Energy is slippery for me. With ADHD, I don’t always wake up with a neat little battery icon at 100 percent. Instead, it’s closer to an energy reserve that ebbs and flows. And sometimes that spark is bright and fast. While other times it’s dwindling with little to no warning. I’ve had to learn that energy isn’t just about sleep or food for me, and it’s more about where my spirit plugs in.
Nature:
Nature is my primary resource. Hiking trails, creeks running wild, sandstone ridges shaped by centuries of wind, and a roaring waterfall at the end of a sweat soaked trail. There is where energy is recharged for me. In those places I refill in ways caffeine never could.
The Red River Gorge or a simple forest path near home becomes a charging station for my mind and body. It’s like a Tesla charging station I didn’t need Elon Musk to build. The rhythm of my tennis shoes against dirt, the press of cool rock in my palm, the sudden flash of a butterflies wings are all part of what fuels me.
Out there, my ADHD mind isn’t too much; it’s just right. It matches the chaos of leaves, the unpredictability of weather, the endless possibility around each bend in the trail.
Advocacy:
Advocacy also gives me energy, though it comes from a different kind of spark. Speaking up, protecting minority community voices, making space for marginalized creators. This is the kind of work that costs energy and yet somehow returns it at the same time. Fighting for change isn’t easy, but it is necessary. And every time I see someone feel heard, every time a voice long silenced finally resonates, I feel that flicker of fire in my chest. That fire is renewable.
Energy:
So, what gives me energy? It’s a perfect mix curated by and for me. The rush of ADHD hyperfocus when I’m passionate. The grounding pulse of nature that steadies my racing thoughts. The charge of advocacy that reminds me I’m not just one voice, and I’m part of something larger: a collective heartbeat that refuses to be quiet. My energy isn’t always predictable, but it is powerful, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
What personality trait in people raises a red flag with you?
Perfection. You know that flawless facade that some wear like armor. This is my ultimate red flag in any relationship, professional connection, or friendship.
When someone presents themselves as perfect, never making mistakes or showing vulnerability, it’s not a sign of excellence but a warning of what lies beneath. Perfect people don’t exist. What does exist are individuals who have constructed elaborate defenses to hide their humanity.
So what are you trying so hard to hide?
The Danger Behind the Flawless Facade
The pursuit of perfection creates impossible standards that crush creativity and authentic connection. I’ve watched “perfect” people:
Refuse to acknowledge their mistakes, even when obvious to everyone
Shift blame rather than accept responsibility
Hide struggles until they become unmanageable crises
Judge others harshly for normal human limitations
Exhaust themselves maintaining an unsustainable image
This relentless perfectionism isn’t strength… it’s fear wearing a mask of confidence.
What Perfection Hides
Behind the polished exterior of perfectionism often lurks deep insecurity. The person who can never be wrong, never show weakness, and never admit confusion is typically terrified of being seen for who they truly are.
This fear creates a barrier to genuine connection. How can you truly know someone who refuses to show their rough edges? How can you trust someone who can’t acknowledge their mistakes?
The Value of Beautiful Imperfection
I’m drawn to people who embrace their imperfections. People who can laugh at their mistakes, acknowledge their limitations, and show up authentically even when it’s messy. There’s something profoundly trustworthy about someone who can say “I don’t know” or “I was wrong” without their world crumbling.
The Japanese concept of wabi-sabi celebrates the beauty in imperfection. A handmade ceramic bowl with slight asymmetry holds more character and value than a mass-produced “perfect” one. The same applies to people.
Recognizing Healthy Striving vs. Perfectionism
There’s an important distinction between healthy striving for excellence and toxic perfectionism:
Healthy striving is motivated by growth and learning
Perfectionism is motivated by fear and avoidance
Healthy striving allows for mistakes as part of the process
Perfectionism sees mistakes as unacceptable failures
Healthy striving focuses on the journey
Perfectionism fixates solely on flawless outcomes
When I meet someone who can talk openly about their failures, who approaches challenges with curiosity rather than certainty, and who shows compassion for others’ mistakes… that’s not a red flag. That’s a green light for authentic connection.
