How silence became survival

I am done with the lies. I am done pretending I don’t see you. You are the only one I  see... the one who holds my heart without hands. The one who loves me beyond logic. The one who continues to show up, even when you don’t have the words. You carry the wisdom of the eternal and speak grace over me daily. You help me find the courage to try, especially when I feel incapable. You remind me that trying is enough. That trying is sacred. 

You are my body. I am the ego. And together we are aware of our soul. For a longtime, you and I tried to survive through effort alone. The body worked overtime. The mind kept score. And the soul? The soul waited, whispering... praying for alignment. But all the while, something deeper was whispering. Not loud. Not forceful. Just the soul, patient and persistent asking us to remember. Calling us to unite. 

You, the body, longed to be honored. To be seen in the majesty you are. But the mind, our ego... was conditioned to believe we were unworthy of being seen, touched... loved. Programmed to distort what God had created, to adapt and survive in a world that rarely made space for softness.

I know now why we have struggled to feel safe. Why you, body, held so much without speaking. Why illness and collapse became our messengers. It's because when we were young, our body was touched. Touched by forceful hands that lingered long enough for fear to go quiet. Hands that blurred fear with curiosity, and pleasure with confusion. The mind rewrote the story to protect us... but it left us with a script that said: "if someone wanted to touch you, that must be love." So later, when others touched us, we didn't know how to tell the difference. What we had felt in violation was mistaken for affection. And our body, still aching to be seen, said yes... while our soul quietly said no. Because we, the body and mind, chose to endure childhood trauma like the good, obedient boy we were raised to be.

So we endured. We became the invisible lover. The one who shapeshifts. The one who performs. We learned to be what people needed, even if it meant abandoning who we were. We weren’t ready. We weren’t taught how to say no. And when the soul tried to intervene, we were too deep in survival to hear it.

I see now... those moments shaped me. They carved out the man I’ve become. They taught me how to become the protector I needed. Our heart has always been pure, even when our body was tainted. Always sensing when something felt right, and always recovering from what didn't. Even when our mind was spiraling. We were trying to love through survival while touch became the illusion of intimacy.

We were sexually conditioned starting at the age of 4. The pattern was seeded there. The first boy used threats and violence to overpower us, and that set the tone. Yet, the boys who followed weren't nearly as cruel. Still, that first violation opened a door I didn't know how to close. And from then on, I found myself becoming sexual with most of my friends through my developmental years. Not because I was broken, but because I was trying to survive. Trying to understand love through the only lens I'd been given.

Our soul was doing what it could to survive early childhood trauma, and in some strange, sacred way, I believe I was transmuting the original pain with each new connection. With each boy there was a spark of curiosity and moments of shared innocence. And though many of those boys have grown into men with wives, I know that what we felt in those moments was real. I know it was love... pure, unfiltered, unconditional. But over time, it twisted. It became conditional. And fear crept in like desperation. The pattern became compulsive. Desire became validation.

Even speaking about it now feels surreal, like a story too heavy to be true. But when you're a child raised in the military, and you hear high-ranking service members speak with contempt about homosexuals... and you realize, through what happened to you, that you now carry the label they so deeply reject... you begin to dissociate from reality. Because suddenly, nowhere feels safe. We didn't feel safe at home. We didn't feel safe at school. We didn't feel safe anywhere. 

So from the youngest memory I can access, we survived. We adapted. We learned to walk the tightrope, balancing between extremes, shapeshifting into whatever version of ourself others needed or accepted. We became everything to everyone. The friend. The flirt. The safe one. The secret. And we kept doing it... until our soul, patiently, began calling us back. Yet this was our defense, our gift, and our prison.

Many took the chance to experience me in secret, but few understood the effect their rejection had on my ability to love and accept myself. I was always seeking affirmation from another boy... if he wanted me, I was happy. If he didn’t, I felt unworthy. I, the mind, have had a hard time accepting slow and gentle love. I’ve been offered pure, unconditional love from some of the most beautiful men... men who wanted to share life and creation with me, not romance, not sex, just presence. And that became the turning point, the lesson that brought me back to my soul. Because in those moments, I learned to sacrifice who I was programmed to be, in order to save who I truly am. I began to understand devotion, not as desperation, but as sacred preparation. I am waiting for the man who will love me beyond logic. Who will not only hold my heart, but also my hands and my body with reverence. 

