I have been slowly stepping into visibility as a transman over the last five or so years, but doing a podcast felt like a much bigger leap. It wasn’t just my words on a LinkedIn or Substack post. It was a conversation with an international trans activist and health provider. The content would be produced by her production team from an hour-long conversation she and I had early on a weekday morning and would be posted on YouTube, TikTok, Substack and Instagram. This was not just pushing me beyond my experience, it was a “no looking back” entry into the global transgender controversy.

Before I transitioned, as a young lesbian in the early 90’s, I was fearless in my activism and visibility. At the time, being queer was radical enough, but advocating for queer YOUTH was extremely fringe. I was passionate about representing my community and participating in conversations that raised the awareness that queer youth did in fact exist.

I was a founding youth board member of the first of its kind LGBT Youth Center in Minneapolis. I took to the stage anytime I was invited to perform at Pride Dyke Nights at the Walker Art Center and alternative cabarets like Vulva Riot. I was on the front page of the Star Tribune Variety section Pride editions a couple of times. And, then, of course, there was the Oprah episode.

This opportunity with Dr. Helen Webberley felt different though.

When I transitioned, I steered away from the queer community and stepped back into the closet. Only family, close friends and lovers knew of my status. I didn’t know at the time, how much that choice cost me. As I slid away from my queer identity, I slid into internalized shame about being trans. And for the decades that followed, I walked amongst people who (without knowing) confirmed that shame.

That shame led me to choices that took me further away from myself until a few years ago when carrying it unhealed almost took my life through addiction. Part of my healing was taking control of my narrative about being a transman. And so I chose to start being true to myself and living proudly out, not just for me, but for others as well.

When I received the rough cut from the producers, my shame monster was trying to have a field day. Pulling apart everything from nits in the background, through the hmms, mmm, and mums, the inflammation and redness of my eyes from a psoriasis flare, to the undying cringe from hearing my “tranny voice”. With the help of trusted friends and family, I was able to quell that nonsense and give a thumbs up to the team to do whatever it was they were going to do.

Having learned first hand how the media can twist narratives to create messaging that suits their objectives. The nerves reminiscent of my late teen media experiences resurged.

What Dr. Webberley’s team did surprised me. How I grew through this experience surprised me even more.

The key messages they pulled out for the shorts, mirrored back to me the strength of my own voice. Giving me a new lens on myself with an opportunity to see what others, (her and her team) took from our conversation.

1. How I hid and where that brought me.

2. How knowing I was trans at four shapes what I believe today almost fifty years later.

3. Advocating for all by affirming being trans is not a choice.

4. And my truest belief that trans people are lucky.

I have watched all of the footage countless times. Watching the views and likes climb on the different platforms. Reading all of the comments, including the haters. I watched it over and over until I let go of the nagging nits and hyper critical views of myself.

Seeing that picture of me from the first grade sitting proudly in my little red suit, knowing it’s out in the world now, I cannot help but feel proud of that little kid for starting to step toward inner truth, now representing that truth, and me for showing up to get us both where we are today.

How lucky.

Click here for the full episode:

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I am unsettled. Unable to settle.

I can’t name one specific thing.

Could be general fatigue of the state of the world. Or the state of this nation.

Could be trying to act like nothing terrible will really happen when the president of the United States publishes a document called “UNITED STATES COUNTER TERRORISM STRATEGY” where he signs the forward with, “We Will Find You and We Will Kill You.” A decree that states:

“… our national CT activities will also prioritize the rapid identification and neutralization of violent secular political groups whose ideology is anti-American, radically pro-transgender, and anarchist. We will use all the tools constitutionally available to us to map them at home, identify their membership, map their ties to international organizations like Antifa, and use law enforcement tools to cripple them operationally before they can maim or kill the innocent. We will do the same with the state sponsors of such groups and those governments undertaking lethal plots on U.S. soil or against Americans anywhere.”

And meanwhile, at least ten trans people have been killed in the last three months. The details are not well publicized, and these are just the humans we know of. Here are their names:

• Davonta Curtis, 32, Chicago, IL | Apr 5 - Homicide; limited details

• Paris Harris, 21, Dallas, TX | Apr 17 - Shot; suspect charged with murder, investigated as hate crime

• Jade Roberts, 25, Houston, TX | Jan 2 - Shot, left at an abandoned building (reported May)

• Hailey Singleton, 29, Dunnellon, FL | May 5 - Shot

• Lanessa Rodriguez, 35, Fort Pierce, FL | Apr 28 - Shot seven times at her workplace; suspect arrested

• Daniella Analee Escobedo, 34, Las Vegas, NV | Apr 12 - Unconfirmed cause

• Lucas RedBeard Knapp ("Luca"), 39, Candy Kitchen, NM - Apr 18- Shot

• Aleanna Royal Belcher, 31, Binghamton, NY | Apr 17-Stabbed in the abdomen at a housing facility; suspect in custody

• Dannielle Spillman, 74, San Francisco, CA | Apr 16 - Killed by a driver

• Shyyell Diamond Sanchez-McCray, 42, Petersburg, VA | Mar 13 - Homicide; first reported US case of 2026

These days, I cringe every time someone says to me, “How are you?”

Like how do I answer that? Living in a country where the government has been actively working toward the extinction of me and my community… from the get go.

Perhaps because I pass so much that people don’t know that I am trans and those that do forget, I make small talk when I chat with people and try not to bring it up. In reality, I live within my own self wholly knowing that every single cell in my body is transgender. I am transgender. I will always be transgender.

I am tired of feigning nonchalance, making myself small so as to not make other uncomfortable, being told I am over thinking this, or that what they are doing is illegal, or it won’t get that bad. I am tired of showing up to work every day, putting on a smile and acting like everything is fine, and the issues in the workplace are so important and require so much energy. When NO ONE IS TALKING ABOUT WHAT IS HAPPENING.

As I doom scroll through TikTok (perhaps a little too much) and tap into the live chats about “What is a woman?” “Do trans women belong in the women’s bathroom?” and listen to the debating, I wonder why so many people are taking time to talk about this, debate it, argue it, show up to these conversations like they are experts in behavioral and physical sciences. And I occasionally chime in, “No one is an expert on how another person identifies”. And I am ignored. Perhaps because there is not enough heat behind my stance.

And I carry on, noting also, how blind people are to the existence of trans men. And observe the ignorance out of the mouths of people who clearly confuse the two because they forget that transgender can run both ways. And I wonder what the obsession is?

The safety of women and women’s spaces has become the go to justification for trans hate, and I wonder why people cannot see that it is the behavior of men that we are really afraid of. Dysregulated men are the ones behind the guns, the threats, the bullying, the physical and sexual assaults, almost 100% of the time. Yet, my micro-minority is under attack like some sort of grand gaslight to distract the focus away from the perps and on to the most vulnerable population. A focus that is disproportionate considering we are less than two percent.

And now, even the LGBTQIA+ community is fracturing. As some LGBs move to cut the TQIA+ and the TERFs (Trans Exclusionary Radical Feminists) join the anti-trans voices. Finding safety becomes a debate even in our own community spaces.

So here I sit on the eve of Pride Month. Exhausted. Trying to find the words to say anything, let alone answer the question that starts almost every conversation,

how are you?

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I emptied my pockets, took off my belt, put them in the bin with my bag, and walked in front of the scanner. As I moved out, the TSA Agent told me that I had flagged a “Groin Anomaly” as well as my shoes. He pointed at the screen. A human outline with an uneven red box around the groin and smaller red boxes around the feet.

I flipped my shoes off, he could see the arch support inserts, then he told me I would need to be inspected for a “groin anomaly” and asked if I wanted to do so in private.

“Whatever you are gonna do, you are going to do right here”, I said.

He told me to face the screen with the image, as he stood behind me, he ran his hands up and down and back and forth on my butt.

Then he put his hands on either side of my legs and ran them up each side until he touched my body at the top.

