When Steven first knocked on the door, my hands were dripping with dish water and I had my infant son on one hip, an image of a harried domestic housewife in a rush. I was living with my sons in a small two bedroom apartment in Salt Lake City, with a roommate who also had two sons living in the second bedroom. I was poor and working at a terrible job, but I was 32 and just barely beginning my life as an out gay man.

Once a month, my roommate and I hosted a support group at our home for gay fathers, the majority of the men were formerly Mormon and newly out of the closet, many of them still married to their wives, and many of them not even out to their families yet. We would get together and talk, process through our experiences and offer support to each other during such a difficult transition.

And so there was Steven and my eyes went wide, cause this guy was handsome, and there  I was with a literal baby on my hip. He was tall, in incredible shape, and with a bright wide smile. He stepped right inside, all confidence and laughter and swagger, and the kind of energy that leaves you a bit flummoxed at first. He was also 90 minutes early for the meeting.

Steven came in and we became fast friends as I rushed around the kitchen and living preparing for the meeting. I shared a bit of my story with him, how I had just come out months before and moved here, and I introduced him to my children. And Steven told me his story, much of it like mine: growing up Mormon in another state, getting married young, and having two children with his wife. Steven had been deployed in the military before coming home and getting his professional certifications. Now he was in Salt Lake City, starting his life over, and figuring out what it meant to be gay and happy in his own skin. He stumbled over the word gay that first time, having to stop himself and breathe a little bit. “It just feels weird to say that out loud to someone, that I’m gay.”

Over the next few weeks, I saw Steven go through his firsts, the same firsts I had been through just months before. I introduced him to a gay swim team I had joined (and laughed hysterically when one of my friends leaned over the first day Steven donned his swimsuit and whispered, “Good God, you’re friends with a porn star!”) and watched him make friends (something Steven does easily, because he is hilarious). I took him to his first gay club and watched him stand in the corner, shy and making casual conversation, until just a few weeks later when he joined the dance floor and let go. Steven called me the first time a guy asked him out, and I had to explain to him that it was a date, and then he called me glowing after that first date with a guy, glowing and twitterpated, because he had had his first kiss. And then, dozens of months later, he called me in anguish the first time he had his heart broken.

A few years after Steven came out, when my baby was no longer a baby but now a fat and clumsy little toddler, a large group of us went down to Moab, Utah, a small resort town near the border of a few national parks, for their annual Pride celebration. My best friend Kurt and I shared a hotel room and connected with our other friends for drinks and dinners during the festivities. One day, Steven and his then boyfriend hiked miles up into Arches National Park so they could be near the famous Delicate Arch at sunset. The two men stripped down to a small pair of pink lacey ruffled panties. They both strapped small white angel wings on their shoulders, pink garters on their muscular legs, and pink feather boas around their necks. And then, in angelic and athletic poses, they stood against the red rock arches with the sun setting behind them and snapped photographs as the tourists nearby gawked and cheered.

When I saw the photos later, I remember laughing with abject delight, and contemplating the swift differences in our lives in the short times we had known each other. All of the building blocks of our lives remained the same: we were still dads, we still had the same jobs, we still had the same families… yet now we smiled with our whole hearts, we had authentic friends, we genuinely liked ourselves, and sometimes we danced under strobe lights or wore pink panties against setting suns just to say that we had.

This morning, I had coffee with my friend Steven for the first time in a few months; this time, my baby isn’t a baby but a prolific and hilarious kindergartener. Steven and his partner live in a beautiful house on the hill now that is just perfectly them. There is a large deck with comfortable chairs that overlooks the city, and you can sit there and sip espresso as hummingbirds flit around the feeder above you. We talked about our jobs, and our kids, and about co-parenting. We talked about the projects we are working on, about places we hope to travel this year, and about mutual friends. Several times during our conversation, Steven made me laugh out loud with his deep voice and his scandalous stories, just a bit too risqué for public spaces.

I gave Steven a giant hug goodbye, and I sat in my car unmoving for a few minutes, remembering just a few short years ago when he knocked on the door, frightened to even use the word gay, and remembering my own fears back then. I felt the last handful of years flash by for a moment, grounding me in the present, on a journey with unknown adventures ahead, and with some of the most incredible men a guy can have at my side.