I crave true love and the kind of freedom only committed devotion can bring. I  never wanted to be passed around, but I didn’t know I had a choice. I didn't know I  could say no. I thought I  had to say yes to any attractive man who showed interest. I thought desire was love. I thought love meant proving I was worthy of being used.

In junior high, I fell in love with my best friend. And just when things began to feel beautiful, our friends found out I was gay. He silently stepped to their side, and the world I knew turned against me. I lost the boy I loved, the friends I had, and suddenly entire regions....eight hours north and south, knew me as "gay Joey." Being outted shattered me again. Just as I was beginning to bloom.

My soul abandoned itself. I tried to kill my body, and my soul stepped in. I numbed myself with alcohol and fell into the arms of someone new. When I was at my lowest, I found faith in a new face. A glimmer of hope masking a shadow. A man who initially felt safe, but who quickly morphed into the one I had spent so many years running from... the face of fear.

 He got me drunk in my own home, and that night, I experienced what my body had never endured before. I had never been penetrated from benhin. But when my resistance met his force. I became that silent child again... expected to stay silent, to surrender... to comply. Only this time, I had seven times the legal alcohol limit in my bloodstream. And somehow, I found the strength to fight.

I got away, but not before being shoved to the ground, my heading slamming into the wooden frame of the futon. That was the moment I shattered. I began screaming and my parents heard me from upstairs. My mom came first and found me naked on the floor, drunk and disoriented. The sober boy told her I got drunk and came onto him, then turned violent. The decimation didn't stop there. My dad then joined the chaos. And together they drove me to the hospital, my shame pooling in the backseat like blood.  This was it. I was naked, afraid, and the man I feared most of rejecting me... my father... now knew everything. The floodgates broke open.

I told him, my father, that they shouldn’t be helping me because I was gay. I told them to let the cops take me away to where the rest of the bad people go. I told them I hated myself. I told them I didn’t want to live. They listened in earth-shattering silence, driving with a fear no parent should ever feel.

They acted fast. My stomach was pumped. I woke up the next day to a hospital room full of frightened family who weren't sure I'd ever open my eyes again. The doctor told me that if I had taken ONE more shots, my blood alcohol level would've been so high that I wouldn't have made it through the night.  That night... my parents, my two older siblings and I, were all supposed to go to The Fray concert. We didn’t make the show, but in some divine irony, we all came together to figure out How to Save My Life. 

You, body, were pushed to the edge... and you kept us alive. You, mind, reached your breaking point... and fought not to be a victim anymore of sexual trauma. And our soul, returned... if only briefly, our soul came home. We found ourselves in circles of LGBTQIA+ support groups where my parents, family and friends came becasue they simply wanted to understand. They wanted to learn what it means to love unconditionally in a society that made love conditional.

In those spaces, I found a flicker of healing. Like the day I marched beside my dad, as our family walked in the Salt Lake City Pride Parade, his hand on my back, and his love louder than the crowd. Or when my mom helped host the first ever Pride Month Celebration on our military base. In those moments, I found something I never thought I could claim... Pride... and from the Pride, I found the faith to begin becoming myself. Back then, in high school, that looked like becoming a competitive cheerleader.  

My body showed up for me with strength and grace, flipping through the air, moving with precision, claiming space on stage with confidence. To be seen... fully... and maybe even seen as sexy... lit a fire inside of me. For the first time, I wasn't hiding, I was performing. I was me. And I was accepted... at least by some. Becasue behind the applause, were the "Straight Mormon Athletes" who once snuck around with me in secret, only to become the same boys throwing garage at my from the crowd.

There was this boy I  shared English class with. One that used to be kind to me. Yet, once people started whispering about me liking him, he confronted me, and punched me in the face, 3 times... just to prove that he wasn't gay. I had faith in myself, but it quickly shattered me again. I became public property, humiliated, discarded, violated by the same hands that I once held in private. All becasue his ego needed to prove something, and I was the sacrifice.

I watched love turn to hate. I watched my school divide in two: those who stood with me, and those who mocked me. And when I learned that a girl on my cheer team was the one who told others I liked him..., I no longer felt safe, even within my own circle. Once again, I became the subject of whispers. I realized that most of the boys where I lived wouldn’t dare love or be seen close to me... not even if they wanted to. Because the fear of being seen as gay was stronger than any desire to know me. I was shown, and told in every cruel and obvious way that being gay was not cool to these people. 

