I’m a prickly person.
I’m an audacious person.
I’m an entitled person.
I’m a spoiled person.
I’m an anxious person.
I’m a privileged person.
I’m an impatient person.
I’m an angry person.
I’m a sensitive person.
I’m a depressed person.
I’m a selfish person

Most of all, I’m Navajo, gay and a new Christian.

Yet, who will listen?

All of these feelings inside me lurk around in my brain, torso and abdomen. All three areas occupy vast spaces, but my presence is bound to a 3 square inch area. A ghostly, constrained place that calls me by name and lures me in with sweet praise. The barren space knows my longing to be known by nothing and everything. My soul’s demure desire for belonging is my jailed independence. I can find freedom in creating something new, but my stubbornness robs me of authentic, rewarding connection.

My anxiety kicks in as I explore new places. I’m also excited by the unknown. The fear of being judged kicks in when I think about what other’s assume about me. When I compare other people’s outsides to my insides, I feel empty. It’s a learned behavior that is painful to let go.

As TikTok dances and Critical Race Theory dominate the news, I withdrawn into my aloneness, which is a false protector. Retreating from society only hurts me. But I’m still here, almost 28 years since I came into this world, alive and kicking. I survive life. We all survive life. I survived college in a big city, and I survived childhood on a Native American reservation. Yet, these spaces do not feel like home.

I’m searching.

The secular world is too nonchalant about individual and communal conduct. The religious world’s marketing schemes feed the masses with malnourished toxic “how-tos.” When do we sit and listen?

What if you don’t want to be part of these worlds? What is left when take out the sacred and profane? A big ‘ole mess.

In this search to find meaning in life, I’ve experimented. I’ve never kissed a girl. I’ve slept with white, married Mormon men. I’ve slept with sexy BIPOC men. I’m too afraid to talk to men I’m attracted to. Secretly, I’m a masochist who only grows within pain.

I am ashamed of who I am? No. Have I given myself to God? Maybe. Am I exhausted? Yes.

I’m slowly unlearning my self-sabotaging behaviors. But the growing process is painful. Maybe I’ll recede into old habits. I can only hope my weaknesses enable me to surrender to whatever Divine process is going on. I can accept the process, with anger or fear, which will slowly plant seeds of radical self-love.

When I bring myself to new spaces, I keep quiet. Silence is the first way to not rock the boat. But what I’ve noticed, in my own experience, is this silence is met with suspicion. Words develop trust in the 21st century America. Silence equates to fear.

Speaking is a product of white supremacy. When we speak, we do not listen. A lot of white guys speak nonstop. I sit quietly while my resentment continues to grow.

My souls waits for comfort in a world catered to the instant, pain-relievers of life.

With all of my privilege, as a middle-class, able-bodied, male, I still feel like an outsider. What all of these exhausting behaviors tell me is the lack of control I have over others. Most of all, brute control of my soul doesn’t exist.

I’m at the beginning stages of a simple understanding: when things get hard in life, I run to empty false idols. I had impulsive sex with men. I binged food after watching gay couples talk about their happy lives on YouTube. I’ve signed up for fitness classes only to be met with rejection.

Leaning into my sensitivity and building a relationship with the Divine is scary and comforting. In silence, I’m listening. I hope to hear simple and hard truths.