I recently traveled to SF to give a talk at Agency School, “a gathering for people who want to learn how to take action” as it said on its landing page. This piece is a version of a talk that I gave there. The talk was inspired by Peter Limberger’s writings on high agency and wise agency.

The way I understand high agency is the ability to just do things. Someone who saw something they wanted to accomplish, decided to do it, took the necessary actions to get it done, and was successful. Many of the people we admire have this powerful trait. I felt this kind of agency down to my aching bones when I finished my first half marathon. “Wow, I just did that. I woke up this morning and ran 13 miles.”

But the danger Limberger points out is that high agency is only concerned with asking, how far can my agency take me? It doesn’t have time to ask: is this the right way I should be going?

Wise agency is concerned with that second, less efficient question: is all this work I’m doing the right thing for me to do? I was faced with answering this for myself as 2020 started, wondering if the ten plus years of agency towards being a full-time photographer was what I should keep doing. I was terrified it wasn’t true. My identity, livelihood, reputation, skill were wrapped up in this one pursuit that I didn’t feel excited about anymore. When the lockdown happened in the middle of March, I lost my entire business for that year. There was nothing left for me to do. All that agency had to sit still with what happened and listen to what was next.

During that time, there was a quote from Frederick Buechner that became a north star for me:

“The place God calls you to is the place where your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet.”

I couldn’t name it then, but what I needed was my agency to become wiser. And I wasn’t going to have it by searching and striving, but by listening. That place where my gladness and the world’s hunger meet is a place I’m called to. A call given by something or someone outside of myself.

Limberger traces this kind of attunement to the Taoists, the Stoics, and the early Christians. They all came to the same conclusion that wise action comes from alignment with what the Taoists called the Tao, the Stoics called Logos, the early Christians called God. The Christian wisdom tradition calls it synergeia, or cooperation with God.

In Matthew 6, Jesus gives this distinction its deepest grounding: what high agency and wise agency look like, what it looks like to be the second kind.

“When you pray, don’t be like hypocrites. They love to pray standing in the synagogues and on the street corners so that people will see them. I assure you, that’s the only reward they’ll get. But when you pray, go to your room, shut the door, and pray to your Father who is present in that secret place. Your Father who sees what you do in secret will reward you.”

The hypocrites he mentioned were the Pharisees, who were the religious elite of the time. And in Jewish society, where religious authority was the highest authority, that made them the most powerful, most influential people in their world. They were the most agentic. They were the most educated, most devoted, and everyone looked up to them.

And Jesus calls them hypocrites! That word in the original text literally means a mask. Like an actor wearing a mask to perform a role. I don’t think his accusation was just that they were duplicitous, like how we understand the word now. It was that they did all this hard work but they weren’t really being themselves. They had lost who they were and so their lives were just a performance, and the only thing that made it worth it was applause from the crowd. And that’s all they were rewarded with, nothing more. He’s saying don’t be like them because their lives are tragic.

Jesus says instead, go to your room, shut the door, pray in secret; the complete opposite of how the Pharisees were praying. The word for room meant the innermost room of a house, the one that was the most private space you had. But the people listening would have understood this inner room as more than just a physical space, but an interior one. The room of the heart. And God is the one waiting there.

Julian of Norwich, a 14th century English mystic, names reward this way:

“All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.
For I saw truly that before God created us, He loved us, which love was never lacking and never shall be.
In this love all our life is grounded, and in this love we are kept, and this love shall never be broken in us.
Therefore, when we fall into any distress or confusion, it is God’s will that we turn our eyes to Him gently, trusting that all shall be made whole, and all manner of thing shall be well.”

Love. That was her reward, and it’s also mine. A love that was there before I was created. A love that’s never lacking. A love that grounds my life and is never broken within me.

And when I go to that secret inner room, I turn to Him. Gently. Not performing, not hustling, not earning. I spent years doing just that, but all He asks is, “Be still and know that I am God.”

I think that surrender and receiving is what cooperation with God feels like, moment by moment. My desires, needs, and agency being met with, “Be still, turn your eyes to Me, accept my love and trust that all will be well.” And in that meeting, wisdom meets my agency through love and grace.

Later in Matthew 6, Jesus turns from secret prayer to freedom from fear about the future. He points to the birds and the lilies who don’t sow or reap or toil, but God feeds and provides for them. There was a lot of fear and worry in me in 2020 and the years that followed. So much was taken away from me, that I couldn’t see what my future was like. I wrote about this last year:

I think the lilies figured out something that’s taken me a long, long time to realize: their only focus is to be who they were created to be. Nothing more, nothing less. And their Creator, a good God, provides for them to keep being who they were created to be. This simple unfolding is held together by an all-powerful, all-loving God. And year after year, again and again, they blanket the field with their beautiful blossoms.

I had to take off a lot of masks before I could even find my inner room. In cooperation I hear His call to the place where my deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet. But I don’t think that place is somewhere static. I don’t think it can be found. Only unfolded.

I recently sat down and wrote out in as much specific, gritty detail the exact person I want to help with my coaching and facilitation practice. And like any piece of honest writing, parts of my story are in there. Actually a lot of my story is in here, along with stories of the people I’ve helped over the past 5 years.

The person I want to help lives in a city. Their pulse matches its rhythm and energy. The work they do is a big part of their identity. It’s probably the reason they moved to the city and the motivation behind why and how they move through the world.

They care about their work. They read books and listen to podcasts around productivity, purpose, and alignment because they want their work to be satisfying and meaningful. They want to feel aligned in what they do. They want to do better, to do more, to live a life of greater alignment and intention. They want things to be different than what they saw growing up.