After graduation, I, the ego, pushed myself as far as I could. I enrolled in a college far away, yet just close enough to still qualify for in-state tuition. I tried to start over. I made new friends, built a new reputation, met new guys.

But behind the fresh start, I watched my body deteriorate. Years of alcohol exposure and stress caught up to me. Sever sleep apnea and a case of shingles ended my cheer career. I watched as girls I lived with flirted with guys who liked me, only to listen to those guys come to tell me they didn't want to see me anymore. I watched people talk, I watched myself be used, for my Fmaily's stability, for financial security, for access to my light.

When I tried to shared my hurt, I was met with blame. Yelled at. Dismissed. Told again and again, "he was never interested. "Get over it". This girl who was once felt like an enemy had became a friend. Beyond that, she was a friend I lived with. Her boyfriend from high school had wandering eyes, and I saw the way they sparkled at me. I should have known better than to trust her fully. But I did, becasue I trusted the girl friends around her.Bbecause they didn’t judge me for being gay or for having a pattern of attracting straight-presenting men.

And then came the night everything exploded. I drank the same alcohol I had the night I almost died. She got in my face, screamed at me, yelling, accusing, breaking me down. I    snapped and I punched her in the face. And her boyfriend threw me across the room...

They cast me out of the townhouse my family had paid for. And even after they kicked me out, they stayed there for nine more months. While I moved back home, carrying shame like a second skin.

Yes, I know violence is never the answer. But back then, in that mental state, in the whirlwind of betrayal and unresolved trauma... violence felt like my body's way of finally standing up for itself. Beyond gender. beyond politeness. beyond survival. It was that moment my body screamed... no more!

So I went home. I got sober. I worked out religiously and rebuilt myself from the inside out. I found new friends, real friends. Straight men who respected me, and women who loved and supported me. And together, we had no issues. Because the truth is, I've never been out here trying to change anyone. I've only ever noticed the men who noticed me. And so I opened a door. I  created a space where they could experience something that most gay men fear before they come out... the first time...

I became Mr. First Time for hundreds of men. I found deep security in that innocence. In the gentleness of new feelings. In the curiosity of unexplored emotions. I liked thier purity, thier wonder, and the way they looked at me like I was something worth cherishing. And when it was a no, I always walked away. I never begged for more than what was offered, I never tried to turn anyone into something they weren't. I was just aligning with love that felt real for me. A love that chose to reveal itself, even if only for a moment.

But before I  ever got to find love for myself, I found the United States Marine Corps. Partly because my dad was in the Air Force. And partly because, let's be honest... Marines look hot in their uniforms... So,  enlisted to prove something... to prove I was strong even though I was gay. I went to boot camp. I showed up fully and became one of the first openly gay platoon guides. I led my battalion through the Crucible, the Moto Run, and the Graduation Ceremony. And I  did it all by being myself fully. I spoke from a place of truth, from knowing of who I am, and they respected me for it. I proved to them, through action and integrity, that there was nothing weak about being gay. and they followed, steadfast.  

Of course, there were still shadows. Still danger.

There were moments marked by spilled drinks and big smiles—followed by boys with bad intentions. Of course, I was locked in bathrooms, held against the wall, as my body was taken against my will. Of course, I was ridiculed and body slammed to the ground by a Marine who didn't want to remember a good night that we had. And of course I sustained a head injury by the same hands that used to hold me and kiss me while he drank, but feared me as an enemy when he was sober.

We were docked at a liberty port during deployment. I went out to drink, while he was on duty. When I sreturned I asked him why he treated me the way he did, and tried to explain that being gay wasn't a bad thing... and he had enough. I was pushed to the ground splitting my head on a metal chair. Medicinal came to get me, and all my superiors had was the report from this Maine on duty who assaulted me, and the reports from the medical staff. But the truth was, I was injured. I was silenced. And once again, my pain was turned against me.

I realized that none of my peers, none of my superiors, no one cared about what happened to me. No one cared what had happened. Except my parents thousands of miles away. The Millitry didn’t see the head trauma or the pattern of abuse. All they saw a drinking problem and birthing full of blood. They didn't offer support. They didn't listen. They didn't ask. Instead they bullied me, mocked me, and pushed me into submission. Every action that followed was a trauma response, rooted in the traumatic brain injury I sustained that night, and the raw, heightened awareness that I was not safe. Not physically. Not emotionally. Not spiritually. 