In my experience, those who project an image of perfection aren’t just hiding normal human flaws but, they’re often concealing something far more concerning. The person who can never admit to being wrong, who crafts an immaculate social media presence while their real life crumbles, who dismisses others’ struggles while presenting themselves as flawless. And these aren’t just annoying perfectionists. They’re often hiding deep-seated insecurities, manipulation tactics, or even abusive tendencies.
The most dangerous people I’ve encountered weren’t those who openly acknowledged their struggles with anger, anxiety, or past mistakes. It was those who insisted they had none. Those who gaslit others into believing their perception of reality was wrong. When someone shows you a perfect facade, they’re not showing you who they are; they’re showing you what they want you to believe. And that gap between image and reality is where the real danger lies.
True connection happens in the spaces where we allow ourselves to be seen… yes, the imperfections and all. Someone comfortable with their flaws rarely needs to control how others perceive them. Remember this the next time you meet someone who seems too perfect to be true. They probably are.
The most interesting people I know are gloriously, beautifully imperfect. And that’s exactly what makes them perfect for genuine relationship.
What trait do you consider an instant red flag? Share your thoughts in the comments.
There’s nothing like a week dedicated to hunting beauty. Whether that is from the rocks I am hounding or the falls we are chasing. We are surrounded by natural beauty and creative inspiration. My ideal l getaway unfolds somewhere with diverse geology. A place where I can find fossils in the morning and crystals or semiprecious stones in the afternoon, all while soaking in breathtaking landscapes and the suns rays.
Dawn to Midday: The Hunt
Each morning starts with Luna’s cold nose nudging me awake as first light filters through the tent. Kelsey stirs beside me, already reaching for the camp stove to brew coffee. Our campsite sits far from designated campgrounds and tourist trails just wilderness, silence, and possibility. Oh yea and a composting toilet.
After a quick breakfast, I grab my field kit. The essentials hammers, chisels, brushes, and collection bags organized for efficiency or just Aldi bags (if I’m being honest). The morning hours belong to serious specimen hunting, when my eyes are a little more sharp and my patience abundant. Some days I explore exposed rock faces rich with marine fossils; other days I sift through creek beds for tumbled treasures or I chip carefully at promising outcroppings.
Luna explores nearby, occasionally bringing me sticks instead of rocks (still working on her training after all this time). We like it out here since she doesn’t need a leash. My partner alternates between helping me search and capturing the landscape through their camera lens. We work in comfortable silence, occasionally calling each other over when something interesting appears.
Midday to Afternoon: Water and Wonder
When the sun climbs high and the day heats up, we transition to water exploration. A series of waterfalls create the perfect swimming holes. There are some shallow enough for Luna to splash in, others deep enough for proper diving. The cold water shocks against sun-warmed skin, creating that perfect contrast that makes you feel completely in the moment.
After swimming, we spread our morning’s finds across sun-heated rocks to dry and examine. I pull out my loupe to inspect the details of particularly interesting specimens or finds. I love the crystalline structure of a geode, the delicate imprint of an ancient fern, and the perfect spirals of a fossil shell. Each piece tells a story millions of years in the making.
Evening Rituals: Fire and Flow
As afternoon fades, we return to camp to prepare for evening. May i build the perfect campfire while Kelso seasons thick-cut steaks with just rosemary, salt, and pepper. The simple preparation lets the quality of the meat speak for itself when it sizzles over open flames.
With dinner preparations underway, I settle into my hammock strung between two sturdy pine trees. This is when I roll a blunt of quality green, taking slow, appreciative draws as I flip through my journal to go over notes for the day’s finds. The combination of physical exertion, successful discoveries, and gentle relaxation creates the perfect mindset for creativity.