“Okay, now spread your legs, put one foot in front of the other.”

I put my right foot forward and my left foot back and he proceeded to do the same thing. Pressing his hands on either side of my legs from my ankle until he touched my crotch.

“Okay, now switch.”

I stood looking at the screen thinking about all the people passing through without pause. I wished I had my phone on me.

He repeated the process.

“Okay, now turn around.”

I turned around to face him. He was bent over, took the back of his hand, pressed it against my body, up and down from my waist to the top of my inseam, and back and forth over the same distance from side to side.

I could feel his hands where no hands go without my consent. I was not asked for consent, I was given the option to do it in public or in private. There was no way in hell I was going behind closed doors.

“Okay,” he said and gestured me to move forward.

I fetched my things, pushed my feet back into my shoes, fastened my belt and moved on.

There are so many actions in flight focusing on transgender citizens, but the one that came to mind was:

Executive Order “DEFENDING WOMEN FROM GENDER IDEOLOGY EXTREMISM AND RESTORING BIOLOGICAL TRUTH TO THE FEDERAL GOVERNMENT”

Sec. 4. Privacy in Intimate Spaces.

(d) Agencies shall effectuate this policy by taking appropriate action to ensure that intimate spaces designated for women, girls, or females (or for men, boys, or males) are designated by sex and not identity.

And yet, there I stood. Being publicly groped by a man because my genitalia read as a “Groin Anomaly” by their standards.

Which is it?

I was just trying to go to work.

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If you have been consistent in reading my stack, you know I tend to come here with words on what’s top of mind. These days lately, the heavy.

Early on in this strange time before we knew just how dark and weird and ugly things could get, I was pretty vocal about the notion that joy is an act of resistance. Sometime I forget. Sometimes finding joy seems like too much effort.

In the spirit of finding joy today, I will just share some photos from the morning walk my dog Louis took me on. Yes, he took me.

I didn’t intend to go shore side with him. He insisted. I obliged.

It was as if he knew, we both needed it.

Together.

Relentlessly pulling without looking back.

Still “sled dogging” me.

A moment to reflect.

“See I told you so.”

A witness to pure joy.

Shaking it off.

“Now was that so bad?”

Thanks Louis. May we all take a walk, remember that it is always the darkest before the light and find a moment of joy.

How are you holding up? What are you doing these days to bring joy to your spirit?

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I am passing and white and perceived male. It’s not lost on me that a lot of safety and privilege comes with that. For someone to pull me out of the crowd, they’d have to know I am trans. Which is not hard to figure out with the internet of things at the disposal of anyone looking. But they’d have to be looking.

Behind the cis white male passing though is a nervous system that is very queer, socialized female, and 100% trans. No one can convince me that the U.S. government is not out to erase transpeople from existing. The data speaks for itself. They just aren’t emboldened to start hunting us on the streets. Yet.

The Santa Monica No Kings is more event than protest anyway, so I really had no excuse NOT to go, be a body in the count and take some time out of my day to stand with others. I also thought it was a perfect opportunity to show up with one of the t-shirts I designed after being inspired by the Roxanne Gay chat with the Guerrilla Girls at the Getty. The challenge to show up in the world and not be assumed to be “one of those guys”.

I chose my “MEN WITH INTEGRITY CHANGE THE WORLD” shirt partly because I happened to have an extra on hand because I ordered the wrong size that I wanted to give away, and mostly because it feels so true. Men with a penchant for lack of integrity, corruption, war mongering and toxic posturing seem to be at the helm of the world’s destiny right now.

I left the house before I could change my mind, with a mission to practice being seen with my message and to give the extra t-shirt away before coming home.

Walking the six or so blocks felt exposed and awkward. I was only one block away before I got my first compliment on my shirt. From a woman. I thanked her and offered her my extra.

“Aww, that’s very kind. Keep it and give it to someone else. I teach kids about being kind in the world. Thank you for putting your message out there.”

The exchange helped me calm my nerves as I moved on. Thinking about why I felt so nervous, I realized, I am afraid of encountering a man who is pissed off by my shirt. Wearing a message that makes a statement about men feels dangerous.

Second guessing myself with every step toward the crowd that grew as I reached the center. Other compliments followed, and “thank you” was all I could muster back as I worked to find ease with each step.

I was uneasy as each man walked by. Some clearly read and looked away, others ignored or read and acted like they didn’t, a couple read and caught eyes for only a split second. Not one said anything to me.

Walking into the center of the event behind an e-bike pulling a DJ with high vibe low key jams. A wave of vibe caught me with the music, the thin swooping palms above with the clear blue SoCal sky. A tear caught the corner of my eye as a frog in my throat choked me up for one quick minute.

Making my way through the signs like “The only great Kings in this country are Drag Kings” and others in sloganed t-shirts like the older white dude wearing a t-shirt that simply said “Protect Trans Kids”.

I decided that I’d had about enough. My cup was full, so I turned to make my way through the crowd back home. Passing a group of women chanting with an early start to a drummers circle, a buxom older woman much shorter than me (I am 5’ 4”) touched my arm and said, “I just love your shirt.”

“Thank you, do you want one? I happen to have an extra. It’s a medium if you think it will fit.” I said as I opened it up and held it towards her frame.

“Really?” she said.

“Of course!” I folded it back up and rolled it tight into a baton to hand off.

Her eyes bright, she said “Why thank you. Not only a man with integrity, but generous too.”

“Too kind. Enjoy your day.” And we parted ways. I’d met my objective.

As I crossed Ocean onto Wilshire a woman next to a man I presumed was her partner said, “Great shirt”.

I said, “Thanks. Would you believe of the twenty compliments I got today, they were all from women? Not one man!?”

She laughed.

The fellow by her side dropped her hand as they passed and turned toward me and said, “No, it’s a good shirt”.

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The truth is, I am at a loss for words these days.

Lately, when I am asked, “How are you doing?” My canned response is always, “Okay, all things considered.”

Usually, I get an awkward chuckle, or an “I hear ya”. Not much push for more because of a mutual understanding of the general state of the world.

Behind it though, is a quiet exhaustion. It’s clear that what’s happening to trans people is not top of mind for everyone. There’s a senseless war, the ongoing ICE shenanigans, and then, of course, the daily antics of the three ring circus of an administration. Meanwhile, behind the scenes, there is a flood and flurry of activity happening that is quietly nudging toward the erasure of trans people. My existence is in the mix.

And still, I wake up each day and try to focus on what I can control, do the things that feel good to me. Dog walks, ocean walks, simple pleasures, comfort foods, chats with loved ones. I zoom in to work with a smile watching people go on with their lives as if nothing is happening. Talking about their spouses, kids, pets and vacations.

It’s exhausting trying to go on each day. Be “the bigger person”. Carry hope, or faith, or both. I smile at strangers on the street because the micro moments of connection lift my heart for a flash. I need it.

I listen while my heart races and my blood boils when well intended people say, “It’ll be okay” or “It can’t be that bad” or worse, just “I am sorry”. Words fall flat as loving and kind hearts try to quell what I am hiding and they suspect I am feeling. The reality is no one can carry the weight and the complexity of what is really going on for the transgender community. By design, it’s act first and see if it sticks. And in a flurry intended to confuse, it’s all happening in a whirlwind of damage behind the screen of sand like the Tasmanian devil.

In an attempt to try and understand it all, I created a summary of all the anti-trans actions taken since January 20th, 2025. I thought a “snap shot” would be helpful.

Have a look. Click below. Page through.

What sticks out to you? Are you exhausted yet?

Seven Federal Executive Orders, thirty Federal Agency Directives, one hundred and twenty six Bills passed, and twenty nine States with NEW Anti-Trans Laws.

