All of the pictures above pinpoint different stations in my life, all representing so much of me — most of the earlier pictures were the result of standing in front of my mirror with my whole wardrobe on my bed, panicking because none of my clothes look right. Because I didn’t look right.

I have come into myself in the last year more than ever before. I’m finally looking in the mirror and thinking it looks right. And now it’s National Coming Out Day and I’m thinking about everything that I’ve come out of — not just the closet, but every situation I’ve walked away from and every goodbye I’ve said to get me to where I am now. It begs the question, where have I come from? How did those circumstances shape me? Did the most awful points in my life have a purpose, or was the universe just pushing me to the next chapter of my life? Has my life been shaping and creating me this entire time?

I wrote this as a response to a therapy prompt a while ago, but it seemed relevant to my thoughts today.

If my life has been slowly creating me, I’m built in so many ways.

I’m stitched together with goodbyes. The material, the insides, every patch of me might be a collection of a million different things, but loss, departure, the goodbyes I’ve said and the ones I’ll never get to say have all had their part in shaping the core of me — each one a different color thread, each one keeping something in place, attaching something, or sealing something off — some adding room for more, some creating knots and flaws that make it harder to build on ir into those spaces. I can count each stitch like muscle memory, and I often do — running my dingers over each thread popping out of the fabric and feeling each moment that goodbye sewed into my memory.

I’m sewn together in a shoddy, uneven, handsewn sort of way — each hand had its own pattern, its own needle and thread, its own style. But I am an array of colors — each hue, each strand of thread, has its own signature across my skin.

My skin is made of patches — little things I’ve collected over the years, moments that I’ve picked up and kept with me, places that holes were left in the fabric and replaced, covers over the threadcare parts of me that I’ve covered up (most of them, anyway).

Each patch, each little (or big) swatch of fabric was formed carefully, deeply, dyed with intention. Each little piece has been carried with me — some for so long I’ve almost forgotten them, pieces of me I wanted to keep warm while I debated whether to keep them; some just for a fleeting moment as I turned them over and decided they were mine.

I wouldn’t call them the whole of me, but I know they hold me. I know they allow the world to see me, and I know they shield the me inside from their gaze. I know they create an image ‚ my walk, my language, my talk, my smile, all the names and words I’ve used to define myself for others — each from a moment where it fit me, each from a moment where I picked it up and desperately wanted to make it fit me. They’re not wrong, these pieces holding me together, they’re not lies — they’re just not the whole of me, not the core, not the light of the darkness. They tell a story, they tell me story, but only with words — only with what can be grasped with human understanding.

Perhaps that’s why I can never truly tell what I’m really made of.

Perhaps that’s why I’m made of so many different little patches, why I’m always covering myself with new coats and sheets, trying on all I can to offer some clarity to myself about what’s inside me.

In all reality, there is so much inside me that sometimes I can feel it trying to burst through every patch I’ve thrown on to describe it and all the loss that’s stitched it in place — trying to just be seen and beheld, not tied down by words or definitions, not tied up by trauma and wounds.

Sometimes, I want to call it light. Sometimes fear creepy in and wants to call it darkness. The closest I get to the word that balls it all up and fits in my hand is truth.

I know, I know that I am full of truth.

That truth is beyond the scope of words, of light or dark or comprehension. And I live by words, I write them all over me every day and every night, trying to see what sinks into my truth, what illuminates in agreement, what fades away into its own absence. But that truth, the truth that is me, still eludes me. Perhaps it’ll come — but I have a feeling it’ll be one word at a time. It’ll take some unraveling of all my goodbyes, but the truth will stay, and shine.

Regardless of how many goodbyes I’ve said, how many things I’ve had to walk away from, I know that in life I am pursuing truth, truth in myself and the world around me. And I know it has come, and I know it will come more and more as my life goes on. For now, I am so intensely grateful for the truths I’ve learned about myself and for the clarity they’ve brought me. I’m grateful not to be the person staring in the mirror wondering why every outfit looks wrong. I’m grateful to not have to struggle with my identity (most days). And I’m grateful that today, on National Coming Out Day, I can proudly say that I am a bisexual transmasculine nonbinary person, that my pronouns are they/them, and that I’m more at home in this body than ever before.

“I’m trying to love my body, but it’s hard”

The first time I saw that painting, it took my breath away. I saw every curve and fold in the subject’s body, and they felt like my own.

Except her hair was long, her breasts were out — this was a girl, and I was not. You’d never see me like that, celebrating my femininity, celebrating the body I was walking around in. My breasts? Those were staying TIGHTLY bound to my chest.

Naturally, I searched and searched for an alternative that looked a little more like me — someone with shorter hair, someone wearing a binder — and when I couldn’t find one, I asked a friend of mine to paint one. I still look at it every day. And it’s rang true every day – I am trying to love my body. And it has always been hard.