They may have been raised in a conservative household or environment that prioritized safety over risk. Their view of the world was narrow because certainty was prized over mystery. They were raised within a rigid, mythic belief system; a framework of dualism that defined what was right and wrong, good and bad, us and them. They were given a map of life that had clear boundaries and expectations.

For some, they followed the rules perfectly and were accepted. For others, they couldn’t follow them at all and were shunned. For many, they learned to survive by creating a hollow, filtered version of themselves to fit the mold.

Being practical meant being responsible. Being creative meant being unserious.

They grew up feeling like they didn’t belong anywhere. So they became very skilled at filtering themselves and playing the part, and they became successful within those systems and reaped the external rewards of approval, money, and status. But now, as they approach their 30s or 40s, they are facing a crisis—a crisis of purpose: “What’s the point of all this?” and a crisis of desire: “Is this what I really want? What do I even want?” Their life has run away from them.

They are beginning to realize that much of what they built toward no longer holds meaning. They were raised to believe in a guarantee, a promise of safety and success if they followed the rules, but that promise has betrayed them. The world has changed too much for that promise to come true, and they have changed too much to even want it anymore. They feel bait and switched.

And while they want something different, they are still under the weight of the old programming. Layers of external expectations and internalized stories are crusting over their intuition and desires.

They were taught to distrust their inner strength and intuition. They learned that truth, beauty, and goodness existed outside of them rather than within. This was reinforced through religion, capitalism, culture, and social groups, deepening their disconnection from themselves.

They have become disembodied, dissociated from their emotions, pushing through life with intellect and control rather than presence and connection. They are caught in their head. They are over-indexed on logic and reason, stuck in a cycle of overthinking rather than feeling.

They are struggling to know what they want, who they are, and how to express themselves in an authentic way. They feel disconnected from themselves, from their sense of presence. They are addicted to outcomes, external validation, and a linear story that’s become winding and messy.

But they still search for something more. The pain of reckoning and uncertainty is less than the pain of staying the way they are. They want to reconnect with their intuition, to rebuild that trust, to reclaim their innate wholeness. They are seeking guides to help them find themselves, understand themselves, and live from a place of authentic presence.

They are ready to uncover and explore who they are beneath all the layers of control and performance.

They are deeply longing to be seen and heard for who they are. They long to be accepted for who they are. To feel grounded and safe in themselves and in the present moment. To let go and surrender to possibility, to something greater than themselves, and trust in its unconditional love for them.

These are the people I want to help.

The ones who are ready to peel back the layers, to sit in the liminality and rediscover the truth, beauty, and goodness that have always been within them. They are ready to live from their innate wholeness, to lead with love, and to show up in their lives with authenticity and grace.

I was blessed to spend a few weeks in January last year in Costa Rica around my 40th birthday. I was there with friends and other writers for a writer’s retreat, and the one thing that’s stayed with me from that trip were the sunsets. As the sky started to turn gold and pink, we would walk towards the beach with the rest of the town, to the ocean horizon.

The sun, too bright to look at any other time of the day, turned into a glowing orange orb in front of us as it started to set. As it touched that infinite line, the orb would start to shrink and dim until it went under. The sky would turn into a deep royal dusky blue until the sky was black and it was the stars’ turn to light up the sky.

Growing up on the east coast, my westward horizon was the Manhattan skyline. The sun would set and burst into golden rays that spilled out between buildings and along the city blocks. The skyline would silhouette against the sky until the building and street lights would light up the city.

In Costa Rica, I was mesmerized by the obstruction-less sunsets. The first few days I couldn’t stop taking photos during golden hour as light danced on the water and wrapped around people’s faces and figures. But about halfway into the trip, these sunsets became about more than their photogenic potential or the aesthetic they offered me to capture.

The sunsets became an invitation, an opportunity to see beyond its fading light and notice the Person who was behind all of it. God, who holds the universe together, who has the whole world in His hands was the creator artist who put all this into motion every night. I started to be in awe of His work and deeply comforted by it. It felt as if God was tucking me in for the day, telling me, “It’s ok, go and rest. I’ll wake you up in the morning, and bring the sun out again tomorrow.” He didn’t only hold the spinning earth, but also my heartbeat in His hands. And every morning there was Grace opening my eyes to start a new day.

In this gracious rhythm, I could also sense his mirth. He was smiling while whispering to me His promises. I could feel His pleasure in His handiwork, and his joy in my enjoyment of it. What if the sun rose and the new day began, not out of duty but delight? That every evening and morning he says “Again!” like my nephew or niece would say to me when we stumbled onto a game that they wanted to keep playing.

“Because children have abounding vitality, because they are in spirit fierce and free, therefore they want things repeated and unchanged. They always say, "Do it again"; and the grown-up person does it again until he is nearly dead. For grown-up people are not strong enough to exult in monotony. But perhaps God is strong enough to exult in monotony. It is possible that God says every morning, "Do it again" to the sun; and every evening, "Do it again" to the moon. It may not be automatic necessity that makes all daisies alike; it may be that God makes every daisy separately, but has never got tired of making them. It may be that He has the eternal appetite of infancy; for we have sinned and grown old, and our Father is younger than we.”
― G.K. Chesterton, Orthodoxy

Sometimes if the evening was just right, when the skies were really clear and the air was still, you could see a burst of green light right after the sun disappeared over the horizon.