So it’s probably no surprise to you then that, the Lemkin Institute issued its third genocide red flag this month. The legal erasure through removing rights, protections, and general recognition of trans people as humans is in full swing. The tactics of slash and burn lawlessness leaving uncounted faceless unnamed victims in the cross hairs as exampled by ICE as they detain people presumed to be illegal under the guise of immigration enforcement. We have seen with our own eyes that is not the case. Citizens have been detained and murdered in broad daylight. Detainees disappeared into camps with inhumane conditions.

And while the transgender genocide is well underway. Whatever is being done to protect us is not keeping the pace with the actions that are being taken against us.

The targeted campaign against immigrants shares structural DNA with the actions against transgender citizens: both use funding threats to push compliance from states and institutions, both attempt to redefine who legally exists in the U.S, and both draw directly from Project 2025’s playbook.

I have mapped the progress against each goal. Of the twelve steps toward rolling back my federal rights, seven are completed with substantial progress on four and partial completion of one. Did you know that in fifteen months, they are already over halfway done?

And while my legal existence is being systematically redefined out of federal law, my identity as a transperson will, in and of itself, inevitably become illegal. And once it’s illegal, it will just be a matter of time until we are rounded up too, and detained. And if how immigration is being (mis)handled is setting the precedence, only God knows what is next for me and my community.

And all of this isn’t without cost. Each and every single action they have taken requires funding to pay for the time to write, pass, and resources to implement.

Look at the numbers. Click below.

All of this effort to erase us is costing more than it did to support us. It’s estimated to cost at least over $3.7 billion of federal spending on enforcement, litigation, agency compliance, military purges, and the supporting processes of erasure. The real number is higher. That’s over a billion dollars more (and counting) than it cost to support us as a community, about $500 more per trans citizen. It’s the cost of hate.

So forgive me if I have a little less to say these days.

I am only human.

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I have been beaten by fists and sticks on the streets and in my home, had broken bones, and recovered from surgeries. But nothing so violent as lying in bed as my body ached and shivered from the poison that I was trying to flush out. My head pounding. My bedding drenched in sweat that soaked through to the mattress and created a stain of shame.

Living alone during COVID. Trying to keep showing up virtually to a toxic work environment. The residual stress of the California fires, Oakland riots, a felons first administration. Living “stealth” as a transman with an avalanche of midlife unprocessed chaos waiting in the wings. A perfect storm for a quiet addiction to shoot its shot at taking me down. I was unknowingly at the brink of becoming another body count in the statistics of premature mortality for people with ACES scores greater than six.

I hold untraditional thoughts about alcoholism and addiction. I was raised in a house where AA, Alanon and Alateen were forced participation activities. Swooped up and taken to facilities and groups and meetings and told that I would participate whether I wanted to or not. The smell of “the rooms” still haunts me today from its own emotional trauma wounding. “The big book” as frightening to me as the Bible.

When I met my recovery therapist, Charlie, for the first time, I told him I wasn’t interested in AA, or the rooms, or any of the modalities I was expecting him to guide me through my ninety days of treatment.

“Quitting drinking isn’t the issue, I want to understand why I drink the way I do.”

I was lucky. Charlie took my stance to heart and worked with me and not against me. He didn’t try to force me into adopting any mindsets or tactics that I had named as unwelcome. He told me he heard me and we’d get to that, but first we had to get me through recovery.

There is so much social stigma around recovery. People who are in recovery. People who have moved through recovery. As a previously self-described heavy lifestyle drinker, recovery language was riddled with judgement.

I learned from Charlie that recovery is personal. It’s as physical as it is emotional. The obvious was stabilizing my body as it moved from becoming dependent on alcohol to function to living substance free. That alone was a painful and dangerous journey. Quitting alcohol cold turkey if your body is dependent can be deadly. So, it’s a medically monitored process.

Then the real work. Which for me meant standing in my own shame. Looking at myself with a bright spot light that illuminated all the nooks and crannies of darkness within me, where the secrets and hurt lived.

My shame was pervasive and had spread wide and deep into my mind and body. The shame of feeling unlovable, as a queer, as a transman, an orphaned adult, consistently undervalued and alone, who’d become a drunk.

Through the ninety days, Charlie and I intimately worked through the physical withdrawal, the psychological and emotional work that comes with it, and uncovered a path forward for me. I cried on our last day together, when he told me our recovery work was complete and our time together had come to an end. He referred me to deep intensive trauma therapy where we got to the root causes of “the why” I was drinking that I sought. I learned about the window of tolerance, how I was self medicating to try and regulate my nervous system through the daily stresses and the boulders of shame I carried.

There is something different about people who have struggled with addiction and found their way home to themselves. I have learned that people who have struggled with substance abuse and come out the other side have won hard fought battles that those who have not will never understand. Loads of factors contribute to why someone may never fall into addiction, but being a “good”, “better”, or “stronger” person is not one of them.

I don’t consider myself to be in recovery, I consider myself recovered. For me, recovery was the journey through addiction to living. My body does not hold addiction anymore and I now know my nervous system well. I am able to connect with my mind and body and move with congruence.

I am grateful to Charlie for allowing me my own language and helping me get to the root of why I drank. It wasn’t what people think. It wasn’t lack of self control, weakness, or being a “bad person”. It was survival and adaptation. And I needed to find the sources of my shame and put them to rest. One by one. Until I found myself, my own unique spirit, my own love, self acceptance, personal pride and agency.

Five years ago today, I embarked on a ninety day journey that would change the trajectory of my life. The truth is, it was the only trajectory if I was to keep living.

I quietly celebrate today because I am here. As I awoke to the clear blue black pre-dawn Southern California skies, I reflected with pride on the strength and wisdom I have earned along the way. Five years seems like a long time, but also it’s not. A lot has changed for me. I like to say I am a different person, but my loved ones remind me I am the same guy, just a brighter shinier newer version of myself.

They aren’t wrong. My clear morning mind and clean dry sheets agree. Daily.

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For those unfamiliar, the Guerrilla Girls were founded in the 80s in New York City as a movement to bring visibility to the lack of representation of women and women of color in the art scene. Pre-internet, they used resources available to make space and find voice. Old school art making with pen, paper, collage, photo copies turned to Street Posters that popped up over night across the street of New York. Building community and activists through postcards, P.O. Boxes and Fax machines.

The messages were simple and rooted in facts and statistics.

They do their work anonymously because their message was dangerous to their identities. Think about that. But it also served as a vehicle of power, as a warning that they could be anyone, along side the men who were out to repress or even destroy them.

On becoming a feminist, Roxanne asked them “When did you first know you were a person?”

The audience laughed, without hesitation. But this really struck me. I think this is core to what many men miss.

Women are people. People of color are people.

Seems pretty obvious, right? But if it were, the work of the Guerrilla Girls wouldn’t still be so relevant, thirty years later.

Women make up roughly 50% of the population - globally and nationally. Not less than. Equal… nearly 50/50.

I will tell you, it is its own kind of experience to be one of maybe ten men in an auditorium full of feminist women. More than that, feminist women who came to be in community and radical conversation, for connection and artful inspiration.

Sitting in the second row, I could feel the powerful presence of the women that surrounded me. As a transman, I was grounded in the feminist roots the lesbian community seeded when they raised me as a young displaced queer teen. To those around me, though, I was one of the men being talked about. The disgust and rage were palpable. The collective was clear, it’s not a woman’s place to help a man find his way to being better, to doing better.

I don’t disagree. But if not women, then who?

Other men. Men who have done the work and have a mindset rooted in equality.

I am a firm believer that we don’t know what we know until we know it. As someone who has crossed a lot of social lines in my lifetime, I have had to bumble my way through awkwardly and naively across white collar workplaces coming from from a blue collar background, men’s bathrooms and locker rooms as a new man, women’s space now as a man, queer space living “stealth” and straight space being queer. These journeys brought missteps and learnings and growth that required grace not only for myself, but from others.