If I had to explain my relationship to my breasts, I would just use the word uncomfortable. That feels more all-encompassing than dysphoria, because this feeling predated any knowledge I had of what dysphoria is or feels like.

It was uncomfortable when I started developing them and my whole family commented on how big they were — calling out my genetic predisposition to having “watermelons,” telling me they were jealous.

It was uncomfortable learning about bras — from the first time someone told me I needed one to seeing cleavage pop out above my shirt, when evangelical purity culture mixed with trauma mixed with this impending sense of alienation from my body made picking out clothes a nightmare, when I kept staring at myself and saying to others that I just hated where they were placed on my body, like a few inches of upward movement would make them more bearable.

It was uncomfortable when the girl in junior high started a rumor that I was cutting my breasts and that’s why I never wore shirts that showed any cleavage.

It was uncomfortable when I tore every single shirt out of my closet trying to find one that didn’t make me look weird — I couldn’t place why it looked weird, but my brain went into a panic every time I had to pick out an outfit or pack for a trip or dress nicely.

It just never made sense to me.

I wore a binder for the first time when I started doing drag — I borrowed it from a friend, and I remember tentatively asking questions and trying not to admit that wearing that binder made the uncomfortable a little less panic-inducing.

I started walking a little taller, putting effort into my appearance, making myself look the way I wanted, and I taught myself to ignore my breasts, pretend there was nothing hanging off my chest, nothing I needed to stuff into a compression garment to be able to look at myself in the mirror.

I taught myself to ignore the uncomfortable, still in the background, but now down to a dull roar I could drown out with a nice pair of suspenders and a pronoun pin to hope people wouldn’t pay attention to what was under my shirt.

Of course, the uncomfortable came back sometimes — when a tank top had straps that were a little too thin, when any shirt was a little too tight or the wrong binder was clean and I had to wear it with the wrong shirt — and with it came the same panicky terror, the same compulsion to tear every shirt out of my closet trying to quiet the scream of uncomfortable over and over again so I could allow myself to leave the house.

I pushed it down a little further when I was able to start testosterone, distracting myself with a newfound love for my fuzzy stomach and my somehow-impressive sideburns — again, trying to drown out the uncomfortable with hope that people would see the pre-pubescent fuzz, hear my slowly dropping voice, and at least know some semblance of my identity.

But still, it was uncomfortable watching people try to place me, panicking over which bathroom to use, feeling like an alien because with a chest this big and a mustache I couldn’t imagine people seeing me the way I needed them to. I could make the uncomfortable very quiet, but it still decided to throw my brain into a panic at the worst moments.

And now, here I am, on the cusp of (if all goes according to plan) finally fucking getting rid of the uncomfortable living on my chest.

I’m terrified I’ll walk into the hospital tomorrow and they’ll turn me away for one reason or another.

But more than anything, I am hopeful to be walking into a life with one less thing (well, two less things) to be uncomfortable with. I’m not saying it will fix me or cure me or give me everything I’ve always wanted, but I can tell you that I’ll walk a little taller, look in the mirror a little more often and sigh with relief, pull out the shirts that were too tight around my chest, and put so many awful memories of uncomfortable behind me.

I want to say I’m thankful for what my chest has given me, but those memories are buried beneath all the panic attacks and way-too-tight sports bras and baggy clothing. Maybe they’ll pop up later.

For now, I’m saying farewell to uncomfortable and I am so, so ready to see what’s next for me, trying to love my body, even though it’s hard.

The following are words I’ve been sitting on for a few years. For some of my friends and family who are still in the church, please understand that these are my very real thoughts and experiences and I do not intend them in any way as an affront to specific people. Rather, this is a stream of thoughts related to the concepts I’ve observed over the last few years. Any questions or comments of a more personal nature should be directed to me privately.

This time three years ago, my life looked drastically different than it does right now. I spent most of my time in church services preaching, singing and playing music, was heavily involved in ministry activities with my close friends, and considered my home to be largely my church. The people I was involved with told me I would change the world for Jesus, encouraged me into a “call” as a career clergy member, and said there were special things destined for my life. My years since high school had been permeated with messages that the good parts of my identity were due to a higher power who gave them to me for His work.

A few short months later, I would sit down with a mentor and tell her that I was gay. I hadn’t come out to many people yet, but I knew well enough to know it would impact my life’s trajectory in ways I could only begin to comprehend. She told me that the leadership in my area, my denomination, would not ordain a “practicing homosexual” and we walked through scenario after scenario of how my identity and my ministry would be at odds.

I’d have to hide any relationship I would be in (or choose to never date).

My own conference would probably not accept me, I’d have to try and sneak in through a more affirming conference.

