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.
I don’t wake up every day smiling. Life’s not that kind. But even on my worst day. The one where the burn-out threatens to walk away. The overstimulated days, when even thoughts are too much. The “why the hell am I even doing this” days. I know joy still lives in me. It’s not always some big outrageous show. Often it is quiet and small. Unhinged. Chaotic. Soft. Real.
The following is my attempt at giving at least some of them names(no particular order).
1. My partner Kelso, and the life we built together It isn’t perfect, and we never wanted perfect anyway. What we’ve got is real. It’s soft, it’s loud, it’s safe, it’s feral, it’s growing. They see me in ways that no one else does, and they stay. That alone makes this entire messy ride feel like something worth holding onto. I’d build this weird-ass little world again with them every time.
2. My mom and everything she stood for, taught me, and lived by. She wasn’t the kind of person you forget. She loved out loud, stood her ground, held her people up and never backed down from what she stood on. What she believed, she lived, and what she lived, she passed to me whether she meant to or not. Some days I hear her in the way I talk to people. Other days I see her in the mirror. She’s gone, but her backbone is stitched into mine.
3. My sisters, even if they will grey me early. They’re twins and always have been chaos. A just shy of a decade younger and somehow one acts older half the time. They have always known every button to push, and they push them with glee. But underneath all that noise, there’s a kind of loyalty and bond that’s built into the marrow. They were annoying and loud and infuriating but so very irreplaceable.
4. My friends, past and present I’m not one of those “cut off forever” people. Even if we fell out, even if we haven’t talked in years, even if the love had to turn silent. It was and is still love. Some folks just can’t sit at my table anymore or ever again. Doesn’t mean I don’t wish them well from way over here.
5. My dog Luna and the kitty men. There’s no part of my life untouched by my animals. Luna’s nose on my hand when I’m crying. The cats headbutting me for attention Luna pulling me through dirt paths lined with tree after I’ve worked three doubles. They remind me to eat. To stop. To breathe. To laugh. That kind of love is pure.
6. When different minorities come together despite our differences. Watching Black, brown, Indigenous, disabled, neurodivergent, queer, trans folks stand beside each other is freeing, instead of fighting for scraps. This is by far one of the most healing things I’ve witnessed. There’s something sacred about that kind of alliance. It doesn’t erase pain, but it makes space for all of us.
7. Pop punk, especially Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco, and all those dope-ass covers from Punk Goes pop/Country/rock/etc. That shit raised me. I was a hoodie-and-headphones kid, screaming lyrics into the void like they were gospel. I still blast it driving through Ohio backroads,and it feels as if the ghosts of my teenage self is riding shotgun. The first album I remember asking for was definitely “From Under the Cork Tree.”
8. Poetry, literature, journaling… language in all its forms. I don’t always know how to say things out loud, but I always find a way to write it. Words don’t always make sense when I speak them. When I write they land. They hold space. Take your breath and then they finally breathe.
9. Hiking, rockhounding, exploring new places or old, it doesn’t matter. Sometimes I just need to wander. Whether it’s a trail I’ve walked a dozen times or a new spot I found on a whim, there’s peace in the motion. In the quiet. In the discovery. Especially when I’m out rockhounding in Ohio and stumble across a fossil or pocket of quartz.
10. When I am turning rock finds into something beautiful There’s something powerful in taking something raw and jagged from the ground and shaping it into a polished, glimmering little thing. Tumbling, slicing, sanding it’s not just a hobby. It’s transformation. I’ve pulled creekside stones from Wheeling, West Virginia and turned them into altar pieces.
11. Spirituality, witchcraft, and nature None of its performative. It’s grounding. It’s ritual. It’s the hum I hear when I’m still enough to listen. My practice isn’t about aesthetics, it’s about stitching the world back together in a way that makes sense to me.
12. My residents, past present and future. They’ve seen more than I ever will. Even when they forget my name. Even when they’re mean. Even when I’m stretched too thin and they’re dying in front of me. They’re still people worth knowing. And I’m honored every damn time I get to know them.
13. Some of the nurses and aides I’ve worked with over the years. Not all, not most, but my few homies. The ones who get it? They become your lifeline. They joke with you, cry with you, hold the line with you. They’re the ones keeping it all afloat when the higher-ups are just checking boxes. And if you’re lucky enough you’re able to extend a lot of that beyond work.
14.. Geek Bars… the banana taffy is the one. Yes, it’s nicotine. Yes, it’s artificial. No, I don’t care. Banana taffy is joy in vapor form.
15. Weeds, flowers, carts, edibles, all of it Indica or hybrid, please and thank you. My brain’s already an overclocked mess; I’m not trying to blast off with a sativa. I just want to calm down and breathe again.
