Carl Jung: "Everything that irritates us about others can lead us to an understanding of ourselves." (This speaks to how the traits we vehemently hate in others are often unacknowledged parts of our own shadow self).

There’s a dude who lives in Oklahoma who is a real piece of shit work. I detest and have no respect for him. Shortly after I came out in 2015, he took it upon himself to “hand me over to Satan” and to give me a “final warning” before declaring that I was going to hell.

Back to the story…

I was so mad at Mr. OKC, that I rebuked his curses and prayed they would return to him seven-fold. I really wanted to see him crawling through the Oklahoma dust as all the negative energy he generates came crashing down on him with the “sudden destruction” he declared would happen in my life.

Yes, he really said that too.

As, I was slowly turning his life into a gay themed Stephen King novel in my mind I said to myself, “Self, what a horrible train of thought. You are no better than he is; one sanctimonious gremlin inspires another. Stop it!”

My higher self, and/or Holy Spirit (both?) pulls no punches. In that moment that was the very last though I wanted to hear running through my mind. But it did stop me in my tracks and ended the horrible reverie.

The truth is, as God as my witness, I really don’t want Satan to crawl up out of hell and drag Mr. OKC down into it. I don’t want destruction and humiliation to visit him. I want him to stop. I want him to accept God’s LGBTQ+ creation as equals. I do want him to learn difficult lessons because that is the ONLY possibility (that I am aware of) of breaking through his hatred and bigotry masquerading as love and godliness. I truly want that to happen without humiliation or destruction to him.

Simply, I want him to repent which, at its root, means to change his mind.

Don’t get me wrong. I still absolutely detest the asshole man. I just don’t want to become him by cursing him. There’s enough of that going on in the world.

::: sigh ::: So yeah, I still detest Mr. OKC. But he doesn’t get to live rent-free in my soul. I have lots of better things to do–live my life, love my people, and occasionally texting Lucifer Morningstar for insights into sanctimonious gremlins.

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This morning’s commute turned into something far more harrowing than the usual rush‑hour grind. I became a first‑hand witness to a violent collision that unfolded almost in slow motion right beside me. A massive commercial truck barreled down the road, ignored a red light, and tore through the intersection with terrifying force. I saw him coming early enough to stop, but the car next to me didn’t have that chance. The impact was catastrophic: the front of the car was nearly completely crushed, the vehicle spun violently, and it came to rest facing the opposite direction just feet from my door. My own car escaped with only a few scratches from flying debris, but the scene itself was anything but minor.

The driver who took the brunt of the hit was an elderly man, and the moment I saw him, the gravity of the situation settled in. His injuries created pain/tingling all over his body, and the shock on his face was something I won’t forget. In the seconds after the crash, everything felt suspended—sound, motion, even thought—until instinct took over. Because it was rush hour, dozens of people had witnessed the collision, and as soon as it was safe, we all moved toward the wreckage. Actually, I was already there and just had to get out of my car. It was remarkable how quickly strangers organized themselves without speaking, each person stepping into a role as if guided by some shared understanding of what needed to happen.

One person immediately called 911. Another knelt beside the injured man, urging him gently to stay still until paramedics arrived. Someone else began explaining what might be happening medically, offering calm in a moment that had none. I checked the damaged vehicle for fire risk, then spoke with the first police officer on the scene, relaying what I saw and confirming that the engine wasn’t burning even though it smelled like something rubbery was burning. The coordination was instinctive, almost automatic—an impromptu team formed out of urgency, empathy, and the simple human impulse to help.

Now, sitting on the couch after work, the adrenaline has faded but the clarity remains. I keep replaying the moment I noticed the truck wasn’t slowing down, the split‑second decision not to turn out in front of him, and how narrowly I avoided being part of the wreckage myself. Gratitude feels like the only appropriate response—gratitude for awareness, for instinct, for the strangers who rushed in without hesitation, and for the simple fact that I am unharmed. My car scratches can be repaired; the man who was hit will need far more than that.

Experiences like this remind me how fragile the everyday really is. One moment you’re thinking about your morning plans, and the next you’re watching lives change in an instant. Today, I’m holding onto the awareness that things could have gone differently, and the responsibility that comes with witnessing something so serious. I’m grateful to be alive, grateful to have been able to help, and hopeful that the man who was injured receives the care he needs.

Life is weird, people are complicated, and apparently I have a lot to say about both. Subscribe (free or paid) and I’ll deliver fresh stories, reflections, and the occasional bad joke straight to your inbox—saving you from having to remember to check Substack yourself.

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I spent a surprising amount of my life waiting for permission.

Not permission to do something reckless or irresponsible. I was waiting for permission to ask questions. Permission to admit I didn’t know. Permission to change my mind. Permission to disappoint people I loved. Permission to leave places that no longer fit. Most of all, I was waiting for permission to become the person I was slowly discovering I already was.