I was trapped. Floating on a ship in the middle of the ocean. Surrounded by fear. The only way out was through the fire... again. So, I called Ion my family. I lt ethem know I uwas rsuicidal and enduring trauma. That I didn't know what to do... while I stood Ithere with a knife in my hand. So, I allowed them to remind me of who I am, and the tools I can use. I got my lavender oil, I took breath out by the ocean. I took a cold shower. And then I wrote. I wrote a letter to share with medicial and theuy listened. Though they knew my truama, it didn't change my circumstances. So, I amde my self smaller. Silence became survival, and I survived.

Eventually, after waiting for the day I could escape that place and my abusers, I got to leave. Yet, once I did I recognized that I retuned to the same mess. Yet I was different. I realized how vain my friendships were. I brought lots of people together and was a master wingman. I was included, but I wasn't loved. I was accepted, but I was not celebrated. 

That Memorial Day weekend, we all got a mansion on a mountain to celebrat our return , and what was supposed to be a weekend of fun, became another mirror of my past. I walked into a bedroom and saw the guy I liked,w ho had insisted we were just friends, having sex with a ladyboy.

Yes, I saw everything, I saw him, and I saw her, and the part of her that most people pretend doesn't exist. I was beyond myself, shocked, betrayed, drunk, and spiraling...

What they were doing ended the moment I walked into the room. But it wasn't over. When the Marines found out, they wanted her to leave. She got defensive, started throwing things and being volatile. Then everyone looked at me in unison as the one meant to deal with it. 

I was drunk. I was humiliated. I was watching someone I loved sleep with someone else, someone whose presence challenged everything he claimed to be. So I let my rage speak. I lashed out. I pushed her out of the house.

After that, I was "too much." I was told to leave. I was pushed out and expected to drive myself elsewhere. The only option was a friend’s house, but she was dating someone new and we weren’t as close. I didn’t want more conflict. I didn’t want more shame.

So I drove... recklessly... spiraling. I wanted to crash... hoping that maybe this time I wouldn’t survive. But even then, my body was too precise. Too sharp. I couldn’t let myself die. And then I saw a cop and in a split-second decision, my mind force my body to hit the breaks. The cop had seen me. The cop pulled me over and arrested me. This cop saved my life. 

I woke up in a jail cell sobbing and called my parents. They had been working to pay my bail to get me out. When I returned to my unit, I was publicly humiliated. They stripped my rank. Cut my pay in half. I was placed on 60-day restriction, allowed to move only between my work building, the chow hall, and my barracks room. I had become their cautionary tale.

But I didn’t let that be the end.

I decided to use this fall as a reason to ask for help. First I Ispoke  with the OSCAR and he told me that what I wwas aexperincing was something I lhad kto work out within my own mind, and send me away with a book called, "Out of Control". So, I went into the substance abuse counselors office and told them that I wanted to go into an inpatient rehabilitation program.  I completed 30 days of inpatient treatment. And shortly after, I was medically discharged. Unfit for service.

Again, I went home. But this time was different. I was back in my bedroom where I was assaulted years before. The walls hadn't changed but I had... and I couldn't stay.  So I bought a camera, booked a one-way flight to Rome, and left three days later.

This is when I started my first blog. At first it was about travel, photos, places, people and stories from my adventures. But as I continued my mental health work, it evolved into an integration space where I allowed myself to be seen vulnerable and raw. It became my altar of truth, a place where I typed it all out, vulnerably and raw... so people could see how I process trauma in real time. 

I worked closely with a therapist who diagnosed me with Complex PTSD, from everything I have shared thus far.. Everything I’ve shared here has been part of that diagnosis. So I committed dmyself to healing and between treatments, I traveled. I wandered far and wide. But it is when I finally came home... when I stopped running and began creating, that something deeper happened. That is when I realized I was ready. Ready to feel. To feel love. To experience partnership for the first time, not as survival but as choice. As a healing. As a truth... and that’s when I met him.

I met a handsome guy online. After two weeks of talking, we decided to meet in person. The night he was supposed to take me on our first date, I got cold feet. I questioned if I was really ready, if I even wanted to meet him. But in the end, he came over anyway. And there, in my parents’ garage, in the crisp Utah cold, we found ourselves standing at the doorstep of something that felt like love.

He had told his Mormon family that he was going out to meet a girl. But within a week of meeting me... after staying with me night after night... he came out publicly online. No warning, no conversation. Just a photo of us kissing in front of the Temple Lights. I was floored. I gently suggested maybe he tell his family personally first.