16. The mountains and their views, the air, the cold streams in North Carolina. Even when I am driving through the southeastern Ohio hills or heading down past Yellow Springs, the landscape changes your chest. The air is sharper. Cleaner. The water’s so cold it feels holy. I feel more me up there. Well honestly anywhere in nature.
17. Video games, especially Far Cry and Fortnite. I want story, chaos, bright colors, explosions, and weird-ass side missions. Far Cry’s my jam, and Fortnite’s my candy. And I love to use emotes to be extra sassy!
18. Long drives with good music. Whether I’m chasing sunsets through Ohio or driving toward nowhere just to move, those drives are my church. Sometimes it’s just me and Luna. Other times, it’s the right people. The destination isn’t always the point. The feeling is.
19. Yellow. Just the color yellow. It’s been my favorite forever. It feels like a mood lifeline. As if I can’t quite sink if I can still see yellow.
20.. Kayaking, Whether I’m out on the lakes or on the river trails back home in Wheeling, WV, there’s something about floating. Something about being held by the water, that quiets me. That realigns me.
21.. My partner’s family. They didn’t just tolerate me, they welcomed me. My sisters-in-law, my niece, my nephew… they feel like people I was supposed to know all along.
22. Reptiles, amphibians, snakes I’ll die on the hill that snakes have personalities. The texture of a lizard’s skin, the slow blink of a gecko, the vibe of a chill ball python all beautiful. And something’s that bring me joy. That’s connection.
23. Studying religion and history. Not to argue or prove anything. Just to know. Just to understand what’s shaped the world, and why.
24.. My Honda Civic. It was my mom’s favorite car make, but to me? That thing is freedom. Reliable, efficient, mine. Honda gang for life.
25.. Early morning hours before the world wakes. That weird liminal time between 4 a.m. and sunrise, when everything is quiet and painted in slow pinks and oranges? That’s my peace. That’s when the noise quiets.
26. Hoodie and shorts weather Hot legs, cold arms. Chill breeze, sunny sky. Perfection. Classic ADHD comfort combo.
27. A good bookbag Give me one with secret pockets and big compartments and the ability to carry rocks and snacks and my journal. I’ll never stop hunting for the perfect one.
28. Etnies, PacSun, Hot Topic, Spencer’s all the early 2000s alt mall-core. Yea I am still a poser, still proud. That was my era. And every time I wear some chunky skater shoes or a black hoodie with chains? I’m home.
29. Yellow Springs, Ohio The energy in that town is unmatched. It’s weird, welcoming, radical, artistic, it feels like a pocket of the world where I can just be.
30. Scary books and horror movies, especially splatterpunk and realistic gore Give me the anatomy right. Give me blood that makes sense. I don’t want shiny CGI. I want words that paint images so vivid they feel like memory. Horror is how I process.
Joy doesn’t have to be big. It doesn’t have to be pretty. It doesn’t even have to make sense to anyone but me.It is simply holding a smooth piece of quartz I found in an Ohio stream. And it’s yelling emo lyrics into the wind on a backroad. Sometimes it’s Luna licking my face when I can’t get out of bed.
All of that is real. All of that is joy. And all of that is enough.
There’s no better way to clean off the week like dirt under your nails and sunburn on your shoulders. Fresh freckles on my cheeks and nose, but that’s nothing new. No version of peace that beats the kind you find halfway down a trail, ready to see the car, as much as you were the view. A fossil in one hand and your dog always remaining leashed by your side.
I don’t vacation for typical relaxation. I adventure. I explore. I curate memories, things at one point were but a dream.
I don’t check into resorts. I throw a sleeping bag into the backseat and head for whichever trail, lake, ridge, or overlook is calling loudest. I don’t go places to unwind like you’d expect. I go places to become more alive. The woods are not a break from life. They are life. The oceans, seas, deserts, mountains, plains, rivers, and lakes all offer beauty. You have to be willing to go deeper.
Adventuring is the one habit that makes me happiest because it folds everything I love into one experience: gathering, building, creating, feeling, moving, being. It’s my relationship with the world, my self-care, my work, my worship, my art, and my rest. Yes, all at once. And sometimes separately.
When I head out, I’m not just walking. I’m searching ways to make what’s around of use. I search for bones to clean and keep, herbs to dry and use(locally grown or to plant my own), flowers to press into pages. I’m rock hounding, fossil hunting, kneeling down in red dirt, eyes scanning every inch for something ancient to bring home. I don’t just collect. I connect. These aren’t souvenirs. These are materials, memories, tools, altarpieces, offerings. Even turning items into finished store products.
