Gail Yorke, a 37-year-old single mother from Warrington, paid hundreds of pounds for a 10-day religious retreat near Lancaster in 2006, hoping for respite from her hectic life. Instead, she became the target of a prayer circle that sought to 'banish the demon of homosexuality'—a practice now recognized as conversion therapy. Two weeks after the ordeal, Gail still woke up drenched in sweat, reliving the moment strangers surrounded her, praying over her and declaring her an 'abomination to God.'
What Are Conversion Practices?
Conversion practices, including so-called conversion therapy, aim to change a person's sexual orientation or transgender identity. They have been discredited and denounced as harmful by over 25 health and psychotherapy organizations in the UK, including the Royal College of Psychiatrists. In June, the UK government published a draft bill to ban these 'abhorrent' practices in England and Wales, following the lead of countries like Canada, France, and New Zealand. The bill aims to protect LGBT+ people from physical, sexual, economic, and psychological harm.
However, for Gail, the ban came too late. In 2006, she arrived at the Victorian country house, unaware of its fundamentalist and severe nature. The atmosphere shifted from warm to ice cold when she tearfully confessed her sexuality to a mentor during a 'pastoral support' session. The mentor silently handed her a tissue, then left and returned with retreat leaders. 'I was crying and more and more people were brought into the room to pray for me. Before I knew it, they were standing over me and putting their hands on me. They said I shouldn't be like this and started babbling about the demon of homosexuality,' Gail recalls.
Immediate Aftermath and Long-Term Trauma
Feeling the walls closing in, Gail fled to her bedroom, bolted the door, and left the retreat with two days remaining. 'I didn't tell anyone I was going, I just went. I didn't want anyone to talk me into staying. I thought I'd be met with empathy but all they were interested in was praying to release me from this 'demon',' she said.
For years afterward, Gail self-harmed and struggled with recurring crises. She attended a local evangelical church, trying to suppress her gay identity, but would come home and cry every Sunday. 'I felt like I was leading two lives, suppressing my gay side while I was in church but it just kept coming back,' she admitted. She even emailed the now-defunct 'ex-gay' organization Exodus International for help, but it closed in 2013, with its founder apologizing for the harm caused and admitting that conversion practices do not work. Looking back, Gail says, 'I think if I had gone on their discipleship course, it could well have caused me to take my own life.'
Contemporary Issue, Not Historical
Gail believes the public still associates conversion practices with the era of Alan Turing, involving electric shock treatment and chemical castration, and often sees it as a gay cis male issue. But new research by an LGBT+ helpline revealed that 68% of cases analyzed from 2022-2025 were current, recent, or ongoing. 'It's not just a historical thing,' she says.
As Gail approached her 40th birthday, she began coming out to more people. One congregation member lectured her, saying, 'You're just confused and must change.' She was instantly removed from all church activities, including the music group and welcome team, and banned from babysitting.
Other Survivors' Experiences
Metro spoke with four individuals who experienced or witnessed attempts to exorcise 'gay demons.' One man received a settlement in 2025 after a traumatizing church exorcism attempt. Augustine Tanner-Ihm, a 36-year-old theology graduate, attended a weekly support group in Liverpool in 2013, where participants were told being gay was 'evil' and 'debaucherous.' He and others used rubber bands to snap their wrists as aversion therapy. 'I felt loads of shame,' Augustine reflects. 'It sticks with me today. Without a doubt, I still feel shame if I ever have feelings for a guy.'
Augustine, whose UK visa and housing were tied to the church, hit his lowest point on bonfire night, contemplating suicide. Despite the trauma, he later became a church minister, but the scars remain. His planned wedding this summer ended six weeks beforehand, in part due to the trauma's long-term impact on his mental health and relationships.
Call for Action
Saba Ali, FRSA, Chair of Ban Conversion Practices Coalition, told Metro: 'The draft bill is a starting point, not a finish line. As a coalition we will keep working with communities, legal experts, parliamentarians and government to test how it is defined, and whether the thresholds for abuse and harm capture all documented forms. You will hear conversion practices called therapy. They are not therapy, and we should stop lending them the word. A conversion practice is a treatment, practice or service aimed at changing or suppressing who someone is, with the destination chosen before you walk into the room. It is happening to someone today. We have waited eight years. We will keep up the pressure until this bill ends conversion practices for everyone, once and for all.'
Healing and Hope
Twenty years on, Gail has found healing through Open Table, a network of inclusive faith spaces, and now attends a church that affirms LGBT+ people. In 2024, she married her wife Tina. 'It was out of this world,' she reflects. 'This church valued me and loved me for who I was. It was just an amazing wedding day, perfect in every way. I'm not 100% past what happened to me, but I'm certainly big enough and strong enough to hold my own now. Everyone should be safe to be who they are. I'll be me; you be you.'