We are at a moment in history where men have a choice that they might not yet be aware they have. It is not a male loneliness epidemic. It is a men’s self awareness crisis. And the only way to create radical and sustainable change is to support men on their journey. This is the work that I do as a coach. Men need a space to step away from the social norms and pressure and explore their core values. It is deep work that might defy their social structure, how they move through the world. It is internal transformation that can be deeply emotional, which defies cultural norms.

They need to find resources and build community. They might even need to understand what feminism is and what it means (or doesn’t mean to them). This is not women’s work, it’s men’s responsibility.

Like myself in a sea of feminist, I wondered, how do I show folks that my values sit with theirs?

Inspired by the Guerrilla Girls discussion. I decided to try some shit. If we wear our values on our chest we are able to foster conversation and create community.

I invite you to wear your values on your chest.

Real Men Don’t Fear Equality

Feminist Men Change the World

As always, I look forward to the conversation.

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Author’s Note: This essay reflects questions I continue to explore through my work with men and masculine aligned leaders and a small apparel project that makes values visible in public space. link

Being Anti-Trans is being Anti-American. Why aren’t more people talking about this?

I was stunned to learn this morning about the recently published article ‘Experts Warn U.S. in Early Stages of Genocide Against Trans Americans”. The actions against trans people have been unequivocally damaging. It’s targeted, intentional, dangerous and life threatening.

And they are completely UnAmerican. This isn’t identity politics, it’s constitutional consistency.

The Declaration of Independence is not conditional.

“We hold these truths to be self-evident, all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.”

As a super minority, less than 2% of the population, we are a constitutional stress test. Our survival depends on the pursuit of self-development, achieving goals, and a flourishing life through extraordinary challenge.

Trans people are a hallmark of freedom of expression, protected by the First Amendment.

Fighting for trans rights as human rights is fighting for freedom itself.

Hard stop.

“Don’t tread on me” cuts both ways.

You don’t have to like or understand trans people to defend us or our rights. You just have to believe that freedom is not yours to ration.

Trans people are evidence that the American Dream is still alive. Any voice calling for our erasure is a voice toward the extinction of our freedoms, for all of us as a nation. This is not about gender ideology, it’s about whether the Constitution still applies to us all.

Anytime I hear Anti-Trans rhetoric, I will call it what it is. UnAmerican.

We need to collectively be louder about this.

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I started the year with 25 subscribers and am surprised to see I am ending with over 85.

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(THANK YOU)

A year ago I was still pretty new and nervous about Substack. Since, I wrote twenty Stacks as I practiced finding my voice, putting my words imperfectly out into the world, and being visible as a transman and human. Expanding my sense of self as a writer through a lens of self proclaimed “outside art”.

It was - and still IS - a terrifying time to be trans in this country. The Transgender Lunacy has raged on. The amount of focus and targeted harm toward us this year has been unprecedented.

Yet, I have mindfully chosen to be happy as I continue to believe it is the greatest form of resistance. Staying curious, searching for growth and finding lessons toward self love to bring healing to the greater consciousness. Continuing to collect gifts from the sea, while finding the courage to accept my trans body as it is, in all of it’s beach-dad-bod glory and start going shirts off on the shores of the Santa Monica Bay.

Stepping into my voice and valuing my lived experience to share more about my story against mainstream voices and their no-contact blind spots. Grappling with my own mother wound as I work my way through a memoir, and pay witness to the unhealed traumas of those around, everywhere.

Bringing voice to the reality that trans lived experiences are sacred and powerful, as humans who have mastered the ability to step up and into living authentically. We are skilled sailors.

Awakening to a life off of Meta and setting a new standard for my connections with others, in deeper real life engagement and encounters. Sitting with a fractured glenoid and torn labrum that forced me to slow down and acknowledge the healing power of connection and the loneliness in its absence.

Acknowledging that happy people don’t harm people as I paid witness to the shame that can hide behind being a man in this country. Evolving the focus of my business to support masculine leaders toward making it a Goodyear to become the man they are meant to be; my small contribution toward making manhood great again.

Reckoning the notion that death becomes us, there is death down the hall, and we and/or our loved ones may find ourselves dying alone.

Finally settling in to the notion that California is my home state now after a decade and half of collective time living here while coming to understanding I am a not so average middle aged white guy.

Doing the math on the probability of finding love, living as a subset of a subset, and being at peace with my independent bachelorhood knowing I will not settle for less just because the odds are against me while keeping my mind and heart open if she/they is out there. I am right here ready for love.

I am not one to do New Years resolutions. However, I do pick a word to act as an anchor for the year to come. For 2026, I carry forward the insistence that joy is the greatest act of resistance and happy people don’t harm people. 2025 helped me realize I will no longer be available to people who benefit from misunderstanding me. I will move into the New Year with discernment which will guide me toward what is waiting for me in the months ahead.

Let us not lose hope and remember the power of smiles and the quiet strength of kindness and that love will always win in the end.

Thank you for being here and having a read. I’m grateful to have you here with me on my journey.

I am curious, what one thing are you leaving behind in 2025? What one word are you caring forward in 2026?

As always, I look forward to your comments below.

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Two of the loudest voices right now are Oprah and Mel Robbins. Neither are therapists or psychologists. Neither are experts in trauma, family systems, or abuse, yet their headlines and commentary are reaching millions. One used to be a talk show host, dabbled in some acting, created an empire and is now doing a podcast. The other is an author, podcast host, and lawyer who has somehow sold the country on the notion that she is a self-help guru using a two-word mantra that is stolen from a much smaller voice.

Both have access to major platforms, including one’s OWN network. (see what I did there?) Both extremely wealthy: one millionaire, the other a billionaire. Both cisgender and (presumably) straight women. Both pushing a dangerous narrative that reveals how disconnected (by age and wealth) they are from the torment and harm of familial disfunction that so many queer and anyone “othered” by their family face.

It’s no secret that I am not a fan of Oprah Winfrey. The truth is, her success is built on sensationalizing and exploiting trauma. Her tactics, especially early career, were no different than the likes of Geraldo, Maury Povich, Donahue and Jerry Springer: bring on guests with “unique” and “out of the norm” stories, feign empathy and compassion for the camera while ambushing them for controversy only to send them back into their lives while ratings soar. Decades later she’s still at it, using her platform to oversimplify and minimize the painful realities of estrangement to boost her brand.

I know this first hand. Estrangement was a survival path I struggled through myself, learning how to navigate toward a future in support of my own truth. I left home at the age of sixteen. It was not at my own whim, I was not asked, I was told.

My mother told me to leave immediately with five minutes to pack my bags. She dropped me off at my estranged grandmothers house telling me I wouldn’t last a week in the world. There was no rageful violent fight (though there were plenty of those the years preceding). I had just disappointed her again, one last time, by simply talking to my dad.

I was constantly disappointing her by “not meeting her expectations” which I couldn't name until three years later in 1992 on a show about “Parents estranged from their gay kids”.

“Oprah, I had expectations for my DAUGHTER!” She pleaded.

“Like any mother” she wanted of me, the A honor roll, homecoming queen, prom queen, handsome boyfriends, and femininity.

Oprah asked me why I didn’t feel my mother loved me, at 19 I tried to speak to the constant harm of the constant disappointments of the unspoken expectations. I was put on the spot to defend myself, the attempts I made to bend and meld myself to appease her and make it stop. How I failed and the consistent harm, the figurative swings and misses, the literal swings and hits, the work that I was doing to try to keep the peace but always failing.

On the surface it sounded like it was bigger than my queerness, but in reality it was not unrelated, it was rooted in it. There was no “bad teen” behavior on my part, no drugs, no alcohol, no bad grades. On her part there was force and control, physical and psychological abuse, police intervention and court hearings until I was ultimately emancipated as a minor. It was too much to try and articulate in the midst of an ambush on a national stage. An ambush that was set up because I was queer. An ambush that haunted me for decades to follow, but was just another drop toward the rise of Oprahs brand.

