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Starting this blog post feels like an act of rebellion against time itself. I’ve been meaning to write this for a while, but life kept getting in the way. Yesterday, I was busy promoting my book on socials (it’s free on Kindle today, by the way—sign up for their monthly service, cancel anytime, haha). For the announcement, I decided to include some bonus content: family pictures spanning the years. Each photo carries a story, and wow, there are *so many stories*.

The thing about those photos is that no one in them had any real idea what was going on with me—my life, my relationships, my truth. I couldn’t tell them. Not because I feared for myself, but because I feared for *them*. If they had known, everything would have changed. My mother, especially, might have seen my gayness as a punishment from God for something she unknowingly did. She would have internalized my existence as evidence of divine punishment. And if my family had known back then? I would have been disowned for sure. No question.

Looking at those photos now is hard. They pull me into this “what if?” spiral—one I call my personal gravity well. And gravity wells? They’re as heavy as they sound. They’re places where you get stuck, where escape feels impossible. *Grave* indeed, haha.

Growing up gay was like carrying this invisible weight every single day. I compressed my whole self into this tiny, hidden box, terrified of the consequences of letting it out. Eternal damnation. A lake of fire. Forever. The rapture happened a *few times* in my head while I was growing up, and I was convinced I had been left behind. I had done everything I could to prepare for that day—everything except stop being gay, because no matter how hard I cried myself to sleep, begging God to change me, it never happened. That one little details right there, it’s a rabbit hole that never events. 

It’s hard to explain just how deeply I believed all of this. It wasn’t just a set of religious teachings—it was the *entire structure of the world*. It was how food appeared on the table and the sun rose in the sky. It was the glue holding everything together. And yet, there I was, carrying this secret that I knew, without a doubt, would shatter everything if it ever came to light.

The weight of that secret was immense. It shaped most of my days, my thoughts, my fears. I lived in constant dread of discovery. And even now, as someone who has come a long way since then, I can still feel the pull of that gravity well when I look at those old photos.

But here’s the thing: I’m writing this now. I’m getting it out. The gravity well isn’t inescapable—it just feels that way sometimes. The act of telling this story is part of my escape. And maybe, just maybe, reading this will help someone else escape theirs. 

Im tired.  Haha night 

Steven