For the most part, my identity would be under wraps.

Largely, I knew it was coming. I’d been watching my mentors and pastors cloak their affirmations to avoid backlash, seeing the rhetoric shift in my church to slowly but surely remind the congregation of their “truth” against LGBTQ+ people. Throw that in with some other politics, and my path out of the church seemed to be carved for me.

I kept it relatively quiet — mostly because nobody was outwardly hostile to me at first. There were members of the church (and other friends from my time spent in church) who were supportive and affirming. But suddenly, all of the undertones I’d been ignoring rose very quickly to the top. Throughout the next year, I found that all the words and songs that encouraged me through the last decade or more of my life sounded like they were mocking me, reminding me that this encouragement was no longer mine. The comfort, the inspiration, and the feeling of safety I once received had twisted into a chorus of words repeating “this isn’t yours anymore. You’re no longer welcome here.”

I started remembering the things I’d been hearing and ignoring, and listening more closely to what I’d been clinging to for so long, and realizing that as unconditional as the world around me had been claiming to be, the undertones laid out a contract. Sure, the love and community and comfort was all there — but only the parts of me that had already been approved. Who I was now — who I always was, who I realized I was — didn’t fit into that category.

Recently, those undertones have been spoken so much more clearly. I (for some unearthly reason) tuned in to watch the global church denounce the identities of myself and my LGBTQ+ siblings. While I saw advocacy, I also saw people on a global level dragging the queer community through the dirt. While I saw some of my friends speak out against the decisions made by the church, I also saw so much silence from people I believed were in my corner.

Today, I woke up and saw the confirmation of what I’d been afraid of — a former mentor told me the Dani who loved the God they love is dead, that they didn’t know me anymore due to my coming out as transgender and pursuing a medical transition.

I’ll say this — I’ve learned through the years to be strong in the identity I have, and I’ve preached to enough people over my lifetime about accepting yourself as you are to know better than to believe that the church’s condemnation of some of the most loving, fierce, wonderful people I know is the ultimate truth. But seeing the way the church has come out against the queer community breaks my heart over and over again, no matter how far away from it I push myself.

These people raised me, took care of me when I was struggling, and gave me a home when I needed one. And while some of the people stuck around, the institution they were based in has taken every opportunity to remind me those doors are closed to the person I am.

As funny or cliche as it sounds, drag shows have become my new church services over the last ten months. My art has shifted from trying to lead people to an institutional deity to bringing my very real and raw truth to the stage (you know, on the side of the dancing and showmanship I get to have tons of fun with!).

One of my very first numbers as a drag king has made a comeback recently. I walked onstage in a very carefully rhinestoned play on the garments I would’ve worn had my life not taken a new path three years ago. When the robe came off, I was covered in all the words I’d heard over the years that were used to insult and alienate the queer community. I wrote each one hearing the voices that used it — to me, to my friends, or in pulpits.

And one by one, I ripped every single word away from me.

I’m grateful for the queer community for so many reasons — but one of them has been the opportunity to create a space that takes a stand against every person and institution who would call me unfit or unwelcome, who would call me wrong or misled, and who would close their doors to me and the people around me.  I get to remind myself that those words do not have to weigh on my shoulders, that I am my own person and that my identity is real and valid no matter where my affiliation lies, that I can bring good things to the world without stamping a scripture on it.

Today, I finished a piece of tattoo work that I started during my time in the church. I had decided years ago to get biblical identity statements tattooed on my arm to remind me that no matter how I saw myself, I was loved and worthwhile. Last year, I added a symbol to reflect my identity as a trans person. Today, I put the following statement — “by the grace of god, i am what i am.”

I don’t believe this statement in quite the same way anymore. When you’ve come from an oppressive religious system, being queer is an act of defiance. Today, that’s what these words mean to me — I dare to believe, even in the wake of a system who would call me misdirected and shameful and sinful, that I am what I am and that I am precious, honored, and loved for who I am — not as the girl who hid herself in the church to find worth in a higher power, but as the beautifully queer and transmasculine human who finds my worth in myself and my own journey. I don’t believe anymore that the light and good in me goes away when I don’t subscribe to a belief system that would have me conform to an identity that is not mine. I believe in the light and good and power in me as exactly who I am, in the power that continues to shine as I become more and more sure and confident in my identity.

These words today are a reverent nod to the community that kept me afloat during a time when I desperately needed a home. But they are also a statement of power — I choose to continue to claim them for myself in the face of a system that does not accept me.

I don’t know who I believe god is anymore. But by the grace of whatever higher power exists in this huge and immense universe, I am exactly what I am and I am proud to be that person.

Leaving the church was one of the hardest decisions of my life. And in leaving a belief system that called me an abomination, I found hope in a power and light that came from within myself. And that’s bigger than any of the condemnation I’ll face as I find ways to let more of that light shine.