As twilight deepens, we feast on perfectly flame cooked steaks and fire-roasted vegetables. Luna lies nearby, gnawing contentedly on her own special treat, occasionally looking up to ensure her humans are still present.
After dinner, the campfire becomes our center. My partner roasts marshmallows for s’mores while I pull out my laptop, the words flowing more freely here than they ever do in civilization. Poems about ancient oceans, the patience of stone, and the fleeting nature of human existence emerge onto the page.
Days of Discovery
Each day follows this rhythm but with different locations to explore. One day might focus on sedimentary layers rich with fossils; another might take us to mineral veins in metamorphic rock. We hike to panoramic overlooks where the landscape reveals its geological story in exposed strata.
In the evenings, we alternate between different campsites, each offering its own unique character. We spend one night beside a waterfall, another on a ridge with sunset views, a third in a grove of ancient trees whose roots have witnessed centuries.
The Essence of Escape
What makes this week ideal isn’t just the specimens collected, though my bags grow heavier with treasures each day. It’s the rhythm of existence dictated by sunlight rather than screens, the deep conversations that emerge around campfires, and the way that disconnecting from everything else connects me more deeply to what matters: creativity, companionship, and the ancient stories told by stones.
As the week concludes, I carefully wrap each specimen in paper, noting observations. But the real treasures are the filled digital journal pages, the renewed connection with kelso, Luna’s evident joy, and the lingering sense of peace that comes from a week lived exactly as we choose.
This is freedom: rocks, water, words, love, and enough green to keep the edges soft. This is my ideal week.
I’m holding a grudge against whatever deity, universe, or cosmic force decided it was okay for my mother to die when I was only 30. Actually, twenty-nine. It has been almost four damn years. I can’t believe it was eight days before my birthday and before my twin sister’s her youngest children were even 21.
And you know what? I will forever hold this grudge against whatever divine being made that choice. Because fuck them for taking the only thing I had to rely on, the only parent I ever really had.
When Grief Becomes a Grudge:
There’s something raw about admitting you’re angry at God, at fate, at the universe itself. Society tells us to “let go,” to “find peace,” to “accept what we cannot change.” But sometimes a grudge isn’t just anger…it’s love with nowhere to go.
My grudge isn’t really about hatred. It’s about the unfairness of losing your anchor when you barely feel enough to understand what an anchor even is. It’s about growing old with a mother-shaped hole that no amount of hiking, poetry, self-help books, or well-meaning advice can fill.
The Poetry of Anger
In the witchy, spiritual communities I often steer clear of there’s a lot of pressure to be “love and light” all the time. But what about love and rage? What about the sacred anger that comes from being robbed of something precious?
My grudge is a form of devotion. It says: “She mattered. Her absence matters. The injustice of her early death matters.” How the fuck is it fair she gets to die right after she experiences happiness? Right when she got clean? Like you have to be kidding me!
Some grudges are worth holding and not because they serve us, but because they honor what we’ve lost.
Questions for Your Own Journey:
What grudges are you carrying that might actually be love in disguise?
How do you honor your losses while still moving forward?
When has anger been a teacher rather than a burden?
Sometimes the most honest spiritual practice isn’t forgiveness—it’s admitting that some wounds change us forever, and that’s okay too.
At thirty-three, I never imagined I’d become someone who shares the intimate parts of my life online. Yet here I am, consistently showing up to write about grief, gender identity, and the healing power of hiking. If you’re wondering why someone would choose to be so vulnerable in public spaces, the answer is both simple and complex: because sharing our stories creates the connection and healing we all desperately need.
When Grief Needs Witnesses:
Losing my mother changed how I process emotions entirely. Suddenly I had all these feelings with nowhere to put them. Writing journal entries addressed to her felt worse than loosing her fake almost. So I started doing it differently. I discovered something powerful: I wasn’t the only person talking to someone who couldn’t talk back.
Sometimes the most healing thing we can do is witness each other’s pain and say “me too.”