There’s a whole scientific explanation for why the green burst of light happens. It has something to do with wavelengths of light and atmospheric density, but I like to think of it as God winking at me.

“Hey Minnow, did you catch that? Did you see what I did there? That was just for you. I love doing that for you.”

He winked at me the night before my 40th birthday. I stood at the beach, facing the sunset, my heart heavy and stomach tight, grieving all the change and loss of my 39th year. But by then the ministry of these sunsets had done its healing on me, and beneath that grief was gratitude for slowly finding my faith again, and how in that moment, I had everything I needed.

And how every day, taking it one day at a time, with every sunrise and every breath God gave me, I made it to my 40th year of life. He didn’t spare me from anything, but sustained me in everything.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

This past Sunday at my church, Oaks, I shared my journey of healing my relationship with God, Christianity, and the church. When I left my previous church a few years ago, I didn't think I'd ever commit to another church again, let alone be so vulnerable at a service in front of hundreds of people.

But I think that's what a journey of healing, actual heartbreaking healing, does. I'm coming back to something so familiar, but in a completely new way. I've said to a few friends that I feel like a "reborn again Christian," because there's a profound truth in that for me.

I also feel called to share more about my faith tradition and how it shapes what I'm learning, thinking, and doing. It's something I've wanted to share more about for a while (I tried here, here, and there) but it was a source of so much pain and confusion for so long that I didn't want to just be angry or sad about it. But now I’m starting to see how it grounds me in talking about the deeper, universal truths we all share. Again, heartbreaking healing.

Also, a big disclaimer: I'm not sharing more about my faith to sell or "convert" anyone to Christianity. God forbid, no! It's because my faith is the frame through which I see the world, and the bones with which I move in it. It's the deepest and most fundamental part of me, so this is me being as honest as I can in these online, parasocial mediums we are so immersed in.

If reading these kinds of things is the last thing you want to do, please feel free to turn away, unsubscribe, or leave. I completely understand! I was there not so long ago. But if this resonates with you in any way, I hope this story and the things I share make you feel seen and heard.

In the beginning of June last year, my friend Solomon suddenly passed away at 44 years old. He was only a few years older than me—a Korean American, an entrepreneur, a runner, and a father of two young kids. I’ve known his wife since high school, and I photographed their wedding in 2016, so the news hit me really hard.

Around that time, I had been coming to Oaks for about six months. His funeral was on a Friday. When I came to church that Sunday, exactly a year ago from today, my heart was heavy and numb from the weekend. It all hit me when I took communion and sat on the rug over there, and I just started sobbing. It was one of those breathless, voiceless, messy sobs that shakes your whole body.

I wasn’t just grieving my friend’s death. His loss broke open a deeper grief—the loss in my life, my career, my relationship, friendships, and the faith that had anchored my entire life.

As I was there shaking, feeling it all, trying to take a breath, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I peeked out through my tears and saw that it was Patrick sitting next to me. I didn’t really know him back then—I may have introduced myself to him. So the first thing I thought was, “Brother, if you give me some Bible verse to comfort me, or pray some Christanese aphorisms to make me feel better, all this grief is going to turn into annoyance and anger.”

Because I know those things are true, but none of it would have been helpful for me in that moment. But instead of saying any of those things, Patrick simply prayed, “Jesus, be with him.” And he let the silence sit there for a few beats, then said again, “Jesus, be with him.” And then he got up and let me continue sobbing.

The past few years leading up to that Sunday had felt like a gut renovation God was doing within me. So much was demolished and cleared out of my life, and as I got down to the studs, I had to face things about myself I didn’t want to look at—and for so long, pretended weren’t there. One of the most painful things to reckon with was how codependency had infested me and every relationship in my life. Everyone else’s needs were more important than mine, so I was caretaking my partner, my family, my clients—taking responsibility for everyone’s emotions and actions while abandoning myself, burning myself out, and shaming myself for not doing more.

God brought beautiful friendships and safe spaces outside of church to help me be with and process what I was going through. But that morning, He showed me how a Sunday service could be a place of safety and healing—something I hadn’t experienced or come to expect in a church until then.

And as the year went on, Oaks continued to hold space for me with no agenda—not trying to fix me or tell me what to do. And it was through these ordinary Sundays, over ordinary weeks and ordinary months, that the grieving, healing, and rebuilding happened.

The curious thing about these seasons of deep and rapid transformation is that things in your life feel familiar and foreign at the same time—like playing music for church. In the past, there was so much identity wrapped up in serving at church. I played music wanting to please people, to show that I was a good Christian, to seek approval and belonging—with them and with God.

And ever since leaving my previous church in 2021, I let all that go. I never thought I would play music at church again. But when I approached Antony about helping out on the team at the beginning of this year, I noticed it wasn’t out of a sense of duty, or codependency, or performance. I just genuinely wanted to play music again and serve the church. The same thing, feeling completely new.

This story sounds neat and tidy, but these days I’m finding there is still much more to face, grieve, and heal. The deepest grief—deeper than codependency—is around never being shown or taught a healthy masculinity growing up. And how in its absence, I was given a wounded, patriarchal, toxic masculinity that I carried for so many years. I’m learning how to love, feel, and be present with all my parts and emotions. To unlearn all the suppression and shame I carried toward my body. I want to make space for both the fierce and the tender, the builder and the nurturer—and create a balance between healthy masculinity and femininity within me.

So much of my work as a photographer and a coach depends on the quality of presence I bring into a session. The modalities I’ve learned or the experience I have is secondary to how I hold space. And I’m holding this tension between: how do I continue to heal and grow, but also do the work of helping people return to God and to themselves?