To the Dani who walked into 2009:

You don’t know me. I’m certain of this because from where I’m standing, we look like nearly polar opposites, and the last decade has involved some pretty intense changes. But, as I’ve learned, we still have so much in common. Turns out, there are some parts of our shared identity that are REALLY hard to beat out of us. But the next ten years are absolutely going to try. So here are some bits of advice and information I’ve picked up along the way. In the hypothetical world where you pick up on this type of stuff, it will prove very helpful.

The “sinners” know something the “saints” don’t know (or refuse to admit). You’ll find a deeper love in gay bars than you will ever know in churches. Don’t pin a holy presence into a steeple or your definitions of goodness on conventions.  Faith will change you, break you, and bring you many good things — but evangelical culture will  create a mold you don’t fit in and convince you to hate yourself when you don’t fit into it. At the end of the day, the people who know how messy life can get will be there when the real mess happens.

Never stop seeking. Your truth and identity are ever-evolving. 

Don’t be afraid to carve your own path. You don’t have the luxury of doing well on the paths laid out for you by others. Your adventure, your euphoria, your identity, your dreams, don’t lie on most existing maps. You’ll fight a hell of a lot harder, but your dreams will happen. Just not in the way you realize.

(This’ll throw you — not many people walk the path from leading a worship team to being a drag king. That’s on the horizon. Enjoy it.)

I cannot express to you how good it will feel once you’ve broken away from the conventions and expectations the next 7 years will build for you. But the breaking will shatter you. It will make you feel like there’s no part of your identity left, no part that’s safe. You’ll feel that you lost everything you loved about yourself, you’ll face all your fears left to your own devices. Know that your desire to show extravagant love and be a safe place to those around you are parts of your identity, not your belief system. They will not leave with the conventions of religious life. Don’t spend so much time thinking you’re resigned to coldness and destruction. You’re not. You are still every beautiful thing you’ve always been.

You’re not an extrovert, you’re just afraid of being alone. People will create safe spaces for you, but your energy comes from your reflection. Learn to create your own safe space and find your solace there. The people who love you best will encourage your introvert time and be there when you’re ready to emerge again.

Stop trying to be a straight girl. You are neither of those things and continually trying to play the part is causing you more stress than necessary. You have so much more to worry about than fitting a mold that’s not even yours.

You do know how to look good. You just don’t know how to look like everybody else. And that’s okay. Just because it doesn’t look like the people around you doesn’t mean it’s not style.

Keep your eye on those who love without condition. The transitions coming in the next decade will take away most of your hopes for fitting in and pleasing everybody. Your identity will become a problem for the majority of the people you will meet in the next five years, and the five years after that will contain you meeting the majority of the ones who embrace your identity. Some will love you as a way to guide you in the way they think you should go. Those people will fade into the background as you find more about your own truth. The ones who keep supporting you, who remind you just as faithfully now as they did when you were in high school that you are loved and worthy of love, are few but so, so important. Those are the people who love like Jesus does.

Oh, and the queer community. Those people. They’ll love you like you’ve never experienced. If you could find them quicker, you’ll be a lot better for it. Trust me on this one.

Your fight with your brain is not made up. Your mental health condition is real and concrete and is not a product of your failure. You deserve to talk about it, you deserve to seek help, and you deserve to be around people who will be gentle and real with you.

Be mindful of the company you keep. You will meet so many incredible, beautiful people throughout the years. A lot of those people will leave. A lot of those people will convince you of things that aren’t true. A lot of relationships (not by their fault OR yours) will breed instability, unhealthy attachment, and confusion. That is not just fate’s way of telling you that you don’t deserve to be loved, it’s not because you aren’t lovable, and it’s not your fault.

People do exist in this world that will love you the way you need to be loved, that will speak your language, and that will breed confidence and assurance in their love for you. You’ll find friends who remind you tirelessly that your brain’s attacks on you aren’t truth and enjoy loving you. Those humans exist. I am so deeply sorry you will spend so much believing they don’t. I’m even more sorry for how long you’ll believe it’s your fault.

You are not dirty, sinful, or covered in handprints. Don’t try to wash yourself away because trauma and purity culture left you convinced you’re not whole. There’s nothing you need to erase in order to be worthy of love. Your sexuality, however it evolves, is not a sin.

Stop begging for God to change you. You are worth loving exactly as you are, in whatever state you’re in, and however you evolve. Give yourself kindness and gentleness in the space you’re in.

Brace yourself, kid. The next ten years will be more than you can imagine. You’ll be broken and changed and shaken in ways you don’t know exist, you’ll accomplish more than you ever thought you’d be capable of, and you’ll meet so many beautiful people along the way. You will love harder and fight more fiercely than you ever knew was possible. And you will be completely convinced you won’t make it to here.