Mountains as Medicine:
My hiking posts might look like simple nature photography, but they’re actually documentation of my primary therapy. When emotions become overwhelming, I head to the trails. The physical exertion helps regulate my nervous system while natural beauty provides perspective impossible to find in urban chaos. And it’s something my mom and I loved to do together.
Each trail represents a different emotional journey. Sharing these experiences shows others that outdoor activities can be powerful mental health tools, not just weekend recreation. Nature doesn’t judge your tears or your questions about who you’re becoming.
Creating the Safe Spaces We Needed:
The internet can be hostile, especially for transgender people navigating identity questions. By consistently sharing authentic content about my experiences, I’m creating the kind of safe space I desperately needed when I was younger and struggling alone.
This extends beyond trans content. Writing honestly about grief, family estrangement, mental health struggles, and finding joy in simple moments creates multiple entry points for people who need to feel less alone. Safe spaces aren’t just physical locations; they’re emotional environments where vulnerability meets understanding instead of judgment.
The Healing Power of Owning Your Story:
Blogging forces me to articulate experiences that might otherwise stay tangled in my head. The writing process helps me understand my own emotions more clearly. When I write about complicated family relationships or gender identity struggles, I often discover insights that weren’t apparent until I found words for the experience.
There’s something revolutionary about controlling your own narrative. For too long, other people told stories about what grief should look like, how men should process emotions, or what it means to be transgender. Blogging gives me ownership over how my experiences are presented and discussed.
Building Community Through Shared Truth:
The most unexpected benefit has been the community that formed around shared experiences. People reach out to tell their own stories of loss, identity questions, or finding peace in nature. These connections prove that individual healing contributes to collective healing when we’re brave enough to be honest about our struggles.
Comments become support groups. Email exchanges turn into lasting friendships. Social media shares connect my words with people who needed to read exactly what I wrote on exactly the day they found it. This ripple effect makes the vulnerability of public writing feel worthwhile.
Why This Matters:
Some days blogging feels like shouting into the void. Other days it feels like the most important work I do. The consistency matters more than perfect posts. By showing up regularly to write about real experiences, I’m proving that our messy, complicated stories matter enough to be told with care.
The combination of grief processing, outdoor therapy, and transgender experience sharing might seem random, but it reflects reality: human beings are complex. We don’t fit neat categories, and our healing doesn’t follow predictable patterns. My blog honors that complexity while creating content that might help others navigate their own beautiful, difficult lives.
An Invitation to Connection:
If you’re processing loss, questioning identity, struggling with family relationships, or finding healing in nature, you’re not alone. If you’re looking for authentic stories that don’t tie everything up with neat bows, this space is for you. If you need permission to feel complicated emotions about complicated situations, consider this your invitation.
We heal in community, even when that community exists primarily in digital spaces. By sharing our real experiences, we create opportunities for others to feel seen, understood, and less alone in whatever they’re carrying.
This is why I blog: to process, to connect, to heal, and to remind anyone who needs to hear it that their story matters too. Your struggles are valid. Your questions are welcome. Your healing journey deserves witnesses who understand that growth is messy, nonlinear, and absolutely worth sharing.
When was the last time a piece of media moved you to tears? For me, it was discovering Warbel’s powerful song “The Village.” As a transgender man navigating a world where authentic representation feels like a distant dream, finding this song was like discovering water in a desert.
The Moment Everything Changed:
“The Village” isn’t just another song with trans themes tacked on as an afterthought. It centers trans male experiences with dignity and complexity that could only come from genuine understanding. The music itself seems to comprehend the trans experience on a cellular level. It’s in the progression, build-up, tension, and release mirroring the emotional journey many trans men experience.
Even years later, hearing this song brings tears to my eyes. The authentic language avoids clinical terminology in favor of expressions that resonate with lived experience. The emotional honesty acknowledges both struggle and triumph without falling into tragedy or unrealistic perfection.
