I’ve stumbled through more doors than I’ve walked confidently through. There were years of pretending to have it together while my insides argued like a dysfunctional town council — guilt in one corner, pride in the other, and a persistent committee of fear that kept proposing impossible rules. I learned to smile through sermons that felt like drills, nod through praise songs that sounded hollow, and sit through potlucks where everyone seemed to know the script except me.

Progress came in little rebellions: saying “no” to invitations that would have drained me dry, refusing to fast from my own voice, and quietly keeping the questions everyone else called disrespectful. I burned bridges and built fences and learned the difference between both. Some people labeled me difficult; I call it survival. I’ve had mentors who helped, leaders who hurt, and friends who disappeared like bad weather. I grieved what I thought was sacred and found out what actually was.

Getting this far wasn’t heroic. It was messy, stubborn, and sometimes painfully slow. It involved therapy, reading, tears at 3 a.m., clumsy apologies, and a stubborn sense that truth was worth more than approval. I still don’t have all the answers, but I’ve picked up pieces of my voice, a few reliable people, and enough courage to keep walking — even when the path looks like it was drawn by someone with a shaky hand and a wicked sense of humor.