(Thank you for the laughs and adventures, Steven! You number among my very favorite people. 🙂 )

When I was 14, I would wait patiently for the Ensign magazine to arrive in the mail, just a few weeks after the Mormon General Conference. I was taught in Church to pray and fast before the semi-annual satellite broadcast, in which the prophets and apostles would give inspired addresses to Church members around the world, in order to prepare myself for messages that God had for me to help me in my needs. When the magazine arrived, I had the chance to scour their words in print, searching for the answers I so desperately needed.

I remember flipping through the Ensign to the back, where I could look in the index for topics covered in the ten hours worth of talks, and then I could flip to the page I needed. Some points were frequently referenced, like Atonement and Sacrifice and Temple Marriage. Never anything on homosexuality or being gay, never anything about how to finally cure the condition I was plagued. There were always words about how to be better, be stronger, be more dedicated to God, but never how to free myself from the malady of being same-sex attracted, that deadly curse I had been both with and could tell no one about.

Many of my journal entries from this time are self-flagellations, deep and abiding shame over my inability to cure myself, scathing self-directed declarations of shame. I would sometimes look in the mirror, right into my own eyes, and see someone so weak, and just hate myself. And then I would drop to my knees at the side of my bed and just beg God to cure me, prayers of deep shame and unworthiness. I would often fall asleep with tear stains on the pillow.

I look back on this version of myself now with such compassion and understanding. I see my teenage self as courageous, earnest, seeking, passionate, talented, and powerful, not as weak and broken and afflicted as he so often felt back then. I see my life so clearly now.

Instead of a broken child, I see a young man who grew up believing he was a sinner simply for being gay. I look at someone who grew very accustomed to hiding himself from others, so effectively that he didn’t kiss someone of the opposite sex until he was 27 years old, and he didn’t kiss someone of the same sex until he was 32. It breaks my heart to think of the words that he used in his journal back then to describe himself: broken shattered sinner crooked selfish unworthy abomination and beyond repair.

I’m now 38 years old, and the world is very different. Gay marriage is legal, and even the Mormon leaders now talk about being homosexual, generally with compassion and at least partial understanding. There are Church organizations dedicated to LGBT Mormons, and secret Internet groups that allow people to talk to others like them without being exposed to family and friends. I sometimes forget where I came from, and tend to believe that there is no one out there who struggles now in the way that I did then.

I met a young man recently from a small Utah town. He is God-fearing, a good careful Mormon boy, and in a lot of pain. When I asked him what was wrong, he looked down at the ground, his face painted with shame, and he explained that he suffers from ‘same-sex attraction disorder’. He said he couldn’t tell his family, and that he believed that if he tries hard enough, he hopes that he will be able to ‘fix’ his ‘illness’, to marry a girl in the temple and have children and be a forever family.

I cried with this young man, and felt grateful that he could confide in me. I validated his pain, and told him that I knew exactly how he feels. I looked him right in the eyes and told him that he isn’t broken, that he isn’t ill, that he isn’t cursed, and he may not have believed me then but he knew that I believed what I said. I told him that God loved him and wanted him to love himself. I told him that he could have a happy life, and that he didn’t have to go through life seeking a cure for something that isn’t wrong in the first place. I shared part of my own story and I assured him that after all those years, now I like myself, I celebrate myself, and I’m surrounded by people that love and celebrate me as well. I told him that life is beautiful, though not without pain, and that every day is worth living.

That young man was frightened of the word gay. To him, it signified all those parts of himself that he was ashamed of. It carried the weight of hell and fear and pain and failure. He instead chose to use same-sex attraction disorder to describe himself, an acronym that ironically comes out to be SAD. The word disorder itself implying illness, malady, and, in essence, the phrase not like us.

I sometimes forget my own origins and the work it took to get here. I’m so accustomed to living happily that I forget the years of misery, and the extreme pain I had to pass through to achieve peace.

And so for myself, for for this young man and all those in the world like him,  I must say these words from time to time. I say them loud and proud and strong and with clarity and understanding and peace.