Something I’ve started to say to myself and in my prayers is, “I just don’t know, but I will lead with love into the Mystery.” I don’t know what all this looks like, but I’m becoming comfortable sitting with mystery—being grounded and present to whatever unfolds. Every moment is a gentle uncovering of what’s really true. And like the songs we sang this morning, God hears our prayers, His promises are true, and He is a good, good Father who knows what we need.

I’ll end my story with a quote from St. Augustine that I think captures all this so well:

“Bad times, hard times, this is what people keep saying; but let us live well, and times shall be good. We are the times: Such as we are, such are the times.”

This Saturday (5/17) I'll be running my second half marathon from Prospect Park to Coney Island. It's been about a year and a half since I started running, but it feels like I'm just now beginning to feel like a runner. I started running end of 2023 not to become a runner, but to find my way back to myself. After all the loss and grief of that year, running was a way to build up trust, confidence, momentum in myself to move on. And running the first half marathon last year was a milestone on a path of healing and not despair.

During the race, I hit a physical wall with how far and fast I could physically run, and strained the tendons in my right knee. There's a version of me that could have stopped running after that race, knowing I ran a half marathon, but I wanted to keep going. That's when the shift from running to heal to running to run started. I spent the rest of the year working with a coach to heal my knee and build better balance, posture, and coordination in my body.

I started training in earnest the beginning of this year for the race this weekend, but it wasn't until last week something clicked. It's like when I first got into music theory after playing guitar for a few years. All the technicalities and nuances of aerobic thresholds, Vo2max, etc. clicked and made sense as I connected them to my running practice. I had a history of runs to analyze and see what my foundation was and what I needed to do to build on it. I put structure around how I was attuning to my body's heart rate and pacing during a long run. That's runner language and thinking! And I would have never understood it if I didn't first run to heal and make it to my own starting line.

I also started looking ahead to next year. New York City has one of the most beloved marathons in the world. If I run 9 NYC races this year and volunteer for one, I can get guaranteed entry into the marathon. So I have 8 other races planned for this year, so the half this Saturday is actually the kickoff to the next year and half of training for the marathon in November.

Since working for myself in my mid twenties, I've never gone this deep into anything purely for myself. I've only let myself spend this much time and energy on something if I was able to make money from it, or build a business around it. Running is purely for my enjoyment and pleasure. I can't wait to plan my days and weeks around the training, and let everything else in my life fall into place.

Matthew 6:25-33 is a passage where Jesus talks about money and not worrying about how much you’d have in the future. He says basically, “Don’t worry about the future. Consider the birds and the lilies, see how God provides everything they need! And if God provides for them, won’t He provide for you?”

Uh, maybe? I mean, isn’t my life much more complicated than flowers and animals? I’m a freelancer with bills and dreams to pay for, and nothing feels guaranteed. In past years, the anxiety of “Can I make it another year?” has felt like I was on some Squid Game-like death row, where the only way to stay alive was to work harder and earn more to delay the execution date.

But even though I’m a prisoner of my own making, it seems that I’m still here. I turned 41 last month, and looking back, I didn’t just survive—I thrived like those lilies in the field. Although it seems they did it with much more ease and joy than me.

I think the lilies figured out something that’s taken me a long, long time to realize: their only focus is to be who they were created to be. Nothing more, nothing less. And their Creator, a good God, provides for them to keep being who they were created to be. This simple unfolding is held together by an all-powerful, all-loving God. And year after year, again and again, they blanket the field with their beautiful blossoms.

So Jesus tells me, Stop worrying about tomorrow and just be who I created you to be. And because God knows what you need, and because He is a good God, He’ll take care of you so you can keep going.

So the question wasn’t What’s my future going to look like? but Who am I created to be?

Well, I know who I think I should be when I compare myself to others. I know who I’m told I should be by the Western, Evangelical, capitalistic, patriarchal values I’ve been indoctrinated by. But really, who am I created to be?

Because if I’m created by an infinitely powerful and loving God, then I have been created with the intention to be a powerful and loving creation. It’s ironic that this freelance life I’ve created for myself gives me full freedom and agency to be who I am created to be. But instead, I’ve locked myself in a prison cell, paralyzed with anxiety and scarcity.

Matthew 6 ends with this well-known verse:

“But seek first the kingdom of God and His righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well.”

After considering the lilies and the birds, Jesus says, Here’s a simple, practical way you can receive everything you need. Growing up, seeking first His kingdom and His righteousness was taught through the lens of moral action and worthiness: Work hard at doing the righteous things that will advance the Kingdom of God here on earth (like serving at church, evangelizing so people get saved), and then God will reward you. You can imagine how that shaped the way I thought about who I was created to be, the work I was supposed to do, and how I could be worthy of God’s love and provision.

But Cynthia Bourgeault opened up another way of seeing the kingdom of God—not as a place to build or a territory to conquer, but as an inner reality, a way of perceiving and moving through this world. She describes it as “a complete, mutual indwelling: I am in God, God is in you, you are in God, we are in each other.”

This means I can step out of my prison and into a kingdom where I don’t have to do anything to receive His love—I can simply be present, in this moment, open to what’s unfolding, like those lilies, into who I am created to be.

In my Aletheia training, we use the word unfolding to describe the way we approach our sessions—and, really, all of life. The core practice of unfolding is releasing control and allowing the present moment to reveal what is True. And rather than imposing our will, we practice being fully present with the Truth that arises, accepting it with compassion, and creating space for what wants to emerge, to emerge.