Visual Storytelling That Honors Our Truth:
The music video elevates the representation further by avoiding tired tropes or exploitative imagery. Instead of cisgender actors attempting to portray experiences they’ve never lived, the authentic casting features actual trans individuals. This choice immediately enhances the emotional resonance while maintaining respect for trans experiences.
The Healing Power of Being Truly Seen:
There’s something profoundly therapeutic maybe even cathartic about seeing your experience reflected authentically in art, especially after years of invisibility and misrepresentation. This recognition reduces isolation and fosters self-acceptance when you see trans experiences portrayed positively and with nuance.
The community that forms around these discoveries becomes part of the healing process. Connecting with others who were similarly moved creates networks of support and shared understanding that extend beyond the media itself.
Setting New Standards for Representation:
Warbel’s approach to “The Village” establishes new standards for how mainstream media can and should authentically portray trans experiences without sacrificing artistic quality. Its success encourages other creators to approach trans stories with similar care and authenticity, gradually changing the landscape of representation across various platforms.
Beyond entertainment, this authentic representation serves an important educational function. It helps cisgender audiences understand trans experiences through emotional connection rather than clinical explanation, potentially reducing prejudice and increasing acceptance.
The Ally Behind the Art:
While Warbel himself isn’t transgender, his decision to create authentic trans male representation demonstrates a deeper understanding of allyship. In an industry where trans stories are often told without trans voices, his approach suggests genuine collaboration rather than performative inclusion.
The care evident in both song and video indicates extensive consultation with trans communities and a dedication to getting the representation right. His willingness to center trans experiences rather than his own perspective shows a mature understanding of how privilege can be used responsibly.
The Power of Being Seen:
Each time I listen to “The Village,” I’m reminded of the transformative power of authentic representation. In a media landscape that has too often ignored or stereotyped trans experiences, works like this stand as beacons of validation.
The tears of joy that come from being truly seen represent something larger than a single emotional moment. And they represent hope for a future where authentic portrayals become the norm rather than the exception. That’s why trans representation matters so profoundly for our community and culture.
What songs have brought you to tears of joy through their representation? Share your story in the comments below?
Emergencies in public aren’t always predictable, but they can happen anywhere. From accidents to violent incidents, the ability to respond quickly can save lives. I’ve lived in cities where danger is a reality, and I know that being prepared is essential and not at all optional. That’s why I’ve built a personal emergency preparedness plan for whenever I am in a more crowded public area.
It starts with awareness. I pay attention in crowds, note exits, and look out for patterns of potential hazards. Being alert doesn’t mean living in fear; it means noticing what’s normal so I can act fast when something isn’t.
Communication is critical. My phone stays charged and accessible, and I share my whereabouts with trusted contacts. I also have backup methods like multiple phone batter pack chargers. Clear communication can be the difference between safety and chaos.
Supplies are practical and discreet. I keep essentials in a small bag: water, snacks, medications, ID, a flashlight, a whistle, and more than one portable charger. I wear clothing that allows for quick movement and shoes that won’t slow me down. Every item is chosen to give me flexibility and survival options without drawing attention.
I plan my routes and safe zones. Before I enter a public space, I identify exits, open areas, and safe shelters. Multiple options are important because situations can change in seconds. If an attack or accident occurs, knowing where to move reduces panic and improves my chances of staying safe.
Group awareness enhances safety. I stay near friends or trusted allies when possible, observe my surroundings, and quietly communicate hazards if needed. Safety is collective and keeping an eye on each other strengthens everyone’s chance of staying unharmed.
Finally, mental preparation matters. I rehearse scenarios silently: how to move quickly, how to stay low, how to follow the exits I’ve scoped. Planning ahead means I don’t have to figure things out in panic if danger hits.
Being prepared in public isn’t overthinking. It’s a practice in staying proactive, alert, and ready. My plan helps me respond to sudden emergencies confidently and effectively, so I can navigate public spaces with safety in mind.
