Hard Launch
A wild week, learning to trust my instincts, and stepping into the light
TLDR: I wasn’t supposed to be in DC last week. A last-minute change of plans, a gut feeling, and a $27 t-shirt led me to the steps of the Supreme Court, into national news, and into a moment that shifted everything.
I’ve had quite a week. It’s Monday evening as I write this, and if everything had gone according to plan, I’d be reintegrating back into the real world after a few days off the grid and disconnected from technology. But life had other plans. Along the way, I was reminded of the power of listening to that quiet voice inside, the one I spent years learning not to trust. When you’ve spent nearly a decade in conversion therapy, being told your desires are broken and your instincts can’t be trusted, learning to listen to yourself again is its own kind of healing.
I was originally supposed to be in California for a work event last week, but those plans got scrapped at the last minute. I was disappointed but sensed it was all for the best. Then, a friend invited me to a weekend retreat for artists and creatives, where we’d surrender our phones and our connection to technology for five days, allowing us to reconnect with a sense of wonder and ourselves. As I booked my flights and requested time off, I had a strange suspicion I wasn’t going to end up going. I couldn’t explain it, but I felt it in my body.
Then last Sunday, I got a DM from a reporter asking if I had plans to be in DC on Tuesday. The Supreme Court was hearing Chiles v. Salazar, a case involving a Christian therapist in Colorado who was challenging the state’s ban on conversion therapy for minors, claiming it violated her freedom of speech and religious liberty. I had been following the case closely but hadn’t planned to be there. Receiving that message, I knew that’s what all of my unease around everything else was about. I knew this was a moment I was meant to be a part of. Without hesitation, I told her that I would be there.
Having worked on more than a dozen book launches for authors and megachurch pastors, I knew I’d need a publicist for my own. Publishers do what they can (and I’m deeply grateful for mine!), but I’ve learned that having extra skin in the game can go a long way. When I told my publicist about the DM from the reporter, he confirmed I had made the right call and helped me find a discounted hotel room. He also connected me with folks on the ground from the Human Rights Campaign and The Trevor Project.
By the time I boarded the train to DC late Monday afternoon, I had an invitation to stand in front of the Supreme Court with both groups and other conversion therapy survivors.
As the landscape of New Jersey and Pennsylvania flew past the window, an idea popped into my mind to create a t-shirt that said “Conversion Therapy Dropout” in the same handwriting as on my book cover.
I frantically called every t-shirt printer I could find in DC that was still open. One of them said they could do it and deliver to my hotel, but the back-and-forth conversation was difficult with the spotty cell phone reception on the train. The printer said he would invoice me via PayPal for it and not to worry about paying upfront, but he gave me no confirmation on whether he would complete the shirt on time. At one point, it occurred to me I hadn’t even told them where to deliver it. I sent one last email around 8 PM with the address of my hotel and offered to Venmo them if their PayPal wasn’t working. I didn’t hear anything back from them and went to bed assuming it was a lost cause.
At 5:00 AM on Tuesday morning, my hotel phone startled me awake. The front desk informed me I had a delivery. Still half asleep, I stumbled downstairs and found the t-shirt waiting for me. I hadn’t even paid for it yet, and the delivery person had left.
I got myself ready, caffeinated, meditated, and medicated, and walked over to meet folks from The Trevor Project, the Human Rights Campaign, and the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention. I felt a little out of my league. Well, a lot out of my league. These were people who’ve been in this fight for a long time. This was my first time showing up in this way.
Still, a part of me felt like an imposter, like I hadn’t earned the right to be there, like I’d been too far removed from the front lines of this fight. But a friend gently reminded me: you’ve been doing the work of healing yourself first, so you can help others.
That reminder stayed with me. I didn’t need to prove I belonged there. I just needed to show up. Together, we walked to the steps of the Supreme Court. The justices were inside, hearing arguments about whether conversion therapy is protected free speech. I was outside, standing with survivors, wearing a shirt that summed up nearly eight years of my life in just three words.
What I didn’t expect was how quiet it was. One of the pro-conversion therapy groups backed out of demonstrating at the last minute, citing security concerns. There were no throngs of counter-protestors. Just us. A few women wearing red stood nearby in prayer. They didn’t get the memo that their group had cancelled. The rest of us stood with our signs that read: Conversion therapy hurts kids, families, and faith.
It was surreal being there. Fifteen years ago, I would have been on the other side of this battle. I would have been praying for someone like me to change. I thought people like me were disillusioned and dangerous.
One of the most powerful moments came when Linda Robertson joined us. Her son Ryan came out at twelve. She and her husband, devout Christians, forced him into weekly conversion therapy sessions with their pastor. Ryan spiraled into addiction and died by suicide at twenty. Now Linda travels the country speaking out, determined that no other family goes through what hers did.
Standing beside her, I watched as she struggled to hold back tears while speaking to reporters. “If I could do it over again with Ryan, oh, my gosh, he trusted me,” she said, her voice cracking. “We were told by pastors and Focus on the Family that we had to fix him. Instead, we taught him to hate himself. And when a child is dead, you don’t ever get to repair that.”