This practice of unfolding—of allowing the present moment to reveal what’s True—is how I’ve experienced seeking the Kingdom of God. It’s the gentle uncovering of Truth. And because God is in me and with me, I have everything I need to take the next step in response to that Truth. And with each step I take, I am unfolding into who I am created to be.

If I can simply concern myself with this kind of unfolding, then I am living in His righteousness—not because I’m doing the right things, but because I’m in right alignment with Truth. Then I can be like the lilies in the field, blossoming into a future that I could have never dreamed or imagined, but one that holds everything I have ever needed.

PS: let me know if you’d want to read more posts like this, posts inspired by Bible passages, but bringing threads outside of traditional religious circles and creating some connections and insights you may not have heard from a pulpit.

The night before my first half marathon, I tallied up how many miles I ran to train for it. I started running in December, and in six months, I ran 298 miles over 76 runs. There was something incredible and inevitable about seeing those numbers. This was the first time I had trained for something athletic. I had literally run into a new identity and had so much fun doing it.

There was an easeful confidence knowing I had to run 13.1 miles from Prospect Park to Coney Island the next morning. I was almost looking forward to it. It took me back to 7th grade, when I would spend countless hours hunched over my guitar, in front of the stereo, trying to nail the intro to Dave Matthews Band’s “So Much to Say.” While my friends spent afternoons practicing for basketball or volleyball tournaments, I entered myself into my own musical tournament. I practiced until I learned how to play each of songs, winning album by album, until I championed DMB’s discography. In college, I started to write my own songs and play them on stage, even touring for a month during my sophomore-to-junior-year summer. And the night before a show, I’d be nervous, but feel that same easeful confidence. But I had so much fun on stage the next night, and there was a joy that was infectious to everyone there.

Ever since then, I’ve continued to enjoy the musical abilities I developed in my youth. I can play most popular songs on the guitar, and I’m decent on the drums, bass, and piano. A great song moves me in a way I imagine a basketball player feels when he sees a great game—we both know what it takes to do such a thing1. But devoting that much time to being a musician meant I didn’t spend time becoming an athlete. All the musicianship I enjoy came at the cost of proper body mechanics, a fit body, and overall physical confidence—something I’ve always been terribly insecure about.

Some of my earliest memories of rejection and bullying came from playing sports. I was usually picked last to be on a team and was made fun of when I was trying my best to help us win. An instrument made more sense to me than a ball, so I dove into music because I was good at it, and people applauded when I played for them.

So when I started training in December, I began with a six-week couch to 5K program, and on the first day, I had to run for 5 minutes, take a minute break, then do it again two more times. I knew I could either bully or heal that insecure 12-year-old boy. I decided to give that tender, pudgier part of me the words of encouragement I always wanted to hear. Hey, it’s ok you’re running slow, because look! You ran for 5 straight minutes! Wow, good job buddy! You did it! We held hands and ran around the race track at McCarren Park, under the RFK bridge in Astoria, and looped around my neighborhood until we healed from the stories and experiences that held us back.

These stories were part of a larger arc of narratives I was told during my most impressionable years. Fundamental stories I internalized about the world, about God, and what it meant to be a good person. The way I learned to thrive was to shame away parts of myself that didn’t fit within those stories.

Therapy, books, and lectures have been helpful in unlearning those stories, but having hated running to running a 5K that early winter showed me it’s less about unlearning and more about undoing our stories into newer, better ones. Every run became an embodied rewriting of what it meant to be in integrity with myself, where I did what I really wanted to do. I started trusting myself more. Every mile I ran widened those myopic stories, taking me farther away from the toxic shame that constricted my life.

What training gave me was momentum towards becoming more of myself. A friend recently told me that in Richard Schwartz, the founder of IFS, talks about the 8 qualities of the Self (calm, curiosity, compassion, confidence, courage, clarity, connectedness and creativity) in his book “No Bad Parts,” and how focusing on bringing out a few of them in your life creates momentum for the other qualities to show up and heal our internal system. Running helped me uncover and develop in me confidence, clarity, and courage, and that has started the cascading effects of those other qualities. Running and training taught me that momentum is the most powerful thing I can create for myself. It’s the thing that makes you do things that feel incredible and inevitable.

I’ll be honest, I feel sheepish writing thoughts on running when there’s someone like Murakami who, in my opinion, wrote the definitive book about running and a creative life. But one thing that puzzled me in reading “What I Talk about When I Talk about Running” was how effortlessly it seemed Murakami created momentum for himself. He’s run over 20 marathons and runs around 6 miles every day. He shares a story about having a sudden realization at a baseball game he could write a novel and just started doing it. It seemed like he had an internal switch he can turn on and magically create momentum for himself.

I remember thinking, yeah, must be nice to be able to do that and write books and live an amazing life. But truth is, that night before the race, I realized I did do that in my own way. So if this piece is anything, it’s to tell you there’s no switch that turns on momentum. The switch isn’t a switch at all but just the reality of who we are, and the work is to uncover and allow ourselves to unfold and move towards a direction that makes us feel alive.

My 12-year-old part and I finished the marathon in 2.5 hours the next day, coming in at 18,967th place out of 23,599 runners. The NYC marathon was last week, and I was reminded again just how much New Yorkers show up for each other. God, I love this city. People were cheering, blasting music, and giving high fives throughout the length of the race. I remember feeling and energy and this pudgy part of me felt it too.