And no, I didn’t sleep with him right away. On the night we met, I could feel he was someone I might want to date. So I made a choice. I told him everything... the hard things, the dark things, the things I had done and what had been done to me. I said, “If you can accept all of this, you’re welcome to stay. If not, I’ll understand. We can walk away now and save ourselves the heartache.”

He stayed. And suddenly, I was faced with a new reality... a man who wanted to stay. A man who saw my flaws and didn’t run. I wasn’t ready for it. I told him, “I don’t date for fun—I date with intention. And right now, I  feel like I might want to date you. But I know myself. If we have sex, I won’t want to date you." That night, we fell asleep holding each other. Just kissing. No sex. And we kept it that way, for two whole weeks. After that… we couldn’t keep our hands off each other.

We traveled. We did adventure races. We camped, cooked, laughed, and became deeply connected. On paper, everything looked perfect. He was present, affectionate, and affirming. But still... something in my body wouldn't let go of the quiet knowing that something was off.  Even with his love, I couldn't fully trust him. I didn't understand how relationships worked and felt this deep insecurity. After receiving everything I had prayed for, I couldn’t find joy. Only fear. Fear that it wasn’t real. Fear that it would end.

But we got through it. We moved in together. Got an apartment with his dog and later, I adopted Lincoln. We built a life that felt aligned. Felt almost perfect. I began to feel safe. Until he came home with a confession.

One night, while we were fighting and I stayed at my parents’ house, he had hung out with a guy friend. He told me he had left… but then returned. That this friend came to our apartment door, kissed him, jumped into his arms wrapping his legs around him, and how my partner walked him to the couch to make out and then receptive a blowjob. He told me he wasn't present. That he was confused in his tiredness. But he confirmed the fear I had carried from the beginning. That his commitment to me was not as deep as mine to him.

Still, I believed him. I believed his tears. I believed the excuses. I believed he was the victim... that he didn’t know better, that he didn’t mean it, that it wasn’t really cheating. He manipulated me into forgiving him too quickly. And when I later started expressing complex emotions about how I actually felt... when grief surfaced... he turned combative. "We already talked about this. You said you were over it. Why do you keep bringing it up?"

But the truth is, he cheated. And the betrayal cut me deep.

For the first time, I  knew what it felt like to be the person who wasn't chosen. To know your partner picked someone else, even for just a moment... when you thought they would always pick you. In that moment I was terrified. Not just because of the betrayal, but because I didn’t want to lose the life we built. I didn’t want to be the one who got cheated on. I didn't want to believe that maybe I wasn't good enough. That maybe I was too much, or not enough. That maybe, this was all I was ever going to get.

I swallowed my pride… and I stayed. I wore the mask I was asked to wear. Trying to believe that the fairytale was still alive, even as it slowly unraveled.  And when the truth got too loud, we opened the relationship. Looking back now, it was a mistake. It was a bandage over a wound that needed tending, not distraction.  We slept with friends. We lost our boundaries. And then, together, we were both drugged and taken advantage of by a business mentor... someone who had clearly wanted my partner and treated me like a problem, like collateral damage.

We were breaking. And yet, we kept going. Fighting to keep the illusion alive, fueled by our egos, not our hearts. Spent money. Traveled. Pretended. Until one day when everything stopped. We were driving to a leadership convention and the world shut down. The pandemic had arrived. Within hours everything was closed and cancelled.  And somewhere in the middle of the desert, 14 hours from home, something in both of us broke. We fought. We split our things. We drove away in separate cars.

He went to see friends. I went on a vision quest. I found free land deep in the desert, nestled along a river. I Walked those lands with my dog and discovered the remnants of a native tribes home... a sacred space. I found thier altars, and I added my own breath to the wind. I danced .where they danced. I prayed where they prayed, and i faskedor support. And then... I saw it. A skin walker, or something like it... a grey, sleek figure just below the waters surface, watching me.  I walked into the medicine wheel and prayed to every direction. I was met by a spiritual guardian. Not in words, but through the quiet authority of the land itself. Through intuition. Through simplicity. Through Earth. That guardian walked with me. Walked me away from danger. Away from delusion. Toward something deeper. Toward something true.

And the next day, as I Awastched fa flash flood sweep the land and waters pouring down the hills... I theard ea whisper telling me to leave. I listened. I packed up and after I got back to cell service, I  called my partner.  I told him I was scared. The I need him... And I wwas aready to come back, but he wasn’t ready for me to come back. He was supposed to go out drinking with some friends. Including a guy we had previously hooked up with together. I felt shunned. Rejected. So I leaned harder into the myth and magic I had found in the desert. Of fantasy. Of mysticism. A world that, unlike him, made room for me. 