Peace isn’t some distant, fragile dream…it’s stitched together from everyday moments and rituals that quietly steady me when everything else feels like it’s spiraling. I find it in the calm that comes when I intentionally slow my mind, pulling back from the noise that threatens to swallow me whole. It’s in the deep breaths taken during those rare stillnesses, a soft reset that slices through chaos and invites clarity to settle in like a whispered promise.
I usually find peace first by quieting the storm inside my head…finding a natural calm that softens the sharp edges of stress and noise. It’s not about escaping reality… it’s about slowing the mind enough to breathe, focus, and reset. This calm haze settles the chaos, giving me space to think clearly and find balance when everything else feels overwhelming. Without it, peace would feel like a distant, unreachable luxury. Especially for someone like me, juggling ADHD, other diagnoses, and whatever else life throws my way. THC has been more medicine than anything else. Simply a way to calm down in more than one way, grounding both mind and body when the noise gets too loud, when I can’t regulate my emotions, or even when my brain cannot seem to calm itself.
There’s an unshakable kind of peace in the steady presence of something… or someone, that grounds me without needing words. The kind of quiet loyalty that pulls me from the abyss of my thoughts and reminds me I’m not facing the storm alone. That steady heartbeat beside me, the simple warmth of shared silence…it’s a reminder that calm doesn’t always have to be loud or flashy. Sometimes, peace is just the steady pulse beneath the noise.
Moving through nature is my way of hitting reset, step by sweat soaked step. The world outside reminds me how to be resilient, how to keep moving. With every crunch of leaves underfoot and a fresh breath of air filling my lungs…I’m reminded that peace grows slowly, like roots digging deep into the earth. When the city’s weight presses hard…the wild offers a refuge. This is a place where I can rebuild myself, piece by piece and step by step.
I hunt for hidden treasures. A few quiet gems buried beneath dirt and time. This slow, focused search pulls me into a mindset of curiosity and patience, drowning out the mental chatter. Finding those small pieces of beauty in unexpected places is like stealing back peace from a noisy world, holding it in my palm like a secret victory no one else could see coming.
The work of my hands when polishing, shaping, crafting… pulls me into the moment with a clarity no other practice can match. The hum of tools, the steady pressure turning rough edges smooth…it’s meditation made tangible. A reminder that transforming raw chaos into something shaped and controlled is its own kind of peace, earned with every steady spin or careful cut.
Writing and journaling let me wrestle the storm inside onto the page, turning tangled thoughts into something I can hold and understand. This act of creation is both a shield and a weapon… helping me reclaim control when life feels anything but. Words become the map through dark forests, a way to find footing when the ground shifts beneath me. Without this…peace would slip like sand through my fingers.
Let’s be real…peace isn’t always sacred. Sometimes, it’s petty. It’s in those sharp, satisfying moments where I call out bullshit, get the last laugh, and watch karma unfold like clockwork. These moments aren’t trivial; they’re survival tools and ways to reclaim power when the world tries to crush it. Petty shit keeps me sharp and my boundaries solid. That’s peace with a bite.
Watching karma take its course gives me a peace rooted in faith… not in miracles, but in balance. Knowing the universe holds justice in its own time frees me from carrying bitterness or vengeance. It’s the quiet trust that lets me focus on growth and keep my eyes on the work ahead, leaving grudges to dissolve in the background.
Peace is also that last laugh, the quiet but fierce victory when the noise finally dies down and I’m still standing. It’s not arrogance; it’s validation. And it is the proof that persistence pays off. That grin when I know I’ve outlasted the doubters, when my story is mine to own. That moment grounds me, fueling a peace that’s both hard-earned and unbreakable.
But peace isn’t just personal…it’s collective. Helping to be the change I want to see roots me in purpose beyond myself. Lifting marginalized voices, pushing for real transformation, and building community are acts of peace that extend outward. This ongoing fight feeds my resilience and connects me to something greater, a calm fire burning steady through chaos.