But you will.

many of the people in my life aren’t surprised by this, but for those who haven’t been keeping up with me too well — *SURPRISE* — this is me, coming out as a baby drag king.

everyone, meet Brother Daniel. 

i wanted to share some segments of my story because, to be frank (and curse a little), being around the gender-fuckery that i’m now around on a regular basis has saved my life, given me freedom, introduced me to the best people i know, and more importantly, taught me more about life and people than i think most people learn in a lifetime.

i also wanted to share some segments of my story because over the last few days, i’ve seen so much ugliness in the world that surrounds me and my friends. i like to pretend we all exist in this perfect queer bubble where it’s all only love, but when that ugliness seeps in, it seeps in HARD.

so, here goes. i went to my first drag show about three years ago — it was for a school assignment, actually, i brought some friends and took a night out to go to Attitudes Nightclub for the first time. and i LOVED it. i distinctly remember my friend leaning over to me and expressing confusion because he couldn’t figure out if he was struggling with his sexuality or not, and i felt the same (i still thought i was straight at the time), and i was elated to be living in this tension and confusion, and to see people absolutely owning the stage and facing down every societal norm in the process, i felt almost euphoric. hypnotized.

you see, (and if you know me, this isn’t news at all) i’ve been saying for as long as i can remember that i’m not good at being a girl.

or i’m not good at being a cute girl.

i’m not good at being a straight girl.

i’m not too good at being a girl.

coming out as queer allowed me to understand my womanhood, and to accept that while i do own parts of my womanhood, i don’t have very much (any) femininity about me.

i finally stopped trying to dress like a cute straight girl, chopped off all my hair, and stopped trying to wear women’s shirts (thank the LORD).

(enter coming-out-affair, exit coming out affair, moved away, moved back, etc)

so, a few months ago, a friend asked me to come to a newcomer night at a bar near my new apartment. the more times i retell it, the more simplistic my revelation here gets, but basically, i watched everyone on stage and it was your basic “wait, i can do that?!”

cool. as with most of my bigger decisions, i dove in headfirst (and arguably way too soon). i drew on some stupid eyeliner facial hair, learned contouring in about an hour, and picked out two numbers for the next week’s show.

i’ll spare everyone the dirty details of the following months, but here we are now. i get to moonlight as a dude, my contour and facial hair has significantly improved (thanks to eyebrow pomade and a great drag family), and most importantly, i get to live in the world that enthralled me so much while i hung out in the closet all those years ago.

i’ve learned more about gender and expression in these months than ever in my life — and it’s been like taking a long run in the woods. exhilarating, a little cold, the air kinda hurts your face, but suddenly you know what it’s like to breathe, even when you can’t breathe it’s better than any breath you’ve ever taken.

i was able to put terms to how i felt about my body for the first time in forever — and able to see myself in a light that transcended the gender ideas that i’d grown up with, the ideas that told me i had to fit into a box i never chose and never felt comfortable in.

enter Dani finally learning how to create a body aesthetic they like, regularly rocking dress shirts and killer suspenders, finally styling their hair how they want, and getting to dance around onstage a few times a month.

enter Dani realizing that she/her pronouns work sometimes, but not always. that he/him pronouns also work sometimes. that they/them pronouns also work.

being genderfluid/gendernonconforming, accepting that about myself, drowning out the comments i’ve received since i started trying to look the way i want to, and finally having this life that looks mostly how i want it to, has been an insane trip. sometimes i think it started three years ago, sometimes i think it starts over every time i see my friends rocking heels better than i ever could, sometimes i think it starts over every day when i wake up.

i’ll give credit where it’s due — local drag changed my life. it’s crazy how i’ve been in this world for almost six months and every time i see a performance, give a tip, see one of my friends going all out for one thing or another, i have this huge stupid grin on my face that i can’t ever try to play off as cool. i’m exhilarated. i’m in awe. for so many of the performers i know and love, every time they step on stage it’s like another panel of the wall of gender norms being torn down, another layer of expectation being chipped away, and it’s so bold and so pure that you can see it in a performer’s face most of the time, see it in every meticulously applied eyelash and every contoured cheekbone, every carefully fastened bow tie, every rhinestone or stud that we definitely spent hours applying.

we get to break gender norms and set the stage ourselves. and that’s the most powerful thing in the world to me.

and even more, the humans that live day to day busting down gender norms in their everyday lives, away from the stage lights — it sets off in me this feeling of awestruck wonder at how people can be so beautiful, so wonderful, and so fiercely themselves. it’s always been so beautiful to me.

and now there’s more pressure to force adherence to these norms. lives are at stake. and here we are, feeling the administration pressing down on our queer bubble, making it harder and harder to breathe when some of us just grew lungs that worked.

