means colliding with long-held religious beliefs. Doubt surfaces, and that can feel destabilizing. But doubt is not bad—it’s necessary. Tyler Johnson, in When Church Is Hard, describes different types of doubt: ignorant doubt, questioning doubt, dizzying doubt, visceral doubt, believing doubt, and destructive doubt. Not all doubt is destructive. Some of it refines our faith, moves us to deeper understanding, and keeps us safe.

For me, the 2015 LDS policy about baptisms for children of LGBTQ couples caused visceral doubt. It shook me. But that doubt drove me to study and seek God more deeply. That was the real beginning of my personal relationship with God.

Doubt pushes us into the “wilderness.” And it’s in the wilderness where we meet God—just like people in scripture did. Wilderness feels uncertain, even painful, but it’s sacred. It’s where growth, discovery, and divine encounters happen.

Ultimately, living beyond the shadow of doubt means being willing to step into that wilderness. It’s not about certainty. It’s about walking with God, asking hard questions, being open to new understanding, and protecting the most vulnerable among us.

For me, that includes my son, my brother, and every LGBTQ child of God.

Quickfire Questions

• Favorite book right now: When Church Is Hard.

• Celebrity crush: Tom Selleck (Magnum P.I. was my first crush).

• Introvert or extrovert: Extrovert.

• Favorite artist: Kirk Richards.

• Night owl or morning lark: Morning lark who stays up too late.

• Still water, carbonated, or diet soda: Diet Coke all day.

• Furthest traveled: Nepal and China.

• Next trip: England, Scotland, and Ireland with my husband.