🎂 58 Years, A Birthday of Truths

Yesterday marked my 58th birthday. A day that should have been filled with laughter, cake, and celebration—but instead, it unfolded as a quiet reckoning. A moment where joy and sorrow sat side by side, each demanding to be felt.

Here’s what I discovered:

I’m getting older. The beard is greyer, the wrinkles are deeper, and the mirror doesn’t lie.
I’m three years away from my next colonoscopy—a reminder that time marches on, whether we’re ready or not.
I may never hear from my daughter again.

That last one cuts the deepest.

As a gay dad, this story is heartbreakingly familiar. Too many of us come out later in life, hoping for understanding, only to be met with silence. Some children can’t reconcile who we are with who they thought we were. And so, they disappear. No calls. No texts. No birthday wishes. Just absence.

I’ve felt this ache before. After my son died, there was a pain in my gut that never fully left. It resurfaces on days like this—birthdays, anniversaries, holidays. But this year felt different. There was hope. A fragile, flickering hope that maybe, just maybe, I’d get a message. A simple “Happy Birthday, Dad.” But as the hours passed, that hope dimmed. And the silence grew louder.

It’s hard to celebrate when your heart is heavy. The people around you may not understand the weight you carry. They see the balloons, the smiles, the toast—but they don’t see the grief tucked behind your eyes. And even if they do, they may not know how to help. Because there’s no magic wand for this kind of pain. No quick fix. Just the quiet truth that some wounds don’t heal—they just become part of you.

I think about other parents—those whose children are missing, or taken hostage in places like Israel and Gaza. The not-knowing. The unbearable uncertainty. The way joy feels like betrayal when your heart is still searching. You want to celebrate, but you also want to honor the ache. And sometimes, you don’t know how to do either.

This year, I honored my son by purchasing a bracelet. It’s simple, but sacred. I wear it on days that were special to him, and to me. It’s a symbol of remembrance, of love, of connection that transcends absence. Maybe it’s time I do the same for my daughter. A quiet signal to those who know me: when you see this bracelet, know that I’m reflecting. Know that I’m celebrating and grieving, all at once.

Maybe I should speak these feelings aloud more often. Maybe I shouldn’t have to. I don’t know. But I do know this: I’ve started channeling my love toward those who are present. My partner’s children. My chosen family. The people who show up. Because love doesn’t disappear—it just finds new places to land.

I write these posts because I care. Because there are gay dads out there who feel this same ache. Who celebrate in silence. Who grieve in the shadows. And I want you to know—you’re not alone.

We are still worthy of joy. Still capable of love. Still deserving of celebration.

Even when the silence is deafening.

Channeling my inner #TrevorLawrence

Thirty seconds left. First and goal. The Jacksonville Jaguars are just three yards from victory, and quarterback Trevor Lawrence is on the brink of one of the biggest wins of his career. The stadium is electric. The snap comes—Trevor takes the ball—and then chaos. His own teammate accidentally steps on his foot. He crashes to the turf.

But here’s the thing: he doesn’t panic. He knows he still has time. Three more downs. Twenty-five seconds. He tries to get up—falls again. And then, in a moment that feels ripped from a movie script, he rises. He dodges defenders, scrambles toward the end zone, and dives in for the touchdown. It’s raw grit. It’s heart. It’s the kind of play that makes you believe in something bigger.

If you haven’t seen it, stop what you’re doing and watch it here. Trust me—it’s worth it.

🌈 The Wake-Up Call I Didn’t Expect

Over the past few months, I’ve found myself in situations that feel eerily similar to Trevor’s scramble. Life has thrown me off balance more than once lately, and each time I’ve hit the ground, I’ve had to decide: do I stay down and regroup, or do I get up and run?

As a gay dad, I’ve watched our rights slowly erode. It’s not just the legal battles—it’s the quiet fear that creeps in when I walk down the street, wondering if I’m safe. That sense of needing to look over my shoulder? It’s exhausting. And it’s infuriating.

In the past, I’ve responded to setbacks with strategy—resetting, planning, waiting for the right moment. But now? That moment is here. It’s time to channel my inner Trevor Lawrence. No more waiting. No more playing it safe.

🏳️‍🌈 Time to Run Toward the End Zone

We’re being knocked down by bans on rainbow sidewalks. By laws that strip rights from our transgender family. By threats to marriage equality. By policies that deport immigrants without due process. These aren’t just political issues—they’re personal. They’re human.

So here’s my call to action: Get up. Run. Dodge every tackle. Push through every barrier. We don’t need perfect plans—we need relentless courage. We need to fight for the rights of every person who’s been told they don’t belong.

💥 Final Thoughts: The Game Isn’t Over

Trevor’s touchdown wasn’t just a sports moment—it was a metaphor. For resilience. For urgency. For refusing to let setbacks define the outcome. And right now, in this moment, we are all Trevor Lawrence. We’ve been knocked down. But we’re not out.

So let’s rise. Let’s run. Let’s fight like hell for the win—not just for ourselves, but for every person who deserves to live with dignity, safety, and love. The clock is ticking. The end zone is in sight. Game on.

Breaking the Silence: Grief, Identity, and the Journey to Self-Acceptance

A few weeks ago marked the 29th anniversary of my son’s death. He was just an infant when he passed, but the impact of that loss has echoed through every chapter of my life. For years, I carried a weight that no parent should bear—the belief that I was responsible for his death.

