I’m sitting in my living room with the sun beaming through the corner windows, filled with joy and confidence. Tomorrow I’m going in for “top surgery” (more technically, a double mastectomy as a form of gender-affirming healthcare to treat dysphoria) – and I could not be more excited! Processing with my therapist this morning, I had tears streaming down my face. I was thinking about baby Kelly. The little me who wanted so desperately to fit in and be the little girl everyone expected me to be. The little me who could barely admit all the stress and pressure in her body to herself, let alone speak it out loud. The little me who had no idea this life, this joy would be possible. I just kept saying, “every step of this identity journey is such a gift.” At the end of my session, my therapist thanked me for inviting her into this sacred space with me.

And that’s exactly what this is – sacred space. To be on the journey of discovering yourself. To be curious and not judgmental about what feels right, what feels good, what brings out the best in you. To feel confidence and joy in a way you never thought possible. For me, I can’t help but feel God in this process. It’s like I can hear the Divine saying, “that’s right; this feeling is what I’ve always meant for you.” Identity work is so, so sacred.

I felt the sacred at work as friends have checked in with excitement this week, sending encouragement and asking how they can support me and my family as we approach this significant step. I felt the sacred at work as my surgeon shared her excitement for my surgery at our pre-op appointment. I felt the sacred at work as I ask for help in recovery and am met by an abundance of support. I felt that holy at work as I put on my binder for the last time this morning, gleefully awaiting the weight to be lifted from my chest.

I can’t lie and say this whole process has been smooth. Not everyone has responded with kindness or understanding. I faced transphobic comments, providers, and processes going through the nearly year-long, grueling slog of getting this surgery approved and scheduled. I had a lot of struggles, feeling that this was selfish or too much – that I was selfish or too much. Maybe I should be smaller. Maybe my needs don’t matter. Maybe comfort and confidence weren’t meant for me.

But, in the end, in this time where it feels like hatred and hurt prevail, in a world that is more broken and less loving, I refuse to accept that is the end of the story. The bumps and challenges along the way don’t get the final say. My faith has affirmed that for me time and time again.

So I’m sharing my story because joy is not meant to be a crumb. May we all have the radiance of a trans person getting the care they need as we continue the messy but beautiful work of life and faith together. Keep exploring that sacred space, dear friends.

The last day in a binder is the best day in a binder 🙂

Last week, I had the chance to hang out with one of my favorite artists, Scott Erickson. While talking about art and spirituality and becoming, Scott said “but thank God we didn’t become the person we thought we wanted to be but are becoming a person we never saw coming.” That quote has never felt more true than in this season of my life.

For quite a long while now, I’ve been really uncomfortable in my own body. I wanted to ignore it (with everything in me). And I did. Until I couldn’t. So, with some intentional time to feel all I needed to feel and explore what I needed to explore, along with support from Katie and a really great therapist, I’ve finally figured out that I’m non-binary. 

To me, it’s like your whole life you wore shoes two sizes too small. Wearing shoes, then, wouldn’t be particularly comfortable, but it’s something you know you have to do to be outside, to connect with people, to live fully. And everyone’s a little uncomfortable in shoes sometimes, sure. But without knowing your pair is just too small and there’s something that would fit better, you can fall into the trap thinking this is how it has to be. 

This is what gender dysphoria feels like for me. Mildly subtle in some ways. Crushingly constant in others. Sarah McBride describes it like homesickness, such a deep longing for somewhere you’re not until you finally get to where you belong. Or Elliot Page describes it like an untangling, especially as he came out as queer and only later discovered he was trans. No matter how you describe it or if you understand it or not, this is something I realize I’ve tried to balance my whole life. 

As Amelia was making her way into the world, I was met with an abrupt sense of shifting, unveiling, and transformation. Setting aside the feeling that this was inconvenient or somehow selfish, what I felt most was responsibility. I need to live fully and freely, not just for myself but also as a model for my daughter (see cute picture of this incredible baby at the end). 

So that’s what I’m trying to do. Owning my trans identity has been a rollercoaster. Completely liberating at one moment and painfully vulnerable the next. I wanted to have answers for why I felt this way, how I didn’t realize it sooner, and what it all means. But instead of a flood of answers, I kept thinking about the Ethiopian eunuch in Acts 8. This is someone who is decidedly queer, pushed out of society because of the short-sighted nature of others. And what do they do? They dedicate their life to finding God anyway. And when a holy moment arrives, they ask to be baptized. And it’s that freedom, relishing in the love of God, that shifts their whole life and encourages them to share the good news in a totally different way than the world has ever seen. Just as God used the Ethiopian Eunuch, I felt God calling me- to something new, something important. I knew I couldn’t ignore this part of me that God created and called good. 