@mister.goodyearWhen big media calls no contact a trend, they profit while those that are othered pay the real price. No contact isn’t a trend. It’s a survival strategy. 1992. Oprah. “Parents Estranged from Their Gay Children.” I was there, on stage. #NoContact #truth #lgbtq #CycleBreaker

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My dad was killed after the Oprah episode was taped but before it aired. His death forced me into a mindset of only having one parent left so I had to try. And try I did. I had bits and bobs where I tried to engage her, tried to hold and foster a relationship with her. In the end, we estranged for more years than we were not estranged in my lifetime.

When we were in contact, she made it clear to me often through words, beating and actions that I was the source of her worry, her sadness, her desire to commit suicide. I was the problem. Not by doing anything to her. But by simply being authentic to me. And so, I walked away one last time in the early aughts and did not speak to her again until she was on her death bed. A dying wish, I granted. It was not repair, it was closure.

I know my queer journey is not uncommon. There are countless queer people, survivors, and folx trying to break through generational cycles of abuse and harm who have walked a similar path. We are the “othered”, the “black sheep”, and we are worthy of support for our choices to live in our truth, step into our agency and build lives rooted in safety. Our choices deserve to be respected, not minimized.

This is why the rhetoric from Oprah and Mel is so misguided and dangerous. The no-contact messaging isn’t neutral, it reinforces the harmful conditions that people like me need to escape in order to survive. It is astounding to me that two women who have major platforms are taking a stance that keeps survivors small and asks them to appease and tolerate the behaviors that harms them while protecting those who are causing the harm. It’s shameful to do this too as a means to benefit their own brands and bottom lines.

This anti-no-contact messaging is not only irresponsible and harmful, it is targeting queer and other marginalized populations that are overtly under attack right now in this country. The same people crying “why can’t we all get along” are often in the same breath stripping rights away from queer, trans, disabled, and marginalized people. It’s not irony, it’s a cycle of abuse.

It is the EXACT reason those of us who chose to go no-contact need to go no-contact.

Here’s a radical idea: instead of targeting the people who are acting with agency to walk away from a harmful, hurtful, or hostile situation, how’s about we put the spotlight on the people being walked away from? Let’s ask them about what they think might be the reason for estrangement and invite them to reflect on their own behavior. Let’s facilitate a conversation with those causing the harm through a discussion that supports them to come up with solutions for themselves, to change their approach, to grow and mend and repair. That’s where the real magic will happen.

In the meantime, it’s time to go no-contact with Oprah and Mel Robbins.

I’d love to hear from you.

Are you estranged? Have you gone no-contact? What has been the outcome?

If you are on the other side of a no-contact situation, what do you think it is about you that cause the other person to walk away? What changes are you willing to make to move forward?

As always, I look forward to the discussion.

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I broke my first bone on the last day of kindergarten. My elbow was shattered from being pulled from the top of a jungle Jim called the eagles nest. Me and the boys were playing king of the hill and just as I was pulling myself up in the center someone grabbed me by the ankle and young to be the ground. The impact of falling down onto the playground grass and sand rung in my ears as I laid in the center with a new sensation and left me unable to move.

I spent that summer in a cast and isolated from the neighborhood play, running through sprinklers, bike rides, evening games of flashlight tag, swimming and all of the other summertime activities replaced with countless hours in front of the television.

At the end of summer, just before the cast was to be removed, the dog at daycare jumped up on me and knocked me down. My cast broke my landing on the concrete of the garage floor and also fractured the newly healing break. Which started the clock over again. The rebreak did not heal correctly, my growth plate was damaged and it eventually required surgery leaving me in a cast well into the second grade. Without the surgery, my arm would not have grown.

My second broken bone was my kneecap which was broken for me by three teenagers and a tree branch in Powderhorn Park in South Minneapolis. An after dark early evening winter walk home collided with an assault that resulted in a shattered kneecap requiring surgery. What was salvageable of the bone cobbled together with two pens and a wire.

Just as I was ready to start walking again a friend's dog swiped me from behind on the stairwell as I was leaving an Ally McBeal viewing party. I tried to catch myself with my bad leg and the reactive seizure of my muscles pulled my kneecap apart requiring another surgery and reconstruction.

My third broken bone was my left tibia. First fractured from a trip on an uneven sidewalk after an afternoon visit to a bar in the East Village. Just after it healed, I headed out to a birthday party on a rainy summer Manhattan night on my first day off of crutches. Cane in one hand and umbrella in the other, one misstep on a slick wet manhole cover landed me with a crack and roll into the gutter next to the sidewalk where strangers tried to pulled me up to stand. I knew it had broken again.

In my lifetime I had three broken bones all broken twice. I have become familiar with the hours spent alone convalescing, immobilized and waiting for a bone to heal. I was carried through the recoveries mostly through television, comfort foods and pain meds. Each time though there was a through line of company; my parents as a child, my mother, close friends and lovers and in Minneapolis, and then the kindness, generosity and presence of strangers in New York, many who became life long friends.

A little over two weeks ago, as I was taking a walk over lunch to settle my mind from a chaotic workday I encountered a low hanging drone. It seemed to be following me, hanging low and pacing me just above or just behind me. It caught my attention and focus while I hit the sidewalk wrong. Feeling the fall coming, I gave those around my best Three Stooges. Flinging and flailing my arms and legs trying to re-center and stand only to miss and fall straight onto my shoulder with all 175 pounds of me on the concrete sidewalk. I heard the familiar crunch. I laid for a moment to catch my breath and tried to move my arm while making my way back to my feet while doing my well practiced tests in search for a break. Uncertain I went to urgent care where the first pass of the X-rays read as no break. I later received a call that after further review I had in fact fractured my shoulder socket. More than that, an uncommon and hard to heal fracture that requires three weeks of immobilization.

Immobilization requires that I have my arm in a sling near my body. No repeated motion, no weight bearing, no stretching, no typing, etc. All forcing me to rethink how I get the basics done and foster rest and convalescing. This fracture is 1mm away from being a bigger problem that could require surgery. The nod toward my life’s pattern reminding me that a second break is the width of a grain of sand away.

This is not my first rodeo. I have spent months with broken bones, alone and with a pet to care for. What has been most noticeable to me this go around has been the access and reliance on technology. It has been the vehicle for keeping connected with friends and loved ones, offered me access to easy mindless entertainment, given me access to information and data about my injury and prescriptions, brought me food delivery, and allowed me to type through dictation and predictive text.

Zoom calls, phone calls, and short visits aside, it is lonely to recover from an injury alone. The other hours of endlessly sitting with nothing to do:

No work to do because I can’t.

No hobbies to do, because I can’t.

No errands, no projects, no way to play with my dog who is restless and rowdy.

Nothing to do but sit with a pain pill muddled mind waiting for the body to heal. Hours in bed, trying to find physical, mental and emotional comfort.

I have been struggling with the nothing to do and no where to go. Life has programed me to be productive with the down time, life is demanding I don’t right now. I have leaned into the presence of technology which has oddly made it feel more lonely. I can only watch so much Netflix and MAX. TikTok has started rotting my brain and perspective. And food delivery went from exciting and nourishing to shallow and empty real fast.

Last week, I ordered delivery from a local ramen house. Japanese curry is by far one of my most favorite comfort foods. Seeking warmth and pleasure, I splurged the extra cost of delivery from a place I would normally walk to.

In my mind, it’d be quick and novel. Quicker than walking to fetch it and bring it home again. Less physical effort and risk of falling by being out in the world. My past is constantly shouting at me to be extra cautious about putting myself at risk of re-injury.

I was informed that my order would be delivered by one of the robot couriers that cloud the sidewalks of my neighborhood. I was entertained by the notion. And found myself sitting and watching the dot on the screen move its way up the five blocks to my home.