It’s hard to describe what it meant to stand beside her and alongside other conversion therapy survivors during such an important moment.
The reporter who initially reached out to me never followed up. But, over the course of the morning, I ended up sharing my story with a journalist from The Washington Post, someone from the American Psychological Association’s magazine, and a few others. I was honored to speak with them and share my story.
After the hearing ended, Kaley Chiles and her team stepped outside to address the media. We didn’t shout or heckle her. We just stood silently and peacefully holding our signs. And I prayed our presence there would make an impact.
I took the 3 PM train back to New York. Right around that time, the t-shirt printer finally sent the invoice. I paid it immediately. I had no idea that a t-shirt would become the best $27 I’ve ever spent.
Somewhere between DC and Baltimore, I opened my laptop and began writing about what the experience meant to me. By the time the train pulled into Penn Station, I had a draft of an op-ed finished. My publicist gave me a few contacts to send it to. One was an editor at TIME. Within minutes of sending, she replied, saying she’d take a look at it.
At the time, I thought maybe that would be the end of it. But things kept unfolding.
A friend DM’d me a photo from USA Today. Then came MSNBC. Then CNN. Then, of all places where a kid from the Midwest whose parents voted for Trump would die to see his face featured, FOX News. In every photo, there was the t-shirt saying: Conversion Therapy Dropout.
It was overwhelming to see my face plastered everywhere. For years, working in churches, I’d always been behind the scenes. I was told people like me didn’t belong on stage or in the spotlight. I policed my social media. I reminded friends not to tag me at gay bars. I lowered my voice on conference calls and performed a version of masculinity so as not to raise too many eyebrows. I performed a careful invisibility that kept me safe. And now here I was, everywhere.
By Wednesday morning, I knew something had shifted. I woke up early, poured an extra shot of espresso into my iced coffee, and launched a website for my book. I found a printer to help me sell the shirts online, with part of the proceeds going to The Trevor Project.
Then things started to move fast.
TIME published my essay and featured a quote from it on their Instagram.
The Washington Post featured my story on Instagram.
The Human Rights Campaign asked me to record a message to queer Christians for National Coming Out Day.
What I thought might be a soft rollout of my book turned into a hard launch.
To be clear, I didn’t go to DC with a launch strategy or a marketing plan in mind. I went because it felt important. Because I knew what it was like to be a teenager who thought he needed to be fixed. Because I know there are still young people hearing the same lies I once believed.
I spent years in church spaces where we talked about being called “for such a time as this,” that biblical phrase from Esther about divine timing and purpose. I never imagined my moment would look like standing outside the Supreme Court in a $27 t-shirt while the justices inside debated whether people like me could be legally harmed in the name of religious freedom. But as I prepare to release this book, I know I can’t stay silent or hidden any longer. This is not just a story I’ve lived. It’s a story I’m responsible to tell.
The rest of the week was a whirlwind. But somewhere underneath the overwhelm of everything that happened last week was something else: a recognition that all of life had been leading me to this moment. I was guided here by something bigger than myself. All those moments I second-guessed myself, all those times I almost didn’t listen to that quiet voice inside. This was proof that trusting my instincts had been the right decision. Perhaps there was a bigger plan unfolding, something I could never have orchestrated or imagined on my own.
On Sunday, I had my author photo taken for my book jacket. My publisher needed it today. Nothing like waiting until the last minute. To be fair, though, the photographer I wanted to take it was out of town. We decided to do the photoshoot where my church, Good Shepherd, meets.
This church community has come to mean so much to me. It’s the first church community where I’ve felt fully accepted, not despite who I am, but because of who I am. There’s a kind of grace there that doesn’t ask me to edit or shrink myself. It’s given me space to embrace my full identity as a gay man, to heal, and to be held by a faith that’s spacious enough for all of me.
But it’s not just the community that holds meaning. The building we meet in now was also the place where I attended my first in-person recovery meeting, four years ago. Back then, I wasn’t thinking about writing a book or telling my story. I was just beginning the journey of healing that ultimately opened up all of the doors and opportunities that led to what happened this week.
Standing in that same space this weekend, in front of a camera, knowing what’s ahead, it felt like a quiet kind of full-circle moment. I’d spent so many years hidden in the shadows of churches. And now it’s my time to step into the light.
I have no idea what to expect or what’s ahead, but I trust God is guiding me every step of the way as I continue to trust in Him and learn to trust my intuition, what I now believe is the Holy Spirit, after years of being taught to silence it.
Thank you for being with me on this journey,
P.S. - Follow me on Instagram and Threads, where I share more snippets of my journey and everyday life.
My memoir, Conversion Therapy Dropout, is now available for preorder. You can learn more or order at ConversionTherapyDropoutBook.com
You can also get your very own Conversion Thearopy Dropout t-shirt and other merch. A portion of every sale supports The Trevor Project.
The learning how to trust the internal voice you were always told was untrustworthy is a hard process!! Love what you are putting into the world!
“I didn’t need to prove I belonged there. I just needed to show up.” And show up you did!! So proud of you! It takes courage to move through this world so authentically, and I’m glad you are! The world needs more of your positive energy 🩷