When I kayak, it’s not a sport, it’s a baptism. Gliding over still water surrounded by trees is a kind of peace hard to match. My phone’s off. The only sound is the paddle and the wind. If you’re lucky sometimes a heron lifting off from the reeds will share his majestic beauty. I’ve found pieces of myself in those silent stretches of lake that I didn’t even know I’d lost.
When I hike, I’m in conversation, with the land, with myself, and with something older than both. I might be alone. I might be with my dog, who doesn’t just walk with me, she teaches me to stop, and to watch. Or I’m with a friend, the kind who knows how to move in rhythm with the land and say everything without speaking. Even in moments we fill with loudness and goofiness the deeper meaning isn’t lost on us.
Camping is something I’ve done all my life. It started as a family thing when I was a kid, and it never left me. Now, I want to start camping rustically.Right now I have always paid for a campsite and pitch my tent like it’s home for the time being. Sometimes it’s a hammock strung up on two trees. I have typically always camped with friends (when not family) laughing around a fire, sharing stories under the stars, cooking simple meals that somehow always taste better outside. I love camping in every form it takes. I love the rhythm of it, the setup, the simplicity, the quiet. I plan to do a lot more of it because it’s one of the few places where I feel completely myself, without noise, without pressure, just present.
When I forage, I do it with reverence. Herbs aren’t just ingredients, they’re living history. I gather with care and intention, never taking more than I should, always thanking the plant and the place. I also always leave behind an offering. Some herbs go into spells, some into bundles, some into zines or handmade kits. I’ve blended wild mint and clover into teas. I’ve used dried mugwort for protection work. Every sprig, every root has a role.
Bones, too, when and if I find them, are sacred. I don’t take death lightly. When I gather bone, it’s with deep respect. Cleaned properly, they become part of my altar or are used as symbols in ritual or art. Each one carries weight. Each one tells a story I want to honor.
I press flowers like love notes. I stash them between paper scraps and books, wait weeks, and then pull them out as offerings, to beauty, to memory, to whoever needs that small, delicate piece of magic. Those pressed pieces end up in journals, zines, altars, even product packaging. They’re remnants of a day I lived fully and chose to remember. I started keeping a flower journal on my last trip, and hope to continue that tradition on future trips.
Everything I find out here becomes something. Nothing goes to waste. I don’t need stores. I need open fields. I don’t need supplies shipped in plastic! I need time in wild places with my hands in the dirt and a bag full of whatever the land is ready to give me.
My creative work lives because I adventure. My business exists because I go out, gather, and make. Zines, ebooks, wind chimes , raw or tumbled stones, spell pouches, poetic extras, almost all of my items come from what I collect on these trips. Not just objects, but moments.
This habit doesn’t just make me happy. It is happiness. Which is honestly how it became my business. I want to do what I love, and fill it with love.
It saves me money. It gives me everything I need. It lets me spend real time with my dog and my friends without distractions, without pressure. It keeps me off screens. It gives me room to think and space to breathe.
It lets me be a poet in love with the world. And I don’t mean that metaphorically.
I treat the wilderness the way poet treats a muse: obsessively, gently, worshipfully. I follow it, I wait for it, I let it change me. I bring it offerings and ask for nothing back, but somehow it always gives me more than I came for.
I know its moods. I listen when it’s quiet. I celebrate when it’s loud. I show up even when it doesn’t feel like showing off.
Adventuring isn’t my escape from the world. See through my eyes and you see, it’s how I enter it.
So no I don’t vacation in the typical sense. I go out to plug into the only thing that ever really matters to me: the land, the stories it tells, and the way I get to become part of them.
If you’ve ever wondered what kind of life you’d build if you let the wilderness guide you, this is mine. Not perfect. Not polished. But full of magic, movement, meaning, and dirt. Always, always dirt.
Now: trans man, neurodivergent, loud, too political, somehow “too much” and “not enough” at the same time. And still confused.
I’ve seen all sides of this thing. I’ve watched people turn their heads when it wasn’t their kind of pain.
I’ve been told I’m part of the family until I say one true thing too loud, and then suddenly I’m disposable. I’ve lived through poverty so deep it rewires your brain. Go check out some of wheeling and tell me I didn’t. I’ve held my breath through trauma stacked on top of survival stacked on top of systems that were never built for me.
And somehow… even after all of that,
I still can’t understand how any marginalized person can weaponize power the minute they get a little of it. I’m really asking here. How do you explain away your bigotry when you are still locked out? You do get that don’t you?