The novelty was short lived as there was something about fetching a bag of warm comfort food out of a hot box on wheels that felt extra sad to me. It took me some time to name it. It was the lack of connection. I recognized that even a hand off of food from a stranger, with a hello and a thank you would boost my spirits. More than warm delicious food and entertainment, what I have been craving most is connection.

I look forward to getting back to life and the little things like being able to cook for myself and my dog again, doing chores around the house, going for long walks, typing with two hands. Hell, I am even looking forward to going back to work even though it’s remote, just for the almost human interaction.

While in many ways, I am an old pro at living with broken bones, I am also very tired of going it alone, especially in the most vulnerable times. It’s a lonely world where technology promises convenience and entertainment. But no matter how far technology advances, it will never replace the warmth, tender caringness of human presence and connection.

I am looking forward to feeling less fragile, less reliant on technology and back into the world of human connection. Most of all, I am looking forward to breaking the cycle of my second breaks.

Hope I didn’t just jinx myself.

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(*please excuse typos and mishaps from voice to text and one handed typing)

He had just moved to Reno, changed his life and found love. He had stepped into the happiest I had seen him in my lifetime. I was looking forward to getting to know the man shown in the photo taken days before his death as I moved into adulthood.

It’s strange how the death of a loved one shifts who we are. Our sense of self, our reality, how we walk through the world and sometimes our core beliefs and values are irreversibly changed forever. Even after I think I have cried all the tears I have to cry, felt all the grief I have to feel, there are still days and moments my body and my nervous system remind me that I haven’t really forgotten. The emptiness where time stopped and our relationship froze forever is still there. It lives with me as a wound scabbed over and over as new layers of loss and healing come up and pass over the days, years, and now decades.

I tell myself I have grieved all the grief, but it’s actually not true. The part in my heart with his name on it still beats, still bleeds, and occasionally still cries and sometimes sobs. And yet I go on everyday usually without mention because we don’t live in a culture where we talk about the dead or the carried and sometimes buried sorrow. Instead, we move on while echoes of the loss show up in daily life, like seeing a dad and his adult kid on the beach, people talking about getting a text from their dad, visiting their dad, how annoying their dad is, the frustration of tending to an aged dad, father’s days, birthdays and so on. I watch and listen, of course, to hear and see the experience of others while silently acknowledging the still tender and scabbed over wound on my heart. Little things like not knowing what it’s like to get a text from my dad create a familiar yet uncomfortable dissonance.

When I can, I take the day off of work. Not to sit in my own sorrow but to give space for the reality that I quietly stifle in those micro-moments throughout the year in between anniversaries. I light a candle to call him near, listen to some music we loved together, share stories with his sister, my beloved aunt. I also take a beat to reflect on who I have become since he left. I wonder what he would think of the guy I have become and who he would have been if he was still here. Again, not to sit and wallow, but more to bring life back to the spirit of the love we shared.

This year, I am also acknowledging and challenging the subconscious beliefs I embedded within myself from the trauma of his abrupt departure that finding love and happiness meant my own end is near. That’s a topic for another time.

It’s no secret that as we age the losses in life start piling up. For me, my dad was the first big heart break in life. Since then, close friends, acquaintances, all grandparents, aunts I was close to, aunts I was not, more friends, eventually my estranged mother, and then a couple more friends most recently. Many from cancer, heart conditions, unknown reasons, alcoholism, and drug use. Most unexpected, few of old age or natural causes. It’s odd when the scales of those lost to death tip heavier than those lost to distance or not lost at all.

Eventually, death becomes us. First from the collective patchwork of scarred spots of all those we’ve loved, lost and carried in our hearts in our lifetime. Then, one day, when we finally go ourself and leave that tender spot in the hearts of those we’ve loved and left behind.

It’s the painful but beautiful circle of life and love.

I’d love to hear what you do to honor those tender spots of loss on your heart.

As always, please join the conversation below.

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And once you see it, you cannot unsee it.

The worst of that shame is on full display right now in the once United States, with an Administration full of under qualified men filling roles they have no business sitting in. Head of departments with no real experience other than a pledged allegiance to the crooked ways of a rapist felon who has spent a lifetime skirting accountability in a country whose systems have served him to rise while leaving the rest of us to suffer the consequences, especially the direct victims of his corruption and wrong doings. The stark reality of a system built based on the architecture of white men in power. A dangerous machine built by disassociated power hungry men. A disconnection rooted in an inability to sit with their own inadequacy. It’s shame.

For me, watching these men speak is reticent of watching little boys play make believe on a stage, boasting words they can barely pronounce with the bravado born solely from their ego and imagination. They are protected by each other and the systems they have built. All rallied around playing the same game of make believe, with real life consequences to anyone they have deemed beneath them. Anyone not white, straight, cis, and male.

The shame of manhood is on full display.

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Federal agents wearing masks to hide their identity with big threatening gear prepped for combat with unarmed citizens. While their boyhood GI Joe dreams become reality, their insecurity reeks through clumsy actions as they fumble people to the ground, tase and pepper spray without real cause, walk back when taunted with sing song chants, inflatable characters and dog treats. If these men were proud of the work they were doing they would not be hiding behind masks and neck gaiters. If they weren’t ashamed of their presence they would proudly show their face and state their name and badge number. But they don’t, do they? It’s not the power or strength they think it is, it’s shame disguised as control.

So few people are talking about what’s behind what is happening though. There are conversations about the male loneliness epidemic or men’s mental health of men crisis, but behind all of that are the social structures and norms that start destroying men when they are boys. The performance of power starts when boys are taught to hide what makes them human. Wings of emotion, joy and expression clipped. Shushed to disconnect, be a man, become enraged, fight, boys will be boys. When tenderness is punished, they become men who live for the approval of each other and harm those that are not like them. Creating a belief that they are superior as they move through an echo chamber that makes them feel good. An echo chamber that was built by and for them. And to be a part of it, you gotta “be a man”. Whatever that means, by any means. Even at one’s own expense.

As a transman who has lived more years male now than female, I have a very real connection to the shame of manhood. For decades, I struggled to understand and find the words for it. While transition brought gender affirmation to my body, living as a man in our culture brought a whole new dissonance. Suddenly disconnected from women by being no longer seen as one, pushed to reassess my own soft spots and sensitivity as I worked to pass as a man, and learning how to relate to men in a way that is connection adjacent. Navigating this took me away from myself in a way that took me years to comeback to. A journey riddled with substance abuse and violence before an awakening that shined a light on this cultural conditioning.

The biggest lesson was that people who don’t know how to face their shame, project it. The target of the projection is often a mirror of the shame itself. In our country today there are no incentives to become a better man while the social, business and political norms are so rooted in destroying men from the inside out.

Men who have done the work lead differently. They know themselves, their strength, the core values, and their love. They listen before they defend. They protect instead of perform.

These men are rare, they are to be celebrated and honored.

Masculinity is not dysregulation.

Masculinity is not loud and forceful.

It is not rage nor violence.

Masculinity is not masked.

Masculinity is grounded.

Masculinity is strong, quiet and confident.

It is proud yet humble.

Independent.

Shame hides in the shadows behind the masks of masculinity.

The shame is loud and, on the outside, it beats others, forces submission, feigning false control -

When they cannot control themselves.

As we watch witness and feel the harm of their shame,

We must see it

Name it

And remember, their shame is not ours to carry

Anymore

We cannot heal what we cannot name.

The real hero’s of this moment in history will be the guys who have the courage to stop, self reflect, assess and realign themselves. The men who embrace and lead the work of making manhood feel good again, for themselves and each other. The men who dare to stand out, be who they are, authentic, loving, kind, brave, courageous, and feeling. The men who redefine what it means to “be a man” by doing good things, leading, thinking, lifting and protecting others. Maybe making manhood great again is daring to stand up to those stuck in the shame cycles of harm, and changing the world we live in by doing just that.

If any of this resonated, please share it with a man doing the work… or one ready to start.