Being gay is not a choice. It’s not a condition, a maladjustment, or a disorder. It is a sexual orientation every bit as viable as bisexual or heterosexual is. It isn’t a label or a classification. It is a word that I own because it sets me apart from others and from my past self, and it allows me to celebrate myself and the person I am, the same person I spent so long being ashamed of. In matters of spirituality and religion and family and job and future, all of those things sort themselves out, but no one who is ashamed of themselves can be truly happy or authentic, and I refuse to surround myself with anyone who sees me as less than or expects me to be ashamed of myself.

I was created to be exactly who I am, and I celebrate that creation. I live, and I live happily and well. And every once in a while, I go inwardly and clear out the cobwebs and give that younger version of myself one giant hug and whisper to him to just wait, everything one day is going to be just fine.

I stepped off the Disney ship and into the Bahamas, expecting the assembly of aggressive island salesman that assault tourists at any port.

“Hi there, handsome, what you need? Hat, sunglasses, jacket, hand-carved toys for the kiddies?”

“Hey, brother, come and get some island special!”

“American! I have a drink for you!”

“Get ya hair braided here! Four dollars per inch!”

“Taxi or cab, taxi or cab, ride to Atlantis four dollars! You want taxi to beach!”

I kept my eyes averted, knowing that any eye contact or conversation would lead to further attempts at sales. I saw a may eye my wallet pocket, and then give me a grin, filled with missing teeth, when he saw me notice. When a small girl, only seven, called me ‘handsome American’ and invited me to her family booth, I walked more quickly away, feeling sad and overwhelmed.

I walked briefly through the Straw Market, where dozens of women sold homemade wares in a building cooled only by high-powered fans. They each sat in hardback chairs, fanning themselves, attempting to engage me as I walked by. The whole place was a rather sad version of Pike Market in Seattle, and I wondered what the daily life for these women was, working back-breaking hours at this small market to rent spaces.

I walked up the streets of Nassau quickly and evenly, passing through the westernized commercial district, where I saw McDonalds and Burger King among the bars, tattoo shops, liquor shops, and souvenir shops. I walked through the more historic district, where a statue of the first Queen Elizabeth stood in an unkempt courtyard; past the Supreme Court of the Bahamas, a small building with bright pink walls; and past a sex education clinic with two large billboards, one reading “Abstain or Condomize” and another that announced “Protect Ya Tings!” Thinking back to the man eyeing my wallet, I slid a hand in my pocket protectively and thought that sign had good advice.

Around another corner, I came across another court building, this one emblazoned with a large plaque of the Coat of Arms of the Bahamas. I was struck by the detailed artistic image, and baffled by its complexities and bizarre imagery. A budding flower surrounded by palm fronds seemingly grew out of a conch shell across the top, and the shell, itself blooming blue and orange blossoms or ribbons, sat atop a shield divided in two, the top half showing a bold and brilliant sun and the bottom half showing an old English ship, meant to represent the famous Columbus ship the Santa Maria, on the ocean. The shield pierced the ground in two, one side of it ocean and the other side land, and banners reading the words “Forward, Onward, Upward Together”. Most striking, and most strange, were the two animals on either side holding up the shield, a Marlin, standing on its tail on the ocean’s surface, and a Flamingo, one leg raised appropriately, the other securely on the ground.

With a bit of research and conversation, I learned a bit more about the Bahamas themselves. A chain of literally hundreds of islands with a population of nearly 400,000. The Bahamas had been populated by Native people for hundreds of years before Columbus landed in 1492 on the island of Guanahani. He promptly renamed it San Salvador Island, took over the “savage” people, and populated the island and those nearby with white settlers and African slaves, who could plunder the wealth of the islands for its new conquerors. The forests were chopped down, the sea life depleted, and the white man’s government was set up, passing from country to country until England took over. The capital city of Nassau (a frequent staging base for pirates) was set up as the seat of government, and established on New Providence Island. The following centuries were full of political strife, involvement in World Wars, and governmental growth until the Bahamas became its own nation a mere five decades ago.