What mental gymnastics do you have to perform to make it okay when you’re doing it? Do you think you’re “just being realistic”? Do you call it “nuance”? Is it a kind of safety? Self-protection? Power-lust? Do you feel it when you do it? When you side with the abuser? Do you understand the excuses you used are the same ones used against you?
When you push down someone even further beneath you in the pecking order you swore you didn’t believe in?Do you sleep easier with that boot on your foot instead of on your throat?
Because me…
I still flinch when I hear certain words come out of certain mouths. Even if the words are none of my concern. I still scan rooms for exits. I still don’t fully know what it’s like to feel safe in public as just myself.
I still shake when someone tries to take my humanity and dress it up like a political debate. I will always live in intersectionality whether I want to or not. I can’t peel off my gender’s history or identity. I can’t unlive being poor. I can’t “grow out of” neurodivergence. I didn’t choose to be a minority from multiple directions. Though, there is no problem with existing as you are.
But I also never chose to become like the ones who tried to erase me. So again, I’m asking:
What does that feel like, when you know better and still choose worse? When you say you care about justice but it stops at your reflection? When your version of progress leaves entire groups behind? When you build your acceptance off someone else’s erasure?
Do you look in the mirror and think:
“This is what survival made me”?
Or are you still calling it pride?
Because here’s the truth:
I know what it feels like to be left out of even the most “inclusive” movements. I know what it feels like to be used as proof of diversity while being erased in every real decision. I know what it feels like to be expected to understand everyone else’s pain while mine is mocked or ignored! And I’ve never once, not once, thought that meant I should make anyone else feel the same.
So again. Color me curious. Genuinely. What do you tell yourself to make it okay when you silence others, shame others, turn your back on people you once stood beside?How do you justify it? What stories do you spin to soothe your guilt? If you even feel it!
Because me? I still carry the names of those I watched suffocate. I still carry the weight of what was done to me. But I also carry the weight of what I refuse to do to anyone else. And I wonder if you ever think about that, when your feet are wearing the boots now.
Describing yourself to someone else isn’t always easy and especially when you’re made of a million pieces. Some are polished like my tumbled stones and some still lost in stage’s in-between. Some of my pieces sit quietly. Though, most are able to be heard well before being seen. If you really want to know me, here’s what I’d say:
I’m a transgender man, a poet and a brother. I am someone who’s lived more lives than years and still chooses love every time. I’m a little wild around the edges but hold a huge interests is things bigger than myself. I’m the kind of person who sees beauty in broken things and meaning in the mundane. A rockhound, literally and metaphorically speaking. I find clarity in chaos and treasures in the dirt. I’ve always found peace in nature’s small wonders, whether it’s a strange fossil in a ohio, a waterfall along the road in North Carolina, a field of wildflowers, or the hush of a quiet morning with no one around.
I’m a pet dad and an animal lover through and through. My heart stays full because of the furry ones that trust me to protect and care for them. I’m a fiancé, a son, a momma’s boy in every way that matters, and someone who’s learned how to carry a big heart inside even bigger walls. They exist not to keep people out forever, but to make sure what comes in is real and worthy.
I work as an STNA in Ohio. It’s an honest job that reminds me daily of the fragility and strength of being human. I’m queer and neurodivergent, which means I see the world differently in many ways. Sometimes my thoughts drift, sometimes I hyperfocus, sometimes I forget where I was going mid-sentence. I call it my squirrel, but I always circle back to what matters. I’m easily amused, deeply emotional, and hard to knock down for good.
I call it like I see it. And I know I am one hundred percent not for everyone. I don’t lie about who I am. I’ve survived abuse, addiction, mental illness, and more than my fair share of days that almost ended me. And yet I’m still here still as ever curious, still kicking, and still kayaking down rivers like they owe me answers. I’ve always loved a little danger, a little chaos, and a lot of loudness. Pop-punk is home for me: shouty lyrics, raw feelings, and the unapologetic right to feel everything too much.
I’m an activist, not because it’s trendy, but because silence has never saved anybody. I believe in showing up for all people, for justice, for love, especially if it’s hard. I support human rights because mine have been denied, delayed, and debated too many times not to.
And above all else, I’m a human being. I am not a checklist of identities or a walking experience for others to analyze. Just a person doing his best with what life’s handed him. I laugh, I mess up, I start over, I love hard, and sometimes I fall apart. The best part? I keep showing up. And I hope that counts for something. I will always.
So, how would I describe myself? I’m someone still in motion. I am actively making space in a world that wasn’t built for people like me, but damn sure isn’t ready for what I bring to the table either. I’m full of contradictions, full of love, and full of fight. And if you don’t get it… well, keep it cute, or put it on mute.
If you won two free plane tickets, where would you go?
Sydney, Australia.