It’s a Goodyear to become the man you are meant to be.

Thanks for reading. As always, please join the conversation below.

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I had this phrase tattooed across my chest about a decade ago as part of a large piece to hide my mastectomy scars as I continued to struggle to reckon with my trans identity. A banner runs shoulder to shoulder held by two opposing swallows flying away from each other over a worn and tattered wayward ship sailing homeward bound. Serving as a daily reminder that there was value in the challenges and the hardships of my lived experience including the lessons, wisdom, and growth that my untraditional life path had left behind for me to stand with in sovereignty.

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Trans existence by design requires us to become skilled sailors. We have to connect with our truest authentic selves, dig deep, and do the work to navigate a society that does not understand us and never will. Our lives are not just unique, they are difficult. We are required, as a measure of survival, to become masterful navigators of ourselves and how we walk in the world. We must become distinctively attuned to our inner helm of mind, body, and spirit at a very young age.

For me, my earliest memory of this was around four. I knew I was not like other people, and I certainly knew I was not a girl. I had never seen a penis, yet I knew my body was not complete. I didn't know about social gender roles, yet I knew the clothes I was given to wear did not feel right. There were no transgender people to influence or indoctrinate me, no trans talking heads on tv to wash my brain. I was just a kid growing up in America who happened to be trans.

We are less than 2% of the population. No one, other than a trans person, will understand the innate calling of personal truth, the connection to identity that crosses and embodies the spectrum of gender, and the drive to build a life rooted in a one of a kind authenticity.

A trans life requires a focus and commitment to our sense of self and unrelenting grit and courage to pursue a path of fulfillment to find joy. We have to push against the tides of the societal masses to be true to the wind calling us in the sails of our spirit. This sometimes looks like losing everything along the way. Friends, family, jobs, homes. We have to seek and find mental health and medical care, often without coverage and at our own expense. We walk through the streets, into rooms, restaurants, cafes, bars, and bathrooms that are usually unsafe every moment of every day. We navigate work places and legal systems that were not designed to accommodate, support, or protect us. We have to intentionally seek and foster friendships and if we are lucky, find lovers who have open hearts and minds to embrace and hold us, as we are, for who we are. We find the courage to keep going because we intrinsically know our happiness is worth it. We know our quest ultimately takes us home to ourselves. It is what we live for.

We live in a country where men, especially white men, are born to be captains. They are told they are captains. They are groomed to think they are captains. And we are told the men are the captains, and that women cannot be captains, and people of color cannot be captains, and queers cannot be captains, and trans people don’t even belong on the ship. Meanwhile, men are raised supported by systems that reinforce that they are the captain of the ship while rarely asking them to align their own helm, more than that, to do the inner work to earn their place or inner peace.

I remind myself, a smooth sea never made a skilled sailor. Those who are out to harm and destroy us are not driven solely by their ignorance, but also by their lack and fear masked as righteousness. And only those who are not in command of themselves seek to control others. And of course, it’s easy (and cowardly) to attack and destroy the smallest most targeted and at-risk populations in this country, especially BIPOC trans folx. In truth though, happy people don’t harm people. True captains ensure sailors and passengers are safe and leadership is about protecting the vulnerable.

And while my life looks ordinary on the outside, I wake up and go about my life offering hellos and greetings to neighbors, friendly banter at the boxing club with smiles and small talk at work. I don’t necessarily look like my sex assigned at birth is different than the gender I present. People generally don’t know I am trans unless I have told them. And, if I am being honest, those who do know sometimes forget. I am not saying they forget the fact that I am assigned female at birth, they just don’t have that fact top of mind every time we interact.

Almost all of the people I interact with every day have no idea they are speaking to a transgender person. Even though I am white and cis passing, my mind, body, spirit and nervous system are 100% trans identified. The psychological and literal assault on my rights to exist and be free in this country has been constant for nine months with the harmful actions of the administration, the injection of hate speech, and the normalization of anti-trans hypervigilance.

Now with the threat of being classified as a Nihilistic Violent Extremist by the FBI, I cannot have any more conversations about how things are “not that bad” and that “things will shift”. These are unprecedented and very dangerous times for transgender people and we need your help.

We are clearly outnumbered. We need non-trans voices to join the conversation and actively oppose the misinformation and attacks against us.

If you know, love, adore, or support someone who is trans, your silence is complicity.

The silence of allies is deafening, and it’s creating more space for this life-threatening trajectory to keep its momentum. The reality is the majority of the population most likely have never knowingly met or had a conversation with a transgender person. We need more voices, especially cisgender heterosexual white people to be LOUDER.

Please, talk to trans people and read trans stories. Speak out about what the absurdity and real danger of what is happening. Converse with and about the trans people in your lives.

Tell people who may not know a trans person how important and loved the trans folx in your life are to you. Become a vehicle for awareness, education and understanding.

Speak on behalf of us. Name what is happening. It cannot just be our trans voices. We need everyone in our greater non-trans communities to be LOUDER about the humanity, strength, courage, and beauty of the transgender experience and the lives behind them.

We are not terrorists. We are humans who have become masters at living authentically. We have walked paths that only those amongst us can see. We have spent our lifetimes in pursuit of happiness, against the raging tides. I assure you, we are not the terrorists. We are skilled sailors who are captains at the helms of our own existence.

And to my trans siblings… through this moment, do not forget who you are and the power, grit and strength that sets you apart from the masses.

Remember: A smooth sea never made a skilled sailor.

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Now, I am over fifty and have a bit of a “dad bod”. I don’t just have a belly and big back, I have “wings” of fat in my chest area that sets in a bit differently from having had a double mastectomy two decades ago. They carry my shame. Not just from being a little overweight, but because I believed they were a tell that I am trans. More than that, a trans who had surgery before surgeons got good at it. This shame isn’t just body image from a fitness perspective, it’s identity shame from living in a culture that has yet to wholly embrace transness in a country that is currently actively trying to erase us.

The beaches of LA have Bay Watch vibes mixed with crowds of tourists from around the world. I see all kinds of people and bodies. Of course some made-for-tv-beach-bods, but also there are the rest of us. Folks with fuller figures often wearing big bulky t-shirts over their suits, while some stay on the shore in their street clothes with their pants rolled up and their toes in the water. Occasionally I see full figured women and men living their best life proudly in swimwear. It is beautiful to witness and I admire them.

On my beach walks, I have been thinking a lot these days about the root of judgement, shame and bullying. Where do these “standards” come from? Why are they so loud? It’s not just at the beach where this shows up, it’s everywhere. We live in a country where the administration that represents the highest form of leadership has rooted itself in fear and intimidation. Mostly white and mostly people who are assigned male at birth. Adults still acting like children who don’t know any better touting their schoolyard bully tactics against all of us who are not like them - cis, white, christian nationalists. I bet none of them think twice about putting on trunks and hitting the beach shirtless, regardless of the shape of their body.

This moment shines a light on how privilege breeds stunted emotional intelligence so regressed it is now attempting to frame empathy as a danger to our nation. I wonder how they truly feel about themselves at the end of the day behind all the angry and hateful words, behind all the energy they spend trying to strip American citizens like myself of rights and access to care and safety. Where is their shame hiding? How does it show up for them, if at all?

A couple of weekends ago, I decided it’s time for me to dismantle the stories I tell myself about my body, and change how I move through the world. I started my battle with internalized shame years ago, and pushing forward with this radical body acceptance is overdue especially in light of the current cultural landscape. I can no longer allow the judgements of others to control my mind and my sense of self. As an act of love for me and the community of which I walk amongst, I must exist as me. Proudly.

Standing alone at the edge of where the water meets the sand, I meekly took my shirt off. For just a moment as the sun and the cool breeze hit my back and chest, I panicked feeling alone and vulnerable. No friends or lovers at my side to offer encouragement or support. I folded my shirt and tucked it into the back of my shorts and proceeded to walk toward the pier

Walking at the waters edge through tourists with cameras filming the waves of the Pacific or their kids or partners or friends I was hyper aware of eyes and lenses facing toward me.