In this alternate universe, I’m still me. I am thirty-three years old and a trans man in Ohio. I carry the same stubborn heart and sharp edges. The difference is the weight on my chest is lighter here.
The mornings still smell like coffee and fresh air. The seasons still move in the same Ohio rhythm. Summers are humid enough to feel like they could melt the skin right off your bones. Autumns are painted in fire-orange leaves. Winters slap your face awake the moment you step outside. But the biggest difference? In this version of my life, I wake up knowing I’m not alone in my fight.
My Mom is Still Here, and that’s what matters most to me. Here, my mom is alive. Not just alive and thriving. She’s still my best friend, my safe place, my person. She’s the one I go to with half-baked ideas at midnight. Not only that, but she laughs with me over dumb memes. She sits beside me when my anxiety tries to chew through my ribs. The one who hears all my poetry first.
We run my indie grassroots publishing company together. Her hands are always warm from holding a coffee mug, and mine are always stained with ink. Our kitchen table is permanently cluttered with stacks of manuscripts. Sticky notes are everywhere. There’s even the occasional stray pen cap that the cat tried to run off with. There’s cinnamon-scented candles burning most days, mixed with the faint metallic tang of printer ink. If you didn’t know, the idea that started this publishing house sprouted in me because of my mom’s constant reminder. She always said, “all people should be treated equally.”
She would keep me grounded when I spiral into twenty new projects at once. I would nurture her belief. We can change the world with the right words. Art in the right hands amplifies this change.
My Dad is a Ghost in the Story. My dad exists here too, but only as a background shadow. He has no voice in my life, no influence on my peace. I’ve shut that door and bricked it over. There’s no need for him in this world I’m building. He allowed my stepdad to adopt me. He chose this instead of refusing to be a dad and refusing to sign over his rights to me.
My Siblings. My two sisters? Still my anchors. We don’t always agree, but the love is steady and sure. In this universe, my estranged brothers have returned to my life. Their return is not in a perfect, movie-ending way. Instead, it is in small, awkward steps. We’ve had conversations that leave the door open instead of slamming it shut. And they learned to understand that their experience with my father is not theirs and vice versa.
Softball & School… Some things never change. I still played softball through school. I love the sound the crack of the bat makes. I love the dirt flying as I slid into base. I also love the smell of fresh-cut grass on a summer morning before a big game. I was always the loudest on the team, and I was just as fierce on the field. I still dropped out of high school. Still got my GED. But here, it wasn’t just about survival. And it was a conscious move toward freedom. I knew I could build something better outside the system that never made space for me.
Poetry & Publishing…. In both universes, poetry runs in my veins. It’s messy, it’s raw, it’s how I breathe. I still self-published my first book. Still remember holding it in my hands, heart racing because my words were finally real. Still remember the first time my work appeared in a literary magazine and thinking, This is just the beginning. I actually get to show my mom here. This is unlike in the real world, where I didn’t get my shit together before she left us.
But here, my publishing company is more than just my own platform. It’s a loud, unapologetic space for voices the world tries to silence. We focus on queer, trans, neurodivergent, disabled, Black and brown writers. We include survivors and anyone whose truth is too big for the narrow shelves of mainstream publishing. We make sure our books aren’t just printed, but seen. We send them to schools that actually care about representation. These libraries make space for more than just the “safe” stories. Our books go into the hands of readers who need them like air.
Love Without Apology…. In this world, I’m still engaged. Still in love in a way that feels like safety and home. But here, we don’t guard our love. And we live it out loud. We dream big together, and when the fight for justice gets heavy, we hold each other steady. We talk about everything, about building a life where our identities aren’t just accepted, they’re celebrated. And we are always there when it matters most. Nothing really changes in the alternate world for Kelsey and I. I couldn’t wish for them to be any better than they are.
