Every summer, my sister and I watched as our neighborhood friends prepared for Pioneer Trek, a weeklong journey through the Utah mountains, complete with handcarts and 19th-century Mormon pioneer-era attire.

“Mom, Dad, can I go on Pioneer Trek next month?”

I already knew the answer: no. It was always no. I was still young, growing up on a peaceful, tree-lined street in the East Bench neighborhood of Salt Lake City, Utah. It was a safe, quiet place—overwhelmingly Mormon. Everything about my upbringing in Utah was steeped in Mormon culture. My friends on Yale Avenue, my classmates and teachers at Carden Memorial School—everywhere I turned, I was an outsider. The only time I truly belonged was on Sunday mornings when my parents took my sister and me to Prophet Elias Greek Orthodox Church. Each week, I straddled two worlds—the one I lived in and the one that defined me by birth. Identity is complicated. It can offer a sense of belonging, a foundation to hold onto, yet it can also be bewildering. As a child, all I wanted was to fit in. And in Utah, fitting in meant being Mormon.

From first through eighth grade, I attended Carden Memorial School, a small, non-denominational private Christian institution where most of the teachers and students were Mormon. By small, I mean that I spent eight years with the same 20 classmates, with only a few coming and going. Carden epitomized innocence and discipline. We had strict uniform codes, no lockers—just open cubbies—and no cafeteria; instead, we brought lunch from home and ate at our desks. The school’s motto was “courtesy is not optional,” which meant standing whenever an adult entered the room. Each morning, we lined up outside our classroom, waited to be invited in, and stood behind our desks until the teacher allowed us to sit. The headmaster greeted every student at the entrance, shaking hands as parents dropped us off in a neat procession of cars. This routine continued almost daily for eight years.

Every morning began with the Pledge of Allegiance, followed by prayer. We folded our arms, bowed our heads, and prayed in the Mormon tradition.

Each day, a student led the class in prayer: “Our Dear Heavenly Father, we thank thee for this day, we thank thee for our families …” At lunch, another prayer followed: “We thank thee for this food which will nourish and strengthen our bodies …” The pattern repeated, day after day.

In our class of 20, only about four of us were not Mormon. I was one of them. This made the end of prayer time especially difficult. If I made the sign of the cross, it drew attention to my difference—it felt almost rebellious. So, I chose to keep my head down, my arms folded, silently reflecting.

“Amen.”