The strange thing is that I honestly believed someone else would eventually grant it. A pastor. A mentor. A therapist. A parent. Maybe even God. Surely, if I prayed hard enough or proved myself faithful enough, someone would finally look me in the eye and say, “It’s okay. You can live your life now.”

That moment never came.

I grew up believing maturity meant becoming more certain. The people I admired seemed so confident. They had answers for every question and convictions about everything that mattered. Doubt was given lip-service but wasn’t really considered part of a healthy faith; it was usually treated as evidence that something was wrong with you. If your beliefs were solid enough and your commitment deep enough, certainty was supposed to follow.

When it didn’t, I assumed the problem was me.

That belief followed me into adulthood and eventually into my work at Exodus International. Looking back, I can see I wasn’t just trying to do my job well. I was trying to earn approval from everyone who mattered. I wanted pastors to approve of me. I wanted donors to approve of me. I wanted board members, fellow leaders, and the broader evangelical world to see me as faithful, trustworthy, and “healed.” I wasn’t simply working; I was performing, constantly trying to prove that I belonged.

I don’t think I realized how exhausting that performance had become until my mind and body finally refused to cooperate.

The pressure eventually drove me back into counseling for the third time in my life. It was there that I received a diagnosis I never expected: complex PTSD.

At first, it made no sense to me. Complex PTSD was something soldiers experienced. Survivors of war. Survivors of horrific accidents. I hadn’t been through anything like that—or so I thought.

My counselor helped me understand something I had never considered. Trauma isn’t always the result of one (or more) catastrophic event. Sometimes it also accumulates over years of living in fear, shame, hypervigilance, and the constant pressure to be someone other than yourself. I had become so focused on earning approval that I had almost completely lost sight of the person God created me to be.

That diagnosis didn’t magically heal me, but it gave me language for an exhaustion I had never been able to explain. It also quietly changed the question I was asking. Instead of wondering how I could earn everyone’s approval, I began wondering whether I had been living for the wrong audience all along.

I don’t blame the people who were part of that chapter anymore. Most of them genuinely believed they were helping me. Many of them loved me. They were living out the beliefs they sincerely held, just as I was living out mine.

But somewhere along the way, I stopped asking them to write my life story.

That became even more important during the years leading up to my coming out. People are sometimes surprised to learn that I wrestled with my sexuality privately for several years before saying anything publicly. I didn’t share that journey with many people in my church world because I already knew what most of them would say. I could practically quote the conversations before they happened. I knew which Bible verses would be mentioned, which warnings would be offered, and how disappointed people would be.

When I finally came out, many people responded exactly the way I expected.

It hurt, but it also brought an unexpected kind of freedom. After years of fearing other people’s reactions, I realized I had survived them. The catastrophe I had imagined never arrived. Relationships changed. Some ended. Others deepened. My life became more complicated in some ways and much simpler in others.

The fear had been carrying more weight than reality ever did.

I’ve noticed that almost every meaningful change in my life has disappointed someone. Leaving ministry disappointed people. Changing my theology disappointed people. Coming out disappointed people. Even today, my husband and I continue discovering that marriage isn’t something you finish figuring out. Like every healthy relationship, it keeps inviting us to grow. We aren’t questioning our commitment to each other, but we are learning that authenticity sometimes asks different questions than certainty ever allowed.

I’ve slowly come to believe that living honestly and pleasing everyone have always been mutually exclusive goals.

That doesn’t mean we should become careless with people. Kindness still matters. Listening still matters. Humility still matters. I hope those qualities continue growing in me for the rest of my life.

But I’ve also learned that making other people’s comfort the measure of my faithfulness is a burden I was never meant to carry.

One of the unexpected gifts of getting older is discovering that the adults who seemed to have everything figured out were improvising far more than I realized. I’m approaching sixty now, and I can let you in on a secret: most of us are making the best decisions we can with the understanding we have at the time. Some people simply look more confident while they’re doing it.

Oddly enough, I find that comforting.

It reminds me that I’m still allowed to learn. I’m still allowed to change my mind. I’m still allowed to apologize when I’m wrong. I’m still allowed to grow into someone my younger self couldn’t have imagined without feeling obligated to defend every version of who I used to be.

These days, friends often come to me looking for advice. They tell me about careers they’re questioning, relationships they’re trying to understand, churches they’re thinking about leaving, or dreams they’re afraid to pursue. The older I get, the more I realize that most people aren’t really asking me what they should do.

They’re asking whether it’s okay.

Sometimes I can reassure them. Sometimes I can offer perspective. But I also know that my permission isn’t the permission they’re ultimately looking for.

Sooner or later, each of us reaches a point where we have to sign our own permission slip.

Not recklessly. Not selfishly. Not without listening carefully to wise people who have earned the right to speak into our lives. But with the quiet confidence that this one extraordinary, complicated, unrepeatable life is ours to live.

There will always be people who are more comfortable with the old version of you than the person you’re becoming. There will always be voices insisting that growth is betrayal or that changing your mind is weakness. If you wait for unanimous approval before becoming who you’re meant to be, you’ll spend your entire life waiting.