Eventually, we reconnected. We found a temporary peace. We returned to my family home. Bought a bus with a vision of life on the move, together. We started renovations and then within a week, he was gone. He told me I couldn’t heal to his standards. That Spirit told him to leave me. That leaving me was the only way I’d find myself. And as much as it hurt, he was right.

He made the decision I wasn’t ready to make. And I held onto his memory for another three years. Holding him as judge and jury in my mind. Changing myself based on his reflection of what I wasn’t. A reflection of inability, of unworthiness, of spiritual failure. 

But I can say now, with clarity: I have healed beyond the standard he set. And I realize… he never had very high standards to begin with. And also, realize that he was lucky to have been loved by someone like for as long as he did. 

The trauma I carried from childhood kept me codependent. Kept me afraid. Kept me small.  I couldn’t leave a man who was unwilling and unable to honor my own spirit... to walk away from a man who could not be faithful in heart or mind. . I couldn’t stand up for my own soul. I took his insults as truth. I made Joey the problem. I repeated the stories and experiences I had survived as if they were proof that I deserved the pain. That I was broken. That I needed someone else to save me. I listened to his insults as gospel. And I turned on my own spirit again. I began to hate Joey the same way he did. I made Joey the problem just like the others had. And I repeated the old stories, the old wounds, the old betrays, as if they were proof... proof that I deserved what happened. Proof that I was broken. Proof that I was desperate to be healed. 

So, I changed. I grew my hair. I changed my name to Arizona. I wore women’s clothes. I started designing and developing a new version of myself. One I hoped could survive the rejection. One I hoped would finally be loved.

My family saw the hurt. They moved to Florida with me, to protect our privacy. But once there, I chose to take my dog and move to the jungle. To live at an ayahuasca community. To learn. To heal. I had good intentions, but I carried a wounded body and a fractured self-image. Everything I did was put under a microscope. Tiny missteps felt colossal. And eventually, I was deemed unworthy. I was asked to leave. But I didn’t stop searching. And the path didn’t end there.

I found my way to a nearby city. That's where I met her. A woman who would guide me back to Florida and into a whole new world of transformation. She became my friend. My mirror. My teacher. And, at times, my betrayer. She  introduced me to a bigger lifestyle, and also deeper wounds. She would go after men I liked. Making my femininity a problem. She would say things like, "No one likes Arizona", and she would tell people "There's another version of him you'd probably like better, if he'd only show up." And the truth is... she wasn't wrong. But her words lost weight after years of public disrespect. She made me into a secret. A shadow. A version of myself I was told to abandon for the sake of being wanted. And once again, I lost myself. 

Yes, I expressed more freely. Yes, I connected with new people. But I morphed just like I had before. I changed based on the men I met, shifting my essence to fit their desire. To be wanted. To be kept. I forced myself to become what they wanted, believing it would finally earn me love, respect and acceptance. But one after another, they couldn’t hold the light they saw in me. One after another, they pulled away.

Of course, I was something worth admiring yet dismissed for my light. Of course, I was jheld by powerful hands in private spaces. Of course, I listened to false Kings and found myself flying across the room. Of course, I was drugged and sexually taken by a "straight man" who wanted nothing else but for me to fill the holes within him because he couldn't accept that he needed something more than he was given. Then threatened me to keep my mouth shut.

I ached. Again and again. Year after year, I met them. And I lost them. I loved them and I    was broken by them. It wasn't until I began to notice how a new man kept showing up in my life. He was married with children... and yet, I was something both attractive and deeply desired. We shared long, vulnerable conversations. He wasn't sure what he felt but he was for the first time considering his sexuality. At first, his wife tried to accept me, she tried to hold the space because he wanted me there. But eventually, She told me it was okay for me to be gay… but not her husband. She told me he wasn’t gay. She tried to dismiss the energy between us.But he stopped her. He told her there was something between us. That he wasn’t ready to act on it, but that it was real.

Over the years, we grew closer. We shared gentle touches.  Soft limited cuddles. Kisses on the cheek. A million moments of presence and quiet gratitude. Our love didn’t require hands or bodies, it built itself slowly, like something sacred. It wasn't based in sex. It wasn't about conquest. It was love, built slowly, through magic, through mystery... A love that lived in the quiet spaces between us. Until, in the end, when I became the scapegoat.