it feels like my heart is breaking constantly. i know people who have fought unbelievably hard battles daily, moment by moment for their identity to be known and seen, people who have had to go in and out of the closet for their own safety, people who are finally feeling like themselves.

people like me.

but the thing i know most unswervingly about these people is that we’re all very used to the fight. we’ve been doing it every day, and it’s grueling and hellish and we hate it, but it doesn’t mean we’ll stop.

we’re armed, we’re prepared, we’re goddamn exhausted but we’ll never stop fighting. not just for ourselves, but for each other. and that’s the beauty of all the humans under the umbrella of the transgender spectrum. we know the battle, and we know that every identity is real, and we will always rise up for one another.

y’all, i love you. i love you so much. you’ve saved my life. and i’ll keep fighting for yours.

sincerely,
your friendly neighborhood drag king/genderfluid queerdo/affectionately nerdy introvert.

 

 

One habit I’ve taken on in the last year is to keep a working list of resolutions, things I dedicate my time and thought to and things I try to stay true to as my life goes through its rollercoaster of events and emotions.  Some of them are more detail-oriented, others are more broad, but they are all things I aspire to hold as personal habits.

As a way to keep them in my head, I’ve decided to share some of them here.

The one I find myself returning to time after time is #8: when it’s dark, light a candle.

Young adult life, particularly when coupled with mental illness, is tumultuous and confusing and the darker it gets, the harder it seems to be to see the light at the end of the tunnel.

Viewing this in the light of my own life, there have been many moments I’ve felt darkness over the past year; many moments my rollercoaster of emotions and events plunged deep underneath the ground, taking my view of the track away completely.  During those times, I’ve found solace in the simple act of lighting a candle.

I’ve also found it soothing to keep one lit as I go through my evenings, whether they be spent on homework or watching movies or even cleaning my apartment.

It has a little more flair than flipping a switch, and it brings this warm and natural light that’s alive, active, and beautiful. Keeping a candle next to me while I work has reminded me to never stop working, to keep the candle inside burning and to not give up, even when what I’m working on (or working through) seems impossible.

The glow of candlelight reminds us that even a small flame can bring warmth, comfort and light to even the darkest places; the act of lighting it reminds us that while we don’t have the power to change our situations, we have the power to create a light in the darkness.

At the same time, we can remember that we have a flame within us, even when it’s barely a flicker in the dark.  We create light through our existence, and this flame never stops burning no matter how small it becomes.

If you ever find yourself in a place too dark to see, give yourself the reminder of the warmth and light that exists even when we can’t see it, even when it feels too small to provide much relief.  Keep it burning.  Remember that your presence is in itself a light that can provide warmth and guidance on your way, no matter how dark things may be.

This post was originally written as a sermon, delivered on November 6, 2016.  However, I find more strength in written words and I felt very strongly writing this sermon…so, here it is, in written form.

We underestimate the difficulty of simply existing.

It’s something we take for granted — the ability to traverse each day, to keep moving and breathing and living, to keep pulling ourselves out of bed each morning and to get back to sleep every night.  But along the way, there are some things that make existing really, really difficult. Some of us go through crippling anxiety or depression that leaves us paralyzed and unable to move through simple parts of our day.  Some of us are plagued by life circumstances, by tragedy, by being constantly overwhelmed by the volume of responsibilities of the day, or by the all-consuming thought that we are living lives we don’t want to live.  Others of us have physical conditions that make so many simple tasks seem impossible.

Some of the things that make existence difficult plague us from both ends — they make it hard to go through our daily lives, and they bring us into a harsh place in society due to stigma.  In Bible times, stigma was attached to the idea of being unclean, this label that told people they were unfit to go into the presence of God and told their communities that association would make them suffer the same fate.

This is the place where we meet the woman who had suffered bleeding for twelve years (insert comment about THIS WAS A TWELVE YEAR LONG PERIOD, GUYS, IT WAS PROBABLY PRETTY HORRIFYING).  She was unnamed, so far removed that she doesn’t even get her own story in the Bible.  Not only was she in an awful physical condition, she was declared unclean and cast out from her society. Her existence, a painful and difficult one that probably required her to constantly give all she had, was barely acknowledged.  She suffered, and she suffered in a culture that all but condemned her suffering. So, she stayed hidden.  Alone.  Until she saw Jesus.  She figured she could take a chance at being cured while remaining unnoticed — if she could just touch the hem of his robe.

We, from then and into today, have segments of culture that force us into hiding for fear of being seen as we are.  We stay hidden, we try to fix ourselves in the dark, try to make ourselves “clean” before we emerge, and it traps us exactly where we are.  In those moments before we come out of the woodwork, there in the darkness with our struggles, our existence becomes nearly unbearable.