I know.

I did.

And if you’ve been sitting on the edge of a decision, hoping someone else will finally tell you it’s okay to ask the hard questions, to begin counseling, to leave what is crushing your spirit, to heal, to start over, or simply to become more fully yourself, let me save you a few years.

The permission you’ve been waiting for was never theirs to give.

It has been yours all along.

Life is weird, people are complicated, and apparently I have a lot to say about both. Subscribe (free or paid) and I’ll deliver fresh stories, reflections, and the occasional bad joke straight to your inbox—saving you from having to remember to check Substack yourself :).

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I used to think consistency was one of the highest virtues—that if you believed something on Monday, you should believe the same thing on Friday, and changing your mind meant you were compromising, backsliding, or being deceived. Looking back, I realize how much energy I spent trying to stay the same, even when life was inviting me to grow.

I’ve lived enough lives now to know that growth almost always looks suspicious to people who aren’t growing in the same direction.

One of the more amusing parts of getting older is discovering that your younger self would probably argue with your current self—and lose spectacularly. At least I hope he would. Although, if I’m being honest, younger Randy had the confidence of a man who’d read three books and was prepared to explain the universe to anyone who accidentally made eye contact.

That last paragraph is cringe and chuckle-worthy all at once :)

These days I’m far less interested in winning arguments than I am in understanding people. That’s not because I’ve become soft. It’s because life has a remarkable way of sanding down the sharp edges of certainty.

I’ve buried people I loved. I’ve watched marriages thrive and others quietly unravel. I’ve celebrated extraordinary joy and sat beside heartbreaking grief. I’ve learned that real life stubbornly refuses to fit inside tidy theological systems, political slogans, or inspirational coffee mugs.

Experience has a way of humbling us—if we let it.

There was another lesson I learned the hard way.

When I came out, a lot of people were shocked. To them, it seemed like I’d changed overnight. They couldn’t understand how someone who had spent years in ministry and leadership could suddenly announce something that, in their minds, came out of nowhere.

What they didn’t know was that it hadn’t come out of nowhere. I’d spent several years wrestling with questions I wasn’t ready to share. Those years were lonely, painful, and often confusing. I kept that journey to myself because I already knew what many of my church family would say. I didn’t need to imagine their responses—I had spent enough of my life saying some of those same things to other people.

When I finally did come out, they said almost exactly what I expected. It hurt, but it didn’t surprise me. In an odd way, keeping my journey private had given me time to prepare for that moment. I wasn’t trying to deceive anyone. I was trying to survive long enough to tell the truth.

That experience taught me something I hope I never forget: when someone’s life seems to change overnight, it almost never has. You’re usually seeing the final chapter of a story they’ve been quietly living for a very long time.

Imagine how different our friendships, families, and communities would be if our first response to someone’s growth wasn’t, “But that’s not who you used to be.”

Well… I certainly hope not.

I don’t want my fifty-eight-year-old self to be trapped inside the worldview of my twenty-eight-year-old self. That wouldn’t be faithfulness. That would be emotional taxidermy.

And let’s be honest. None of us wants to be preserved like a mounted deer head hanging over someone’s fireplace. We were made to breathe, to wander, to question, and occasionally to discover we’ve been spectacularly wrong.

Preferably before posting about it on social media. #learnedthehardwayrepeatedly

Change isn’t always improvement. People can become more fearful, more cynical, or more rigid. Growth isn’t automatic just because the calendar keeps flipping.

But healthy change usually leaves clues. It produces more compassion than condemnation. More curiosity than certainty. More peace than performance.

I’ve found that the people who are most comfortable allowing others to evolve are usually the ones who’ve given themselves permission to do the same. They know what it costs to rethink old assumptions. They understand the courage it takes to apologize, to learn, and sometimes to begin again.

Maybe that’s why grace matters so much.

Grace isn’t pretending our past didn’t happen. It’s refusing to chain someone to it forever.

I don’t expect everyone to agree with who I’ve become. Frankly, there are days I’m still getting acquainted with him myself. But I hope I’ve become someone who’s quicker to listen, slower to judge, and much more willing to admit when I don’t know something.

That feels less like losing my convictions and more like finally growing into them.

If someone in your life is changing, resist the urge to freeze them in an old photograph. Get curious instead. Ask questions. Listen to their story. You may not end up agreeing with every conclusion they reach, but you’ll probably understand them better.

And if you’re the one who’s changing, don’t apologize simply because your journey makes someone else uncomfortable.

We’re supposed to change. Trees do it. Rivers do it. Caterpillars have built an entire public relations campaign around it.

Maybe becoming isn’t a betrayal of who we were.

Maybe it’s exactly what we were created for.

Life is weird, people are complicated, and apparently I have a lot to say about both. Subscribe (free or paid) and I’ll deliver fresh stories, reflections, and the occasional bad joke straight to your inbox—saving you from having to remember to check Substack yourself.

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