Dear Timmy

The day before my book releases, I have something to say to the boy on the cover.

Dear Timmy,

You sweet little boy in your MACHO crop top. You must have been four or five when this picture was taken. Playing in the front yard of the house you grew up in. A world away from the place you call home today.

You were undoubtedly skipping around barefoot in the grass. The needles from the pine tree in your neighbor’s yard, an ever-present danger.

How many times would you run inside with crocodile tears streaming down your cheeks with one of those pesky needles buried deep in the sole of one of your feet? Your mom would tenderly but firmly pluck it out with a pair of tweezers as you howled and winced in pain. She’d dab the spot where she removed it with cotton doused in peroxide, then liberally apply medicated ointment to help dull the pain. She’d let you pick which of the Snoopy bandages to cover the wound. You’d always pick out the most colorful ones.

And soon, you’d be back outside, belting “the sun will come out tomorrow” from your favorite movie, Annie, with only a little dull pain to remind you of the danger of those pesky pine needles that felt like a thorn in your flesh.

As you grow a little bit older, you’ll start to notice that you see the world differently from other little boys. What piques their interest and attention is boring to you. You’ll have more fun with the ‘horse girls’ at school. And oh, will you detest sports, even though you’ve always felt pressured to play. You’ll struggle to make friends and find comfort getting lost between the pages of books, retreating to imaginary worlds to help you make sense of the one you live in. But here’s what I want you to know about that little boy: he will try so hard, harder than anyone will ever fully see or know, to fit in.

You’ll find your way to a church youth group, and you will love it there. The music, the pageantry, the spectacle of it all. But more than that, you will feel like you’ve found a place where you belong. And more importantly, you’ll have the feeling that God sees you, loves you, and is with you. Hold onto that. That part is real.

Around that same time, you’ll finally have a name for those feelings you couldn’t define. And instead of freeing you, it scares you. You’ll hear messages at church and in your Christian school that God couldn’t possibly love someone like you. They will tell you that who you are is broken. They will tell you that in order to belong, you have to erase the parts of yourself that make you who you are. And they will promise you that one day, if you’re faithful enough, brave enough, and surrendered enough, God might remove that thorn from your flesh. And then you might be worthy of God’s love.

And you will try. You will pray every prayer you’ve ever been taught to pray. You will show up to every Bible study, every accountability group, every early morning men’s breakfast you have absolutely no interest in attending. You will read every book they hand you. And you will want to burn your copy of Wild at Heart.

You will travel across the country to attend revival services and conferences, praying that something miraculous will happen. You will try to walk differently, talk differently, and even lust differently. You will give more than eight years of your life away trying to become someone you thought God wanted you to be.

And you will do all of it with such sincerity. Such a genuine, tender, aching desire to be good. That part of you is one of the most beautiful things about you. Don’t let anyone tell you that the striving was wasted or that you were naive. You were faithful to what you knew at the time. You did the best you could with everything you had.

You were never broken, sweet boy. You were just being told the wrong story about yourself. And about God. I want you to know that was the cruelest thing they ever did to you.

You are okay now. More than okay. You made it to the other side of all that striving and found out that God was never waiting for you to change. He was always celebrating and loving you, exactly as He created you to be. Long before others told you otherwise. He was with you the whole time.

There’s quite a story between that front yard and where I’m sitting today. It’s messy and holy and sometimes embarrassing and sometimes devastating, and ultimately, I believe, worth telling. I wrote it all down. Not to seek vengeance for what happened to you or assign blame, though there’s plenty of that to go around.

I wrote it for you and for other little boys like you. And I hope that, in sharing it, I can help ensure no one else has to go through what you did.

People are going to read it and cry and laugh, and see themselves in your story. Kids who feel different, isolated, and afraid are going to find your story and feel a little less alone because of it.

You did that. That sweet little boy in the MACHO crop top did that.

Tomorrow, your story is going to be out in the world. You spent so many years hiding in the shadows, convinced that the only way to survive was to keep yourself small and secret. But tomorrow you step out of the shadows and into the light.

And now I need you to hear this: you carried things no child should have to carry, and you did it with more grace than anyone gave you credit for. You showed up. You kept going. You never stopped believing that love and connection were possible, even when everything around you said otherwise.

Thank you for that. Truly. But I’ve got you now, Timmy.

You can finally put down that burden you’ve been carrying. You can stop trying to earn what was always freely given.

You can just be that adorable little kid in the MACHO crop top, skipping barefoot in the grass at sunset, belting songs from Annie at the top of your lungs. And you don’t have to worry about being anyone other than who you were created by God to be.

You were always going to be okay, sweet boy. It just took us both a while to get here.

With all the love I have,

Conversion Therapy Dropout releases tomorrow. If this story resonated with you, I hope you'll read it and share it with someone who needs it.