The adrenaline and energy of the race made me run 30 seconds faster than my usual pace, and I ended up straining a tendon in my left knee. When I tried running a few weeks after the race, I couldn’t run more than 2 miles before my knee started to ache. I took it as an opportunity to start from scratch and learn it the proper way before the bad habits and mechanics became too calcified. I started working with a coach to fix my poor running form and build up my strength from the ground up. That’s what I’ve been doing this summer, but my feet are set on running the same race again next year, and hopefully the marathon soon after that.

Give yourself the time to mourn and grieve—not just for what happened this week, but for everything else that’s happening in your life right now. Friendships are breaking apart, loved ones are missing, loved ones are dying, projects are ending, and next year feels so uncertain.

You are able to hold grief, hope, fear, love, worry, and gratitude all at once. You know how to feel it all the way through to the other side. You’ll need to do that now more than ever. So hold that space for yourself for as long as you need.

This isn’t the time to distract or numb yourself. Don’t give away your power or your convictions to someone else. There will always be someone who claims to know what’s really happening, who to blame, and what comes next. But come on—you know that no one really knows what’s going on, right? It’s all messy, and there’s so much outside of your control.

This isn’t the time to pontificate or explain away what happened. You can debate and argue politics all day long, but it won’t get you anywhere in doing the work to heal and love. It’s projections all the way down, and politics is just a mirror reflecting back what’s important to you, what you fear, and what you worry about. You can easily end up shouting at your own reflection.

Remember this, because this is reality, this is what’s true: people are lonely, lost, heartbroken, and confused. People are living in broken homes, bombed homes, flooded homes. People are told they are less than human because of the way they look, the way they feel, the way they think, the way they live their lives. People need to feel seen, heard, loved. They want to be a part of something greater than themselves. Some have taken that need and ratcheted up their fear and anxiety, becoming desperate for some kind of certainty and clarity, no matter how far from reality it may be.

In the face of all this, focus on doing the work that only you can do—holding space for others through photography and coaching, meeting them where they are. Not everyone can do that. You are a vessel of love, mercy, and grace. Do the work to keep that vessel clear. Do the work to ground yourself in your beautiful, true, and loving Presence. Do the work to be open to every moment and respond with love, grace, and possibility.

And underneath all of this, trust that God knows what you need and that He holds the future. Trust that He’s a good God, even though all this is happening.

Something unlocked in me when I found out that Han Kang won the 2024 Nobel Prize in Literature, “for her intense poetic prose that confronts historical traumas and exposes the fragility of human life”. It was like when Parasite or Everything Everywhere All at Once won Best Picture, or when Michelle Yeoh and Ke Huy Quan won Oscars, but this hits so much deeper.

Maybe it’s because writing is so sacred to me and I’ve been reading Ta-Nehisi Coates’ The Message while traveling here in Europe. He wrote the book to his students and “young writers everywhere whose task is nothing less than doing their part to save the world.”

You cannot act upon what you cannot see. And we are plagued by dead language and dead stories that serve people whose aim is nothing short of a dead world. And it is not enough to stand against these dissemblers. There has to be something in you, something that hungers for clarity. And you will need that hunger, because if you follow that path, soon enough you will find yourself confronting not just their myths, not just their stories, but your own.

Han Kang’s hunger for clarity got her blacklisted by the Korean government for being critical of the government and a culture that’s deeply patriarchal and misogynistic. She shed light on what the dissemblers wanted to keep hidden and dead. A prophet may not be welcome in their hometown, but this award will get her writing in front of so many new people, like me. And we’ll feel some salvation from reading it.

Even in hearing Kang speak, I can feel her resilience. She lived a life of sacrifice, pouring her soul onto a page, and this prize honors her resilience and devotion. What strikes me about that is I don’t see the same thread of resilience and devotion in my own life right now. There are days I can’t make sense of all the destruction and deconstruction of my life the past few years. I wake up in the middle of the night thinking how am I going to keep going? But then I see is a dusty path laid out for me that stretches as far as I am willing to see.

The thread I’m searching for isn’t missing. It’s hidden under all the dead stories and the wreckage of trying to find a new one. The work is to uncover it. What that looks like right now is portraiture, coaching, writing, and music, but even writing that out feels vulnerable and selfish. Who am I to get to choose how I exactly want to spend my days doing? See? Shame is the highest mountain of rubble I have to clear, and the dust that clouds my vision.

In uncovering a new story, I’m also uncovering a deeper motivation to do the work. In the past my motivation was fueled by avoidance and codependency but that doesn’t work anymore. Having witnessed a Korean, not too much older than me, be recognized for her work unlocked a deep yearning to do what I was created to do for something greater than myself.

Because Kang didn’t do all this for the Nobel—she didn’t even want to hold a press conference, given all the death and wars happening in the world. But the prize shines a light on her work and serves as a beacon for people like me, helping us feel seen and realize what’s possible.

Coates, in his book, referenced an Audre Lorde quote that I love that sums up what I can see as my thread of resilience and devotion.

“The quality of light by which we scrutinize our lives has direct bearing upon the product which we live, and upon the changes which we hope to bring about through those lives. It is within this light that we form those ideas by which we pursue our magic and make it realized.”

The work I feel called to, and thread that I am uncovering in my photography, coaching, and writing, is the light I shine into the shadows. There are many days I tremble down the stairs into the darkness. But I know that when all is shone and realized, it’s about how how I can better love others and myself.

Whenever I tell someone I’m a portrait photographer, the most common response I get is “Ugh, I need a good photo for [insert social media of choice].” That makes sense since our profile photo will most likely be someone’s first impression of us. A good photo is the digital version of a firm handshake. 