Because I wanna see the Great Barrier Reef in person before it’s just a footnote in history.
Exploring the outback.
Exploring the outback, where the ground looks like Mars and the sky’s a painting.
Adventures through the outback, where every rock hides a fossil, a geode, or a mildly venomous surprise.
In the outback, where I can spot emus, cassowaries, and kangaroos. Though, they might square up like it’s Fight Club: Marsupial Edition.
Wondering the outback, because I want to walk where Aboriginal stories were carved into stone thousands of years ago.
Exploring the outback offers unique experiences. I might see a bush fire glow in the distance. A koala chilling in eucalyptus. I would probably come across a meteor crater I wasn’t expecting.
Oh to explore the outback. Discovering the lush Daintree Rainforest. Just think to visit the Twelve Apostles along the Great Ocean Road. Don’t miss the Blue Mountains near Sydney.
Exploring beaches, ones that are wild and empty and perfect for screaming existential thoughts into the surf.
Exploring tide pools is fascinating. So is exploring reef flats. at least I imagine so. Those gnarly rock formations look like they were made by a fantasy game designer.
We are exploring the coastline. We hope to see a reef shark or a sea turtle. Maybe we will spot a saltwater crocodile (from a safe-ass distance, obviously).
Did I mention exploring yet? And beaches? And reptiles?
Oh yeah and “the dingo ate my baby” (too soon? Come on I was not even alive when that happened).
Every year, without fail, I make a point to return to western North Carolina, usually in January (before this year). To see my sister It was a personal promise, to my mom. Now it is a form of spiritual maintenance, and something I know will never change unless my sister moves. The Blue Ridge Mountains are already calling me back, and I’ve been home less than a week. Yet I already know I will answer. Still, before WNC see’s me, I have several other trips locked in that I’m really excited about.
Trip one:
On August 7th, 2025, I’ll be exploring permit only hikes in and around Hocking Hills, Ohio. This will consist of us completing three out of four of the permit-only areas. I’ve been approved already, and the sign-up is free on the Ohio DNR website. My buddy and her little kiddo will be joining me. We’ll be exploring Boch Hollow specifically Laurel Falls, Little Rocky Hollow, and the Saltpetre Cave State Nature Preserve. These aren’t your typical walk-in hikes. They’re protected, limited-access preserves that need permits to guarantee the safety of the biodiverse natural areas. I’m incredibly grateful to understand and respect the importance of maintaining the natural ecosystem’s integrity. Permits in Ohio are mainly for monitoring foot traffic. They help preserve these specific biodiversity areas and preserves.
Trip Two
Just a few days later, on August 12th, I’ll be heading up to Cuyahoga Valley National Park (CVNP) in Cleveland. I’m meeting up with a friend to explore for the day. The Ledges Trail is already on the itinerary. We plan to fill the day with more stops inside CVNP. Then we’ll explore along Lake Erie afterward. There’s potential to do rock hounding. I’m hoping to discover some lake-worn treasures. I even find fossils during the visit. As well as definitely chasing some waterfalls and Ohio ledges.
Future plans
Before September, or in early September, my pal and I hope to go backwoods camping in Virginia. Maybe her kiddo will join too. The spot is close to the Devil’s Bathtub area. It will be at minimum 200 units (I can’t recall if it was meters or feet) from the water. The area is known for its beauty. It boasts a waterfall into a clear, freezing swimming hole. If you didn’t know, legend states this is the only water source cold enough to bathe the devil. Sadly, this plan isn’t locked in just yet. Though, it’s something I hope comes together fully.
Beyond those specific date or places, I’ve been collecting a list of nearby destinations. These places are across Indiana, Kentucky, West Virginia, Pennsylvania, Michigan, and Ohio. They all are less than or equal to 5 hours from home each way. These include hidden waterfalls, scenic overlooks, historical fossil sites, quirky statues, and other neat things. I like to travel spontaneously, so this is probably as “planned” in the future as I get. If you exclude my annual western North Carolina trip to see my sister.
Port Huron
I’ve also had Port Huron and Petoskey, Michigan on my mind. The idea of finding real Petoskey stones excites me. I do not want to barter for them, which is enough to almost make me head there now. I find the idea of exploring the Lake Huron shoreline to be incredibly appealing. Between the lake stones, fossils, and the open water, it feels like the perfect mix of grounding and adventure.
Nature, movement, and discovery are always part of my year. I make space for new trails, new stones, and new memories. Whether it’s a permitted hike in Ohio or a spontaneous camping trip in Virginia, I embrace new adventures. Even if my travel plans shift along the way, my commitment to exploration never fades. I have a deep lust for wonder.