I was singled out as the problem. I made a mistake, I acted out of character. I made his wife mad. And that was enough. She started talking, not just about me, but about her own husband. She violated sacred spaces, exposing private conversations, outing her husband, shattering years of trust, all in a single storm of betrayl. And that's when he changed. The man Ihad prayed with, served medicine besides, raised children with... and he became someone else. He mirrored her anger. He joined in her judgement. He forgot what we had built. Together they turned on me. They publicly scrutinized me, framing it as liberation, as truth-telling.

But to me it was something else entirely. It was an accidental confession, an admission of just how deep his involvement with me truly was. He had known my heart. My tenderness. My love. And still, he twisted the truth to paint me as a predator. While he himself continued to sexually use others in the community.... and at times, at his wife's request. He told the world I  tried to change him... but in truth, he changed me. 

It took time to get over him. Months. Maybe years. But I’m grateful now. I’m no longer emotionally bound to him...or to her. I can see where I lost myself, and I can also say, with certainty: I was not a predator. I never crossed a line without consent. I always asked. I spoke my truth. I asked to be seen. Sometimes I was. Sometimes I wasn’t.

I lived like the person I needed when I was a child. Someone who honored the sacredness of choice. Someone who knew the cost of having something taken before you were ready to give it.

Still, I understand now that these men carried their own traumas. And it is not my job to carry the weight of their confusion. It’s not my duty to hold space for every man who wants a glimpse of light but isn’t ready to step into it.

I don’t have to be available to everyone. Just like when I left the military, I am once again claiming my body as mine. I’m reclaiming my truth. I’m honoring my voice.

The last man I loved came close to perfect. But he wasn’t ready. He wasn’t capable. He was a boy pretending to be a man. Strong enough to hold attention, cute enough to get away with it. But not ready to hold what was sacred.

I gave him everything... my home, my family, my money, my time, my body. And looking back, I realize: he was always happy to receive. But when it came time to give, to love me in return… he wasn’t able.

Never again. Never again will I abandon my soul to become the version someone else wants. Never again will I shrink to be unseen. Never again will I hold onto a love that won’t hold me back.

If it’s not a full-bodied yes, it’s a conscoius no. I’m not interested in anything else.

I’ve become too aware. Too grounded in my patterns. Too devoted to real love.

I know now that the man who will one day wear my ring is out there, doing everything in his power to become the best version of himself. And I want to meet him there. I want to do the same... not from a place of seeking, but from a place of becoming. For the first time in a long time… I want myself. I see who I am. I see the trauma I’ve survived. And I see the purity of heart that has remained intact.

The world may have its stories about me, but there are so many stories it doesn’t know. And maybe by sharing mine... raw and real. I can inspire someone else to come home to themselves.

There is comfort in a familiar hell. In knowing what you have, even if it hurts. But there is beauty on the other side of fear. And maybe that beauty is the entrance to your own inner courtyard... to your own Garden of Eden. I am not what happened to me. I am not just the body. I am not just the mind. I am the soul.

I live in silence and speak when the world is quiet enough to hear. I’ve spent a lifetime shape-shifting, showing up for everyone else. But now, I show up for me. I am worthy, because I am. Not because of what I do or who I please. I am a miracle wrapped in skin, and despite the traumas, I’ve shown up with a full and trusting heart. And now, in 2025, I’m surrounded by devotion. By love. By intention. By a tribe that sees me. A family that protects me. A future that excites me.

I demand nothing more. I am a beloved spark of consciousness... created by the One, with the One, as the One. And I was made perfect. Yes, I live in a world where my truth, my body, and my voice often challenge the status quo. And I welcome it.

Because beyond these words... beyond the stories of early trauma, rejection, betrayal, and rebirth, is a heart that has become the safest place for love to land. I have become the partner I always wished I had.

And now, I turn my focus toward sacred stewardship. I share my words because when my grief feels too heavy to hold, when my body drives with intent to harm, when I think of my story being told by the people who abused me because I .died. That is ultimitley what has shown up to save my life. To show myself that I am not broken because of what happened to me. That healing is real. That I am sacred. And I deserve to share my medicine. So, I am anchoring myself in soul coherence and mystical integration. I have walked the path. I have done the work. And now… it’s time to return.

My name is Joey.

And this… this is my EverAfter.