What does this mean for me? I now use they/them pronouns. I’m still proud to be Katie’s spouse, Amelia’s parent, Zach’s best friend, Renee and Jeff’s child, Natalie and Nathan’s sibling, Newport’s pastor, and above all else a beloved child of God. I’m the same person, just a little more me now (a great phrase I picked up from this cool song by another non-binary person that’s meant a lot to me in this transition).

What am I looking for from you? Rest assured you don’t have to have it all figured out or be perfect from this moment forward. I’m asking for respect and accompaniment. Most importantly I’m asking for honesty. Will you support me? Will you affirm me? 

I’ll be honest I’ve been pretty scared to share this. While this journey is beautiful and magical and healthy in more ways than I can tell you, it’s still hard to share “this is who I am” and not know what I’ll receive in return. But as I’ve wrestled and grown (work that will never be “completed”), I’ve felt a strong call to share my story. When I came out as queer 7 years ago, I was blown away by the countless comments I got. “I needed to hear this.” “I thought I was the only one.” “I didn’t realize I could be gay and Christian.” “Seeing your story has brought me hope in a way I wasn’t sure was possible.” The list goes on. So as I’m navigating this transition (and so many others – shoutout to all the new parents out there), I’m seeing in a new way how my identity is a significant part of my calling. I have a story to share that just might help someone else out there. Being my fullest self is the best way I can love the world around me – and the same is true for you! So here’s my prayer for right now: may we all make the world a better place by leaning in to all of who we can be.

It had already been just a bonkers, backwards day. It took 40 minutes to get the loaner car to drop off our newly purchased car to have a few things fixed. I got to work and the power immediately went off, meaning I had to do my 2 hour zoom interview about preaching from my phone, which drained my battery to 2%. I used my low battery to then write down directions (like it’s 2009 or something) to the bank meeting I had to go to (which, by the way, I didn’t even need to go to, they were just trying to sell us on more accounts).

So all of this fun adventure of a day to find myself in a random McDonald’s to get some lunch at like 3pm (since I couldn’t warm up my lunch in the office with no power) and charge my phone enough to get myself home. I find myself in a random McDonald’s at 3pm, right when the local middle school gets out *face palm. I tried to have patience for the middle school boys running around and yelling. I know what it’s like to be cooped up all day in a classroom, learning about Pythagorean theorem or photosynthesis or whatever when all you want to do is play with your friends. When they approached me the first time, I tried to be polite. I could hear their whispers about betting each other who could get this bitch in the tie, whoever he/she thinks she is, to say hi to them first. But I tried to be polite. I just wanted some lunch and enough battery to get home.

My patience ran out and my fear took over when those boys followed me to my table. My patience ran out and my fear took over when they started to collect trash. My patience ran out and my fear took over when they ripped a plastic sign off the order kiosk and threw it at me, laughing and shouting indiscernible slurs that I knew I did not want to hear. My patience ran out and my fear took over, when all I wanted was lunch and a power outlet.

Getting back to my loaner car, I was shaking. All I could think about was Nex Benedict. All I could think about was the 400+ anti-LGBTQ+ bills that have already been passed this year in the US. All I could think about was how my existence, my presence, my appearance, my marriage, my vocation is more often a bullet point of debate than it is a beautiful reality in a diverse world.

I’m still very much in recovery, trying to be gentle and take good care – of myself and those around me. I’ve been having nightmares most nights since. Nightmares I haven’t even told Katie about because it just makes me sad and scared. Nightmares of being stuck in places that have hurt me. Nightmares with those who have yelled (yes, yelled) at me that I’m living in sin, their voices so loud it wakes me up in a panic. Nightmares of reaching out while I’m trapped or drowning or injured and people scoff as they walk by, not doing a damn thing to help. I’m trying to be gentle and take good care of myself and those around me. But it’s hard.

My therapist this week affirmed it’s good to prioritize slowness and gentleness right now.

She also encouraged me to not let this situation take away my voice.

So with all the atrocities in our world, in our country, in our own lives, I have a strange hope. A strange hope that we still have a power in our voices, and that cannot be taken away.

So

Vote. Care. Speak. Move. Dream.

Our world needs you and your voice.

I can distinctly remember Feb. 1, 2023. I had convinced myself the call couldn’t come tonight. There hadn’t been enough time for reflection and discernment. Really, I was telling myself there hadn’t been enough time for them to call and offer the position to the other candidate. After all, that had happened 8 times before. When the text came through, “Kelly, this is Dori from Newport Presbyterian Church. Do you have a moment for a call?” I froze. I came upstairs to interrupt Katie’s weekly call with her best friend completely stunned. “They want to call me tonight,” I told Katie. “You should probably respond so they know they can call you tonight, yeah?” Katie kindly offered (as she is the hopeful and helpful one more often in our marriage). Moments later, I sat there, holding Katie’s hand, crying, as a speaker phone chorus shared they would like me to be their pastor. One year later and it still brings tears to my eyes. I can’t believe they elected me for this job. They chose me for this messy, beautiful, creative, sacred job. One year later, they still allow me to do this job.