But there comes a moment — praise God, there comes a moment — when we realize, like the woman in this story, that we cannot stay hidden.  We cannot remain in the dark, trapped in a cycle that keeps us where we are.  We must show ourselves.  We ask for help in making our existence less unbearable.  We dare to step out of the darkness and claim to ourselves and those around us that this is not what we want.

Not this life.
Not this loneliness.
Not this darkness.
Not walking this path alone.

We step out into the light.  It hurts, but it’s the step. The darkness had kept us blinded to the present hope — as painful as it is to be vulnerable, to show ourselves and risk those moments of judgment, risk being seen as unclean, the light illuminates the hope that things will not be this way forever.

Sometimes, in those first initial, painful steps into the light, we find a higher truth than the darkness can offer us.  We find in the light that amid the pain, something better, something more, exists.  We find that we are not unclean.  We find that we don’t need to be “fixed.”  Just loved.

In the light, this woman found that Jesus had no interest in mentioning sins, a past, anything — His focus was healing her of an awful physical condition, healing her of something that made her existence so difficult.  She sought help, and she received it.  Hope happened.

We, as much as we hate to admit it, need help sometimes — we need help navigating the troubled waters of our existence.  We need to not be alone when simply existing is difficult.  And that’s okay.

Everybody deserves hope.  Everybody deserves the help they need.  We are no longer an unclean people.  We are not unclean.  We are not hopeless.  And we are not meant to stay in the dark.

Asking for help, telling your truth, is not, and should not be, a one-way ticket to condemnation or judgment. If you are struggling, if things are hard, do not be afraid to ask for what you need or tell your story.  Hear me; the light hurts, but it brings hope.  It brings truth.  You will find what you need somewhere along the way.  Take courage.  You are not meant to do this alone.

Show yourself. The world needs to see you. Step into the light, let it illuminate a bigger and more far-reaching truth. Let it illuminate hope. Let it illuminate you.

Perhaps this fountain was once beautiful. Perhaps it once shot water gracefully into the air before returning it to its home and beginning the cycle over again. Perhaps its ruddy brick foundation once served as a colorful backdrop for the crystal clear water, and perhaps kids and adults alike peered into the rippling water to see the coins others threw in before shutting their eyes tight and letting their own coins fly from their fingers, hoping it serves as a symbol of releasing their dreams and desires to the great unknown, hoping that by some strange magic the universe will draw the wish from the fountain and make it come true. 

Perhaps. 

Now, the brick foundation still stands with faded colors and missing pieces. The water, where it should have been teeming with life, now stands still and quiet. The water doesn’t shoot into the air or even roam the fountain — it stands. The crystal clear color has been traded for a murky brown green, forbidding wandering eyes from gazing upon another’s wishes and keeping them on the surface, leaving each one to simply see its own reflection in the dirty water. Wish after wish has been replaced with dirt and candy wrappers and trash that couldn’t find a home. 

This, that used to house magic and possibility and hope, has been reduced to a sad container for murky waters. 

How do we continue when we feel the magic disappear, when we feel hope sink to the bottom and mud and mire cloud our view? How do we go on when we look at the place where we once released our dreams and desires and see it reduced to rubble and dirt? Do we abandon our drowning hope, turn away from the crumbling foundation and let the trash pile up?

Or do we continue to try and peer through the trash and mire, continue to see through the darkness and grab onto hope? Do we continue to trust that our hopes and dreams will fall past the mud and traverse the still, dirty water to find the last glimmer of magic and land there, safe from harm? 

Do we continue to cast our wishes on murky waters, to shut our eyes and release our dreams into the unknown?

it’s Groundhog Day — one of the days in American culture that forces me to shake my head and wonder how in the world we have come upon crazy superstitions such as these.

however, in bringing this up to a few of my closest friends, i realized that today i found a small amount of comfort in the fact that Punxsutawney Phil predicted an early spring. even if it is a silly superstition — i hate winter, and faith becomes greater in times of desperation.

there’s an element to the season that comes with blistering cold and weather that keeps us locked inside our houses that affects some people more than others. winter comes with an almost spooky set of symptoms that can send people (myself included) spiraling into places that are just a little darker than the average days. and sometimes, the only improvement — the only hope — is that we know spring will come.

one of my favorite days of the year is the first warm day after winter. you can almost feel the earth stretching its arms and rubbing the sleep from its eyes, feel the grass and flowers eagerly start peeking their sprouts above the thawing ground, and feel everything around you breathe a sigh of relief. walking outside on the first day of spring, you can feel the desperation of the earth to break out of the ice and cold and into a time where life can thrive.