Later in the day, with my sons and a few family members, I took a bus tour of Nassau, and listened to the driver recite historical facts as we drove through streets. I wondered what daily life here would be like, in a city that clearly struggles with poverty. I saw farms in backyards full of broken down cars, busted windows, exhausted looking elderly people sitting on dilapidated porches. The driver discussed the layout of the islands and travel between them, how 85 per cent of the locals are directly descended from the African slaves brought to the islands by Columbus and his men, and the pride the people put into their government. He discussed how the island had been ravaged by hurricanes, and how it took years to recover after each one.

The driver high-lighted the flying Bahamas flag, a simple image, like any flag, with so much symbolic meaning. He stated that the black triangle represented the people and their strength they carried, the gold stripe represented sand and sun, and the aquamarine fields represented the ocean around them.

As the bus pulled into the dock, and I prepared to board the ship again, I held my sons close in to me. We talked about life in other countries and history and my brain was filled with profound thoughts I needed to get on to paper soon. One of my sons guzzled half a bottle of water while the other leaned in and whispered, “I love you, daddy.”

I grinned as we got off the bus, their hands in mine, and thought, “Protect Ya Tings!” once again.

If, on January 1st of 2016, I had had a chance to look ahead in a crystal ball and see the events of the coming year in my personal life, I think I would have withered in fear and amazement.

2016 was powerful and defining, and devastating and painful. It taught me some of my harshest lessons and brought me some of my greatest pains, and it gave me tremendous resolve and drive, freeing me from shackles and opening me up to new horizons.

In 2016, I learned a powerful lesson about failure when a professional venture I put a lot of personal stock into failed for a handful of variable reasons. I learned how to pick myself back up, be smart about goal achievement, and plan accordingly, a lesson that anyone who wants to succeed must learn. I learned about the importance of consistency, and about slow and steady growth over time. I learned about doing what you love because you love it first and foremost.

In 2016, my best friend Kurt was tragically killed in a car accident at the peak of his happiness. From him, I learned about reaching out to others, about practicality, about passion, about seizing the day, about planning and achieving, and about self-acceptance. I learned about grief, pain, love, and loss.

In 2016, I saw all of my personal values, most related to social justice, brought to the forefront of the political spectrum and the national consciousness. I spent months outraged over the election, and then weeks afterwards devastated over the results. I learned the skills of perseverance, of rebounding after setbacks, of activism, and of clarity to the world around me.

In 2016, I also saw a tremendous amount of personal gains. I got completely out of debt and made solid financial goals for the next several years, something I’ve been unable to do in years prior. I spent months researching ideas for a book, and I’m seeing my hard work come to fruition in the coming months. I’ve put in steady work at the gym and have lost 15 pounds and lowered my body fat percentage by nearly 10 per cent. I’ve improved my nutrition and sleep habits, my self-care skills, and my own inner peace and balance through meditation and writing.

In 2016, I travelled. I started the year in Palm Springs with a wonderful friend I was dating at the time. I healed and mended on the streets of Los Angeles. I wrote and researched in Las Vegas. I walked miles through New England with my sister Sheri, and then embarked on incredible adventures in New York City. I found undiscovered secrets in small Utah towns. And I took a wonderfully contemplative trip to Washington DC, where I was inspired by history and reconnected with old friends.

In 2016, I read the biographies of powerful people, I watched piles of old movies, I created memories with old friends and new friends, and I found my inner sense of independence and strength as I set and achieved impossible goals, always firmly grounded on the present and with my eye to the future.

And as always, my greatest measure of success and happiness lies with my children. My sons turned 8 and 5 this year, and they started 2nd grade and kindergarten respectively. They are strong. They are bright and imaginative and prolific. They are confident. They listen to their hearts and share of themselves. They play, and embrace the world, and love with their entire beings. And it is in their eyes that I can see I’m living right and doing well.

And so I begin 2017 with a look out at the bright world around me. I have a pen and notebook in one hand, marked out with a list of goals, and I have a walking stick in the other. I have my good suit on, my walking shoes tightly tied, and my eyes on the horizon, ready for an entire world of possibilities ahead.