The “ugh” (they go on to tell me) is because they hate the photo they currently have. And they hate having their photo taken. They feel so awkward and uncomfortable in front of a camera and it comes out looking a hundred times worse in a photo, even if the photo is technically flawless. 

This breaks my heart because a photoshoot should be fun and playful! You should be able to show up exactly how you want to show up and look fabulous doing it.

I recently looked up where the word “person” comes from. It comes from persona—a combination of two words, per meaning “through” and sonare (so-nah-ray) meaning “to sound”. So you can say a person is not just about how they look or what they do, but what sounds through them–their soul, their energy, and the stories they inhabit as they move through the world. 

A portrait session then is a space for your persona to be on full display and beautifully captured in a photo. That doesn’t happen with great equipment or the photographer’s skill level alone. There needs to be a certain quality of presence created between you and the photographer. One that helps you feel grounded, safe, and trusting of what will unfold during the session. 

It’s this piece that’s often overlooked, but once it’s there you are free to have fun being yourself and that will show up a hundredfold in a photo.

So for my portrait sessions, I incorporate writing and coaching to bring out what wants to sound through into your next project or chapter of your life. 

Here’s what it looks like:

1. Reflecting: We start with writing prompts to help you reflect and process this season in your life and what transitions or projects are ahead for you.

2. Exploring & Planning: A 60 minute coaching session to explore what came up for you in the writing, and plan out a creative direction for your shoot. 

3. Capturing: A 2-3 hour portrait session depending on what emerges from our creative direction.

4. Integrating: A 60 minute follow up coaching session to integrate the experience and strategies on how to best use these images.

   

   

After our time together, you’ll walk away with more than just great photos of yourself.

• You’ll have clarity for the next chapter of your business, project, or career.

• You’ll feel more comfortable in your own skin.

• You’ll see yourself in new ways.

• You’ll have a gallery of images you can use for your profile photo, marketing material, book cover, dating profile, or anywhere else you need to make a great first impression.

These photos will be reminders of what really matters to you, who you really are, and how you want to show up in the world.

I’ve always had this self-inflicted pressure to become my own reality show and share everything with everyone. Especially with a piece like this, I told myself I need to be authentic and be completely open with what’s going on, because that’s what artists do. But the pressure really came from my need for people to like me, not my artistic integrity. Because maybe if they understood everything that was going on, then they would accept me. And if they liked and accepted me, then that would make up for the ways I couldn’t like and accept myself.

Being able to draw a line between what is for me and what’s for others, has become about setting healthy boundaries for myself and not outsourcing the need for approval to others. My story is my story and that’s why I can accept it, not because others say it’s acceptable. Some things are only meant for me to work through and integrate. It’s called inner work for a reason, Minnow. But more than that, everyone doesn’t deserve to know everything.

Now, I imagine that line of what to share or not to share as a waterline, and I’m an iceberg deciding which parts of me are beneath or above the surface for others to see.

One of the greatest blessings of my life has been that whatever was above the surface turned into projects I could work on professionally, like photography and coaching. But that also meant my personal growth or stagnation flowed into my work. Said another way, the deeper the work I do underneath the surface, what’s above the surface is sturdy, strong enough to withstand the Titanics of life.

So as I continue to work through what’s happening underneath the waterline, I wanted to tell you about what’s coming up to the surface and the exciting projects I’m grateful to be working on.

Taking Portraits with Persona Sessions

Photography has made up most of this iceberg for the last 15 years, photographing weddings then I went into headshots, commercial/lifestyle, documentary, and event work. Basically anything that had to do with photographing people. These days, I use “portrait photographer” as my catch all for what I do. I photograph around five weddings per year, commercial and corporate work with Frame, and portraits of people with Persona Sessions.

I started calling my portrait sessions Persona Sessions after I looked up where the word “person” comes from. It comes from persona—a combination of two words, per meaning “through” and sonare (so-nah-ray) meaning “to sound”. So you can say a person is not just about how they look or what they do, but what sounds through them–their soul, their energy, and the stories they inhabit as they move through the world. 

A portrait session then is a space for your persona to be on full display and beautifully captured in a photo. That doesn’t happen with great equipment or the photographer’s skill level alone. There needs to be a certain quality of presence created between you and the photographer. One that helps you feel grounded, safe, and trusting of what will unfold during the session. 

But most people feel way too awkward being in front of a camera, or worse, the experience of getting their photo taken feels so forced and fake. This breaks my heart because a photoshoot should be fun and playful! They should be able to show up exactly how they want to show up, and look fabulous doing it.

So I started giving clients writing prompts to journal with and doing a coaching session before the actual shoot. The journaling helped them look inward to what they wanted, rather than comparing themselves to others for inspiration or validation. The coaching session held space for us to see what wants to sound through and set a creative direction to capture it. This helped us build trust, safety, and presence that allowed the portrait session to flow and capture their energy—their persona.

I started offering these sessions last year, and I don’t think I can just do a “standard” portrait session ever again.

1:1 Coaching

I started coaching in July 2020 after COVID lockdowns took away all my photography work for the year. It was an unexpected but natural pivot for me because portrait sessions are all about creating a space that’s safe and comfortable for people who weren’t used to having a camera pointed at them. Coaching, I found, was essentially a portrait session without a camera. I was bringing out someone’s creative or business potential instead of their photogenic potential. 