And while I think some of that shock and humility is important, dare I say necessary, to do a job like this well, I sit here one year later trying to reconcile why more often I still feel like the Kelly of January 31, 2023 – waiting for the other shoe to drop, expecting the worst, doubting I’m any good. I still come up with backup plans for in case this doesn’t work out or in case they don’t want me anymore. I still have to choose to trust that my writing, my sermons, my prayers, my presence is good enough because my brain is screaming that it’s not. And these thoughts aren’t just at work, though it’s an easy metaphor on an anniversary like today. My body and brain feel trained to live in a fight or flight response because of course my relationships, my housing situation, my bank account, my (insert countless worries here) won’t be this stable for long. I imagine I’m not the only one. And, news flash, this painfully serious self doubt isn’t doing any of us any good.

So this is my public pledge (a month late into the start of the new year because life is busy) for 2024:

I want to nurture goodness this year.
I want to nurture joy and play and delight.
I want to nurture health. And not just the “I want lose weight so I can stand seeing pictures of myself” kind of health. Real health – in body, mind, and spirit. With therapy and walks and vegetables.
I want to nurture community because goodness knows we can’t do this by ourselves.
I want to nurture balance – in work and life, in excitement and patience, in almost but not yet.
I want to nurture laughter.
I want to nurture light.
I want to nurture love.
I want to nurture.

Because the things that grow, the things that prevail, the things that make us who we are – are the things that we nurture.

So I could come home on Sunday afternoon and beat myself up for giving possible the worst and most incoherent sermon I’ve written in year. I could rebuke myself for once again not saving the energy or making the time to go on a walk. I could push myself to do chores even though I’ve been violently ill for two weeks because I tell myself I’m not contributing enough. (Not that I did these things and had to reframe it later or anything…) But, that’s not very nurturing to myself. Or to the people around me.

Instead, I can write a blog, just for me, for the first time in almost a year. I can read that book I keep bringing with me everywhere but not making time to read. I can take that nap, watch that extra episode of The Office, or whatever else I need. Because that’s the kind of person / pastor / wife / neighbor / mom I want to be. And there’s no time like now to reflect on the goodness and truth that has been here all along *see the picture including with this post* and nurture more of that for the sake of our future selves.

Ash Wednesday in the hospital is a humbling experience. Touching the face of a dying person and telling them they are dust.   Smudging ash on the hand of someone waiting to see if their loved one will ever wake up again. Reminding nurses and doctors and custodians that their presence is sacred. Watching the ash cover my hands and bury under my fingernails with every encounter.  Remember that we are dust and to dust we shall return. 

Ash Wednesday in our world is a humbling balance. On the one hand, God made Adam out of the dust and breathed into him the breath of life to be a steward of creation. As Rachel Held Evans beautifully wrote, this season celebrates reality and tells us we are not alone. On the other hand, our world reminds us of our mortality and brokenness. 685 million Covid deaths around the world, 71 mass shootings in the US in 2023, at least 853 deaths of migrants at US borders in 2022, a record 6542 guns confiscated in US airport security, 22 states targeting gender-affirming healthcare – the list goes on. Even social media feeds, phone calls with friends, conversations with check out clerks, passing moments with strangers affirm things are not as they ought to be. Remember that we are dust (stunning creation) and to dust we shall return (scary reality). 

Ash Wednesday in every time and place is a humbling opportunity. In this time where I am surrounded by death, grief, and pain every day as I show up to the hospital, I’ve been leaning heavily on Mr. Rogers’s famous advice to look for the helpers. “When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news,” Rogers said to his television neighbors, “my mother would say to me, ‘Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.’” Notice how he doesn’t say hide your emotions or pretend like nothing’s wrong. When we see scary things (and we will see scary things), look for the helpers. It can be trite and sometimes outright frustrating, but I also believe it’s true. Yes, we are dust and to dust we will return. And in the meantime, between that beginning and that end, we have an ability to help. Hold the door. Say hello. See if they need help with those groceries. Play peek-a-boo with the kid on the other side of the fish tank in the waiting room. Check in on the folks who are always checking in on others. By this, I believe and I hope that we can hold together the lightness of God’s delightful creation of and intention for humanity and the heaviness of the reality of death, too – this day and all days. In our helping, in our wandering, in our wrestling, remember friends: we are dust, and to dust we shall return. Perhaps that is enough.