On the day he died, I tried to perform CPR. I wasn’t successful. That moment haunted me for the next 17 years. I convinced myself that his death was a punishment from God for being gay—a truth I hadn’t yet shared with anyone. The guilt was relentless, and the shame unbearable.

One of the most painful triggers came unexpectedly. A year ago, I was helping set up a CPR class at work. Everything was fine until I saw the baby mannequins. In an instant, I was transported back to that traumatic day. The grief surged, raw and unfiltered.

It wasn’t until I came out in 2012 that I began to confront the layers of pain I had buried. I started seeing a therapist—something that was stigmatized in the community I grew up in, especially if the therapist wasn’t affiliated with a church. But I knew I needed help, and I was fortunate to have insurance that made therapy accessible. Those sessions became a lifeline.

Through therapy, I learned that I did not cause my son’s death. I began to unravel the guilt, the shame, and the internalized fear that had kept me closeted for so long. I had spent years imagining a devil and an angel on my shoulders, each whispering conflicting messages. After my son died, people told me he might have lived if I had prayed more. Those words cut deep and forced me to reevaluate the role religion played in my life.

The grief was overwhelming. I would visit his grave and sob uncontrollably. Sometimes, I found myself in very dark places. Before coming out, I struggled with how to reconcile my identity with the expectations of my family, friends, and community. I even contemplated ending my life to avoid the shame I feared would come with being honest about who I was.

But eventually, I chose to live authentically. Some called it selfish—that I prioritized myself over my marriage and daughter. But I knew that hiding any longer would destroy me. Coming out was not just about claiming my identity—it was about reclaiming my life.

Therapy helped me understand that God loves me as I am—not as someone molded to fit a congregation’s idea of a man. I learned to process my anger, to embrace self-care, and to forgive myself. The phrase “self care is health care” became more than a slogan—it became a truth I lived by.

I share this story now because I know I’m not alone. If you’re carrying guilt, shame, or fear—please know it’s okay to put yourself first. It’s okay to seek help. It’s okay to be true to who you are. Don’t wait 17 years like I did. You are worthy of love, healing, and peace.

I haven’t shared this story widely before. But today, I choose to be part of the movement to break the stigma. I choose to be #exposingdad—not for attention, but to encourage others to speak their truth and seek healing.

Thank you for letting me share mine.

#exposingdad is #multilayered

In 2012, I made a life-changing decision that would forever alter the course of my life. After nearly 22 years of marriage to a woman, I finally declared my truth: I am a gay man. This declaration was not made lightly; it came after years of deep deliberation, battling depression, and enduring thoughts of suicide. I knew this decision would be monumental, but I could never have anticipated the profound impact it would have on my life.

Before coming out, I was consumed by fear. I feared losing my family, my friends, my job, and my pride. And while some of those fears did materialize, I stand here today, stronger both mentally and physically than I ever was before.

I have much to share and contribute, but for now, I want to tell you about myself and my past. I have two children: one who is currently 24 and another who, had they lived, would be 29 today. My 24-year-old has not responded to any of my calls, texts, emails, or letters for the past five years. I know a bit about their life, including their occupation and where they live, but short of showing up unannounced and causing an uncomfortable situation, I respect their decision to keep their distance. I understand why they might be upset with me; my coming out undoubtedly affected their childhood, as they were only 12 at the time. However, it pains me that they have also cut off my entire side of the family, including their supportive grandparents who were there for them during difficult times.

One lesson I’ve learned since coming out is to avoid jumping to conclusions and never assume anything without proof (and no, Facebook and TikTok are not reliable sources). But with no contact, I can only speculate about their reasons. As you get to know me better, you’ll learn more about this situation.

From birth until I was 13, I grew up in a metropolitan area. Then, my family moved to a rural area where I completed my schooling before attending The Ohio State University. During my childhood, we attended church regularly, and I was deeply involved in youth activities and choirs. In the 70s and 80s, I rarely encountered peers with divorced parents, and I didn’t meet anyone openly gay. I now realize that many hid their true selves due to fear of backlash from their communities.

After college, I became deeply involved in Christian ministries, planning events and marketing religious musical artists. I worked with organizations that are now considered hate groups due to their intolerance and hatred toward anyone different from themselves. Back then, it was preached that I should marry someone of the opposite sex and that divorce was not an option. I knew I was gay from a very young age, but I believed that religion would be the “cure.” I tried to “pray the gay away” multiple times, but it ultimately led me to my eventual decision.

“Why are you sharing this information with the public right now? Don’t you think it would be better for all people involved that you keep this to yourself?” These questions have plagued my thoughts for years and I believe that we live in a time where people of all genders still do not feel comfortable in sharing their own feelings and are still living their lives and not being their authentic selves. Within the first 6 months of coming out in 2012, I had multiple people contact me about my decision. I remember one in particular that stated, “I’m in the same situation as you. Can we talk?” At the time, I was dealing with a divorce, job discrimination, and trying to build my life again after friends and family deserted me. I’ll always regret not taking the opportunity to discuss my journey to help them. So I guess this is my time to help others that I could have helped previously.

As I begin this journey to tell my story and advocate for others who are struggling, I ask for your comments and feelings on these discussions. Even after 13 years of being out, I still have a lot to learn about others and the situations that arise when coming out in this nation that currently is trying to silence our voices. I only ask that as you comment, think before you respond. Learn from others. Don’t be hard on yourself for past decisions and mistakes you may have made (you can always learn from them). I will not accept posts that are hateful. Opinions are fine, threats of violence are not. “Exposing Dad” is about a gay man exposing his soul and his life in hopes that others may learn more about themselves and others.