How does it feel when someone continually gets your name wrong, even after you've corrected them? Maybe it’s a teacher or a boss. Frustrating, right? It makes you feel unseen. Now imagine that this isn’t just about a name, but about how you identify—how you show up in the world. Misusing someone’s pronouns can feel

This morning, sitting in a coffee shop with the warm hum of conversations and clinking mugs around me, I find myself thinking of you. Again. The same way I’ve thought of you so many times over the last ten years. It doesn’t make sense—every logical part of me tells me to let go. You don’t

Dear First, thank you for your post, Why of All Things Lutheran. It touched something deep in me—a nudge back to church, back to faith. I didn’t grow up with any organized religion, and faith hasn’t been a big part of my community for most of my life. Yet, it’s been an ongoing conversation

My wife has been gently guiding me, patiently showing me a new way of being for years now. It’s a way that goes against the grain of everything I’ve been taught and everything I’ve strived for—effort, hustle, perfection. I’ve spent my life checking all the boxes: three master’s degrees, awards, honors, and recognition. You’d think

Rachel Holz Weber's recent Substack hit me like a ton of bricks. She wrote about forgiving assholes, and while I’ve got my fair share of thoughts on that, it made me reflect on something closer to home: forgiving myself. Because if I’m honest, my inner critic has been the most relentless asshole I’ve ever known.“I

For years, I believed that transformation was about taking control, about making the changes I thought I needed to make. I thought if I could just change my life—my habits, my circumstances, my relationships—I’d become the person I was supposed to be. I believed transformation was about strength, about getting better, about fixing the parts

(This is one of the best Halloween decorations I’ve seen…from my walk this morning).Yesterday, I woke up thinking I was in a great mood. I was the first one in the room for 7 a.m. heated yoga, hitting every pose like I was crushing it. But by the time I got home, something shifted—a severe

I remember the moment vividly. I was on the bathroom floor, sobbing uncontrollably. Everything around me was a mess—the kind of mess I had spent years running from. The kind I thought I could outsmart with perfection, with control, with keeping everything neat and in its place. But there I was, in the middle of

Vulnerability used to terrify me. It felt like standing in the middle of a storm, stripped of all armor, fully exposed to the winds and rains of judgment, rejection, and shame. For so long, I believed that strength came from the walls I built—keeping people at a distance, protecting the parts of myself that I