Who is Blessitt Shawn?

I grew up in the first city of Kansas, where the welcoming committee was a slow-grazing herd of buffalo outside the U.S. penitentiary. Leavenworth wasn’t exactly a cultural melting pot—unless you counted the military families like mine who settled there, drawn by affordability, low crime, and the allure of a quiet life. But beneath its small-town charm, I discovered a reality that was harder to ignore: deep-seated homophobia and racism. The cracks in my yellow brick road became painfully clear.

I was raised Pentecostal, in a family of five. My mother, an Evangelist, led Sunday services in a church packed with Black families praying through systems designed against them. Many men in our congregation worked in the penal system, their testimonies echoing the same warning: "Had it not been for the Lord, I could be behind bars." They sweated through their Stacey Adams shoes, shouting in gratitude for their redemption. After service, we’d joke about the holes in their socks, because when the spirit hits, nothing stays hidden.

I went everywhere with my mom. As one of the first women in Kansas to be ordained as an Evangelist, she was a force. I watched her pray, speak in tongues, and lead worship, embodying strength in a world that often sought to quiet her. I saw what it meant to claim space—her ordination certificate even had the "he" crossed out to read: "SHE was called to the ministry." Without knowing it, she taught me how to live up to my name, Blessitt, and how to be authentically myself — including as a queer person of faith.

Blessitt Be: A Queer Person of Faith

What does it mean to have a relationship with God as your most authentic self?

That’s the question I wrestled with when my mom first asked if someone could be both LGBTQ+ and Christian. By then, I had already distanced myself from Pentecostal traditions, realizing they weren’t built for someone proudly Femme like me. But I also knew one thing for certain — God wasn’t done with me. Not in the way Black churches often mean it, but in the sense that I knew I was meant to thrive, to be blessed, to be exactly who I was created to be.

Faith isn’t about erasing yourself to fit into someone else’s version of holiness. It’s about stepping fully into who you are and knowing you are loved in that fullness. Every part of me—my queerness, my Blackness, my femme energy — pulls me closer to God every day.

Growing up in the Church of God in Christ taught me this: Praise has no rubric, rules, or style guide. Some folks gave a two-step, others a toe-tap with a tambourine, and some put on full summer Olympics floor routines for the Lord. So why should my praise — or yours — be any different just because we’re queer?

Looking Your Best for the Lord

In the Black church, fashion is a spiritual practice. Patti LaBelle. Sylvester. The Church Mothers. I grew up in a world where women wore ankle-length ensembles with reverence, but also found ways to make them dazzling. Kirk Franklin may have ushered in a more casual era, but Black women never let up on the sanctified stuntin’. Hats weren’t just hats — they were adorned with glitter-crusted ribbons. 

Brooch-and-scarf combos were so gloriously ungodly, you had to repent just for looking too long.

That mix of unapologetic Black femme glamour, humble restraint, and unwavering faith? 

That’s style. 

That’s praise. 

That’s me.

Faith in 2025: Finding Your Own Path

As we step further into 2025, we’re seeing more people reclaiming faith on their own terms, rejecting the idea that queerness and Christianity are incompatible. More churches are affirming, more spaces are opening up for us to worship freely, and more of us are realizing that our spiritual journeys are ours to define.

If you're looking to explore your faith in a way that honors your full self, start within. Show kindness. Walk in truth. Remember that your existence is divine, just as you are.

God isn’t waiting for you to change — God is waiting for you to show up.