The Change We’re Fighting For, the mission hasn’t changed: I want to be part of the change the world needs. In this alternate universe, we’re further along. Minority groups aren’t just existing, they’re thriving. Our art fills galleries, our books fill shelves, our stories are taught alongside the classics. No one questions whether we belong. We do. And the proof is everywhere.
My Mother’s Words… On the days I feel tired, her voice is there. It is steady and certain: “They can’t erase what we refuse to let go of.” “Every life matters big or small.” “Someone thinks you’re scary too and they don’t squash you.” (The latter is in reference to bugs.) Those words are stitched into my bones. They remind me why I keep building. They remind me why I keep writing. They remind me why I keep showing up even when the world tries to push back. This is what keeps me going, having to live in the real world.
But in this alternate universe, I’m still me. I’m the kid who played softball. I’m the girl who dropped out and found his own way. I’m the poet who refuses to be quiet. The difference is, here, the world listens a little closer. Here the world accepts me and others for what we truly are.
What change, big or small, would you like your blog to make in the world?
Hi I’m Axton, and I will make a difference.
I am a transgender man, an advocate, and above all, someone who believes deeply in the power of change. Change, not just for myself, but for every person who has been pushed to the margins of society. This blog exists to serve as an inclusive platform. I want to help build a future where all minorities can live with dignity, respect, and full access to the things that make life meaningful: books to feed our minds, food to nourish our bodies, clean water to sustain us, and electricity to light our paths (just to hit the key points). To me, social justice advocacy isn’t just a political term, but a way of life. And a vital continuation of the ongoing struggle for human rights and dignity for all.
We live in a world that too often judges people based on narrow definitions of worth. One where differences divide instead of unite us. I believe that our differences should be the very reason we love and support each other more fiercely, not less. As the saying goes, “You can’t judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree.” We are not all made to succeed by the same standards or walk the same paths. Yet, that’s what makes humanity so rich and powerful. Our unique experiences, perspectives, and identities are not weaknesses to be fixed but strengths to be celebrated.
For years, I have watched countless minority voices be erased or silenced. Their stories buried under layers of misunderstanding, prejudice, and oppression. As a transgender man, I know how painful it is to feel invisible or judged for simply existing. That pain fuels my passion for this blog and my dream to create a platform where every marginalized voice can be heard loud and clear.
I want this blog to be a beacon for all people who have been robbed of their voice, their history, or their chance to thrive. Through poetry, essays, zines, art work and community projects, I’m working to build a grassroots indie publishing space where creators from all walks of life, whether trans, queer, disabled, Indigenous, Black, Brown, or otherwise marginalized, can share their truths without fear of censorship or erasure.
My vision extends beyond art or words. I dream of a world where access to the essentials of life like books, food, electricity, clean water, is a universal right, not a privilege reserved for the few. This is about equity in the most fundamental sense. No one should be denied the ability to learn, to eat, to light their home, or to drink clean water because of who they are, what they have to offer, or where they come from. These are the building blocks of freedom, and until they are accessible to all, our work is far from done.
This blog is my call to action. It is a place to foster understanding, compassion, and radical love. A love that sees difference not as a threat but as a reason to come together, to fight for justice, and to create communities that celebrate every shade of identity and experience.
I want to challenge readers to rethink what success and ability mean. We don’t all thrive in the same way, and that’s okay. Judging someone by a narrow standard is not only unfair. It systematically erases the beautiful complexity of human life. Instead, we must build systems and societies that recognize and uplift diverse ways of living and knowing.
The change I want this blog to make is a shift toward justice, empathy, and empowerment. It is a commitment to amplifying minority voices that have been pushed aside, to honoring every story, and to fighting for a world where all people have the resources and respect they deserve.
This is not a journey I take alone. I invite allies, fellow creators, and advocates to join me in this mission. Together, we can rewrite the narrative, restore stolen histories, and create a future where every voice matters. Then every person will know they have value.
Because at the end of the day, our differences are not barriers, they are bridges. And through those bridges, we will build a world rooted in love, justice, and freedom for all.