it’s similar to what we feel as humans when we have been through a circumstance of grief. i once spent my birthday weekend assisting with the funeral of a friend’s grandmother — out of respect, i kept the date under wraps until my friend told his family as they cleaned up the funeral dinner. with little hesitation, his aunt rushed into the room and made everybody sing “Happy Birthday” to me. in the midst of feeling super awkward (because really, it’s a strange feeling to hear that song in the midst of a funeral), i noticed the family break out of their grief for a short moment to simply acknowledge another year of life. it looked like the first day of spring in that room — i could see everybody take a desperately needed moment to smile and find joy. after spending days in the midst of grief and allowing themselves to truly mourn a loss, small flickers of hope began to sprout from their hearts. i could feel the necessity of joy in that room.

in an area with changing climates, we are able to physically see the way nature responds to things like grief and damage and hurt. while the earth freezes and cracks in the depths of winter, it takes a desperate breath of relief when the air warms.
as parts of nature ourselves, we can gain hope from the way the world takes a deep breath and thrusts itself into relief and joy. as the solar system works in its intricate patterns and rotations, we can come to expect changes in seasons.

if nothing else, i want this to sink in — we can expect that a season will change. we can expect that as nature turns from winter to spring, so our winters will slowly thaw out and we will be able to breathe and rejoice. we are blessed to serve a God of new beginnings who does not keep His children in the dark and cold forever.

i’m not sure where these words find you today, whether you are bundling up to face a harsh day or stepping outside to enjoy the sunlight, but you are not alone where you stand. if you are bracing yourself against a cold and dreary season or stumbling and crawling your way through the darkness, do not give up. the sun, the spring, the light is coming. and if you stepped outside this morning to stretch and relish in a sunny day, take a moment to share hope with someone else. they need it.

wherever we are, the truth remains — there is a time and a season for everything. and whatever season you are in, you will keep moving.
a new season is coming, my friends.

Sometimes you can still see the moon when it’s light outside. Sometimes dawn doesn’t quite chase all the dark away. And sometimes we have to look into our lives and realize that although our new season is still coming, it has not yet arrived.

I wanted to write some beautiful words about the end of a year being my change to leave things in 2015, to leave them behind, and the beginning of a completely new life and a new set of circumstances. I wanted to say that I am starting over this year and never looking back

However, that would be not only naive, it would be a lie.

The truth is, whatever season I’m in — the seeking and searching, the wandering and asking, this place of discernment — is not over yet. And there remains baggage on my shoulders and my heart, baggage I carry with me into the new year. I’m still shaky on my feet and trying to run a race I had no clue I was starting, still learning how to love myself and accept love.

The struggles I carry cannot be dropped with the toll of a bell — so rather than using this realization to refuse to move forward, I push on with the knowledge that the promise of a new season holds true.

I cannot leave my baggage at the door to a new year, and that’s okay. Because no matter how inadequate I feel among the victorious, cheery New Year’s posts, I am miles from my place at the end of last year, and I have fought like hell for every step. Though this journey, this season, is not over, there is unmistakeable progress.

I learned to leave situations that were dangerous for me — more so, I learned how to care for myself in the midst of hurt and confusion and loneliness.

I learned to accept community, to stop putting myself behind walls convinced that my secrets will chase the world away. I learned that sometimes you have to let someone take you by the hand and help you (okay, drag you kicking and screaming) out of the hole you’ve buried yourself in. Sometimes, you have to let yourself be found.

I learned about unconditional love and acceptance and that family is not always flesh and blood. I learned that in the eyes of love, I am not a problem or a poison, but a person with a heart and something to offer the world.

I learned that regardless of what people tell me, I am good at self-care. Whether that means drinking an extra cup of coffee or going home for 20 minutes to have quiet time, taking a power nap, or letting my friends remind me when I need to eat or take medicine, I have learned to surround myself with an environment in which I can do what’s good for me.

I learned that the simple difference between criticism and loving encouragement can turn a person’s life around, make a 21-year-old believe she can survive on her own (or skillfully clean a shower) and a 5-year-old face stage fright and sing in a Christmas program.

I learned that sometimes your friends have to pick you up, whether that means pulling you out of bed for the first time in days or picking you up from the side of the road when your car breaks down.

I started the last year believing my life was never going to change and being in terrifying dread of the coming days. I begin this year knowing how drastically my life has changed and how much it will continue to change in the next year.

And so, I welcome 2016 and I acknowledge that my journey continues slowly and steadily. Rather than mope in the darkness refusing to move, I light a candle, tighten the straps on the load on my back, and continue moving forward one step at a time.

I walk in the knowledge that a new season is coming.

I walk in the knowledge that I will find rest.

And I walk in the knowledge that I do not continue, that I will not finish this journey alone.

I will make it. And I keep my eyes forward, heartbreakingly grateful for every step along the way.