I practiced shifting my narrative, sometimes saying out loud to myself, I earned this body. It is what it is. It has seen weight gain, weight loss, broken bones, multiple injuries, and more surgeries than most. It has carried hurts and harms of heartbreaks, physical assaults and emotional abuse. I reject the messaging from the culture of this country, the bullies, the haters, the white supremacists who think they define what is beautiful and what is not, and who deserves respect and decency and who does not. This body is mine, I am grateful to it for sticking with me and keeping me alive.

I recently heard, “Those that think being gay or trans is choice think so because they are making the choice not to be.” It shifted my perspective. More clearly than ever, these days, when I see or hear the anti-everything rhetoric. They are telling on themselves. We are witnessing their own internal shame coming out as a confession wrapped in anger and hate. I will no longer carry the shame they are trying to offer.

I am curious, if you came to the beach with me, what would you wear? What shame have you been carrying that wasn’t yours to begin with? Where did it come from? How did you make the shift?

Thanks for reading, I look forward to the discussion.

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Last week, I traveled over 1500 miles by car over six days. Frenchie in tow.

The distance we traveled was equivalent to driving from New York City to Dallas, TX or Louisville, KY round trip.

Tuesday: An early morning departure before the sun rose brought open highways that filled with congestion and stop and go traffic in the hours to come.

Starting on the 10 to the 405 to settle in on the 5 passing over the hills backlit by a golden sunrise in the flats inland. A two lane highway that runs nearly as a straight line north.

Welcomed by a friend, and her family and her dog upon a morning arrival in the Bay Area. Where I spent the day co-working and basking in the company of a lifestyle so starkly different than mine. A dip into the love of a close nit family through their daily routines, and a delicious shared home cooked meal.

Wednesday: An all day all hands work meeting in Oakland with about fifty colleagues who I have never met in person and some who I have not seen since before COVID. Oakland seemed dark and sad, different than how I left her.

Thursday: Up the 101, 150 miles north to the “Gateway to the Redwoods” to visit my beloved aunt and uncle. Two days of danes, dachshund and dandy loves as we sat for hours chatting, in silence, and just holding hands. The hours and minutes we spend together are sacred as the days go on.

Saturday: Heading south for the 600 mile trek homeward, with a pit stop in Sausalito for coffee with a dear friend and a walk by the bay as the fog rolls through with it’s late summer morning hellos over the ice blue water.

Crossing the Golden Gate Bridge to a pitstop in the Central Coast for a reunion with an old flame from 18 years past. Dinner in a small one street town on a backyard patio, pup in tow. Hours of catching up and connection. Delicious meal and company with a side of reflections on love, life and life choices as the ash of the nearby wild fire dusted down upon us.

Sunday: Early morning departure for the last two and a half hours of travel on the hilly windy roads of the 101. Day break peaking through the fog which won over the last miles as tall SoCal palms cast there shadows to remind me that I am home.

I laid in bed for hours to recoup. My body reminding me I was in near constant motion for almost six days. The shifts in my spirit from the time spent with friends, colleagues, family and the old flame needed to catch up with the guy I left behind. Home looked different with the miles of travel behind me as I realized I am undeniably now a Californian.

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The shift is noticeable. And unregrettable.

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My screen time has dropped over 60% - which surprised me. I didn’t really think I of myself as a heavy user. I can see clearly now the damage, influence and control that the meta-sphere has, even on “light users”. Content controlled by algorithms that we have no transparency into or influence in designing. Facebook specifically, with its force fed feed mashup of ads, reels, TikTok, local or national political content, and if yer lucky a friend or two, and if you are really lucky, a friend you actually care about.

My “social” connections have also dropped. I am no longer available to people for passive connection. It takes effort now, beyond scrolling. I am not luring people in with pictures of my dog, a delicious meal, or the beach for a comment or a “like” that feigns connection. Now, the people I interact in my life with are friends and family who make the intention and take the time to connect, and vice versa. It’s literally redefining my community of loved ones.

My birthday this year was great example of the shift. Facebook is a birthday calendar. A prompt reminds people to post a message, send a DM, or even make the extra effort to text or call direct. Over the past few years, I’d sit at the end of the day to do a final count of the messages both online and off. It fed my ego and made me feel good that there were people out there who took even a few seconds to think of me, even if it was a digital platitude. I’d think about all the memories of the ones who took the moment, and adopt it as a signal that somehow we are still connected. Friends.

It satiated a core childhood wound of my seventh birthday. I invited all my friends on the block to my birthday party. My parents hired a magician, we decorated the house with balloons, and I got a big cake of Oscar the Grouch because he was my favorite. Not because he was the Cookie Monster, but because he was a grouch. We were expecting a houseful of over twenty kids from all over the neighborhood. I was full of nervous excitement as we got everything prepared to welcome the party.

Three kids showed up. Three of the dozens expected. Chris and Eric who were the children of my daycare provider, and Danielle from around the block who I barely knew but adored. Chris and Eric were obviously forced by their mom to attend. Danielle awkwardly happy to be there.

It hurt my feelings and I was embarrassed. I tried not to show it, but my face never lies.

This year, in the absence of the Metaverse, as my birthday came and went, my phone was noticabley more quiet and at the end of the day there were no posts and thumbs to count. I got the Chris and Eric happy birthday’s from co-workers, and direct love from those who made the time to show up via phone, text, or email. Of course, I counted my blessings.

At fifty two, birthdays mean a lot less and the value of true connections means a lot more. I am partial to the Danielle’s over the Chris’s and Eric’s.

The Metaverse has been so successful in capturing the way humans connect and profiting from it. As I meet new people who I vibe with to expand and sharpen my community, I am happy to offer a bold, “Let’s connect again some time” or “I’d love to continue the conversation”.

Usually getting a “What’s your IG?” or “Can I find you on Facebook?” in return.

I tell them, “I’ve stepped away from all things Meta.”

Some don’t know how to respond, others tell me they could never because it’s where they hold their business presence.

I tell them, it’s just a personal choice and it’s just not for me. These days, I am curating connection that is raw, real, and if I am lucky, deep. I no longer have time or space for the superficial, passive, doing it for optics kind of energy.

I am sad for us as a collective consciousness. I am disheartened that we have become the product for tech billionaires to continue to grow their wealth through a contract of being that product in exchange of personal dependency on the technology to stay connected and make a living. It’s an illusion. A mirage that is robbing us of our attention, connection and mindshare.

Meta did not make it easy for me to quit. They claim that it takes weeks to delete my account and data. I don’t believe them. I picture someone scrubbing through the content like a bin pickers separating trash from recycling.

They make you wait ninety days without a login before they will begin the deletion of your content. They know we are addicted and dependent. It’s like putting a handle of vodka on an adidicts shelf and telling them they get access to the recovery program after they’ve managed to not touch it for ninety days - and by the way, most people they talk to are waiting to hear from them, at the bar.

The Metaverse does to the mind and spirit what McDonalds does to the body. Cheap, easy access to dopamine, but poison and leaving you wanting more. I am proud to have opted out and cut the line. I know it will make it harder to market my business and stay connected. I also know it will ensure that those that do come to me for service and connection are coming from an authentic place. In real life.

Leaving the platform has created an awakening. I feel a shift in connections; friends, partners, or otherwise. Dismantling the stories I’ve been telling myself and tapping into my core essence. This shift changes the playing field of who's who in the circle of life. Relationship dynamics teeter and either balance, break, or float away.

I am here for all of it. Happy to embrace deeper connections while releasing the past and virtual into the ethers. Living outside of the Metaverse and standing by and for myself while freeing space in my mind and spirit.

Awakened.

@mister.goodyear @mister.goodyear ♬ original sound - Inspire Motive

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