Recently, I’ve had this song stuck in my head. I love and relate so deeply to the lyrics. A significant part of my coming out journey has been more than just acknowledging who and how I love, but also how I understand my identity as a queer lady with more “masculine” gender expression. I’m a whole different girl than when my prom dress fit. I have zero desire to look or be like I was in high school. My body plays my guitar and that’s perfect for me. The bridge in particular is so powerful:

Oh, and nobody turns 95 and wishes that they’d bodychecked
Nobody looks back on life and wishes that they’d been more stressed
And nobody eats birthday cake and wishes they’d enjoyed it less
And nobody gives a shit if you rip up an old prom dress

But more importantly, this song has been a source of comfort and hope as I enter month 13 of searching for a pastoral call. For the sake of my sanity, I have not kept track of churches I’ve reach out to, interviews I’ve had, or sermons I’ve shared. Nevertheless, the number of times I’ve heard you were a strong second choice and we’ll be in touch (but actually we’re ghosting you) adds up as a slowly crushing weight, causing so much self doubt and systemic distrust that I rarely know which way is up anymore.

And then I heard this song. I have so desperately needed this song. I don’t get to control much. But, the agency I have is to thank God when things don’t fit. My trust in God tells me to thank God when things don’t fit. My experience of God tells me to thank God when things don’t fit. My need from God is to be able thank God when things don’t fit. Regardless of if I know why or how much I would’ve liked to have known it wasn’t going to be a fit months before I discovered it wasn’t going to work out, I haven’t found my fit yet. I’ve found many not fits. But no right fit yet.

Of course, I’m hesitant to say the suffering was necessary – for those who are totally different people than they were when they were younger, for those who struggle to find ways to live out their calling, for those who are stuck in the almost but not yet. My personal theology fights against necessary violence and pain. But at least today, I am grateful to be familiar with how it feels when something doesn’t fit. All of the dresses I tried so hard to love for so many years. All of the makeup I could not get myself to use. All of the shame for not knowing the options I have to feel and be my best self. All of the church buildings, committee meetings, conference assemblies, presbytery gatherings where I was not validated or recognized as a human being. All of the times my gifts in life and in ministry were ignored. I know what it’s like for things not to fit.

So while I still wait for answers, wait for direction, wait for fair compensation and recognition of my gifts, I’m doing my best to thank God for what’s not fitting. I’m jamming to this song. I’m loving my wife and walking my dog. I’m applying again and again. And in my waiting, I pray others who are also waiting, struggling, questioning know they’re not alone. I pray we can all worry less and love more. I pray we can hold on until that right fit comes along. Because I do believe it’s coming. And until that day, I’ll thank God when things don’t fit.

Without fail, every time I’m at an airport, someone attempts to correct me about the restroom I’m trying to enter. It’s never kind. There’s never a moment for consideration before accusation. Just blatant allegations that I am a predator based on my appearance and my need to use the bathroom. I’ve had this experience with moms waiting in line with their kids, with men waiting for someone to come out, with old women, with young ladies fixing their make up in the mirror. The judgment and discrimination has no bounds. It just hurts. Every time. Even when I know it’s coming. So a little evening layover public service announcement: yes, it is good for you to be on the lookout for suspicious behavior. However, please take a moment before you start staking claims. I’m lucky I am secure in my identity, including my gender expression. But ignorance can do some serious damage.

I don’t use the restroom in airports anymore without Katie with me. I feel like a child, but I don’t want to risk threat just to relieve myself. Remember the humanity in others. Give folkx a chance. Take a breath for yourself and others.

The Bible reminds us to love one another, to forgive time and time again, to dust our feet off when we’re not welcome. Today I’m finding that challenging as all of my mental effort this week was preparing to help our foster kid travel on a plane for the first time, but the only issue we’ve had is people correcting where I go to the bathroom. I pray I can be gracious. But I also pray for the world to get better. If not for me, if not for us, do it for the kids who are watching and learning from everything we do.

It’s completely unexpected, but I’m living my best life right now. Carpooling with my wife to work where I help sweet kids with special needs all day, breathing well and breathing deeply for the first time in a long time. Doing what I can to receive what life has to OFFER (2022’s resolution word).

Offering myself even when I feel like I have to contribute. That feeling was a lie from 2021 so I’m leaving it there. To be an offering, I, too, have to be open to what the world is offering back. A new job, a new place, a new friend, a new skill, a new perspective? I’m choosing to be open to the Spirit

Meanwhile, my favorite artist put out a new song. It’s a bop. Plus, I’m quite literally I’m living Ben Rector’s words –

I wake up with the sunrise
It does not look a thing like I thought that it would
I’ve been getting my steps in
And I sleep with my best friend
It’s the best that it has been in a long time
I’m living my best life