My coaching early on was helping people start their own businesses or a side project that they held off on doing. But after a year, my “business coaching” became more about the person than what they were doing. Because I noticed how they showed up in their life affected how they showed up in their work. One client called our sessions life coaching for business people.

One thing that’s always bothered me about talking about coaching is that the usual way it’s pitched is to help you improve yourself or your business. That pitch only works if we believe that we are fundamentally missing something or that something isn’t broken about us and we need fixing. It’s how I thought about myself when I needed coaching, and it’s how I see so many coaches trying to sell their services. You have this problem, I have the answer. Work with me and your life will be better.

And after thousands of hours of coaching clients, I have come to believe that none of us are broken, or lacking, or in need of improvement. We begin from a place of innate wholeness and our growth and transformation unfolds from there. It’s about getting unblocked and allowing ourselves transform, not trying to control, force, hustle, grit, or discipline our way into it. And more than that, I believe the coaching relationship itself is creates the conditions for growth and transformation.

There’s a renewed reverence and energy I have around my practice after my own growth and transformation and training with Aletheia. More than anything else that I do, coaching is the most direct reflection of my own transformation and growth.

Writing for Like the Fish

If I were to bring back the iceberg analogy from before, writing is the main tool I have to draw those healthy boundaries and look inward rather than outward for love and belonging. Writing is also something I do mainly for myself it’s how I process, integrate, and deepen what’s going on underneath the waterline. If photography and coaching is for others, writing is for me.

What ends up above the surface and shared with others are things that I feel ready to talk about and hope will make others feel less alone. There’s still a lot that’s raw and unfiltered and isn’t ready to come up to the surface, like the fact Becky and I are no longer together. But there are other things I am ready to share, like the reordering of my Christian faith, non-patriarchal masculinity, and wholehearted creativity.

So, stay tuned!

Building a Community of Writers with Foster

And even though writing is so fundamental to what I do, the paradox is that writing is both my most sacred and stunted expression. Other things like photography and coaching came much easier to me. Every time I try to write, I feel naked and vulnerable, and give myself every reason to not do it. 

But what if I don’t have to do it alone? What would it look like to be with other writers who get it, and I start writing for the sake of writing, not to meet the ridiculous expectations I have for myself? Being a part of Foster has helped enjoy writing again. It’s a place where, as my friend Sara says, is “a mindful alternative to the writing industrial complex." 

My absolute favorite part of Foster is the weekly Writing Circles. It’s exactly what the name says it is. We get together on Zoom every week for 90 minutes. During the first 15 minutes we check in with one another and do some grounding work to see what’s present for us before we write, then we write for 50-60 minutes. We then come back together for the time that’s remaining and share how well or shitty it went. 

(I know at first it sounds like another thing online, and we’re all sick of doing everything online since the pandemic. But with these Writing Circles, we’re really only online for the first 15 and the last 15 minutes. During the hour we write you can go for a walk, lie on the floor, or whatever helps for your writing.)

I facilitate two Writing Circles every week for members and every other week I host one that anyone can join. I get to hold space, help get people unstuck in their writing, and get some of my writing done too.

As I share about all that’s coming up above the surface, I’m struck by how much has changed in me and around me the past 4 years. It’s hard for me to recognize Minnow and what he was up to before 2020. Richard Rohr talks about how transformation follows an arc of order, disorder, and reorder, and it seems as though I’m always somewhere in or between one of those points.  I can’t control which part of the iceberg melts away or hardens. Nor can I control what will show up and crash into me. 

All I can control is how present, open, and accepting I am to what is happening now. Being able to do that is the core practice and discipline for me these days. And in the moments I can be present and feel the richness of my life, I can confess along with Julian of Norwich, “First the fall, and then the recovery from the fall, and both are the mercy of God.”

Fast forward to Thanksgiving of last year, when a friend asked me if I wanted to run a half marathon with him. It felt absurd to even consider doing it. I never thought I was fit enough to be a runner and envied anyone who did. The last time I was at the track in Astoria Park, four people ran past me and I was too ashamed to keep going. I got viscerally scared thinking about running 13.1 miles without stopping. That’s why I was so surprised when I heard myself answer, yeah I’ll run it with you. 

Looking back, the reason I said yes was because I was actually answering this question in my head: 2023 was a hard year of tears and grief, but you got through it. Would you want to go through something hard that ends instead with tears of joy? 

During that chat, my friend shared with me his two rules of running.

Rule No. 1: don’t get hurt. 

Rule No. 2: for most of your training, keep your heart rate between 140-160 bpm (or a pace where you can hold a conversation while running). Follow Rule No. 2 and you’ll most likely keep Rule No. 1. 

So when I went for my first run the Monday after Thanksgiving, I followed Rule No. 2 and when I looked down at my Apple Watch and it said I ran a 14:30 min/mile pace. Clanggggg. My ego felt the slam of the sledgehammer against the cold hard embarrassment of another humble beginning. But I started. That’s what matters and now I just have to keep on going.

When I tried running in the past, I was never able to keep Rule No. 1. I convinced myself I needed to run a mile in under 10 minutes, or what was the point? Anything slower and you might as well just do a lot of walking. And so I’d get to about a half a mile and my mouth would be wide open, panting for air, wincing from a stitch in my side. My knees were aching and numb and I’d be limping for the next two days because of shin splints. And if I actually managed to run a mile or two my body wondered, Are we running away from a fucking bear or something?! My heart was probably beating at 170-180 beats, which is the same as walking into the gym for the first time and thinking I had to squat 135 pounds. 

I’d end up shaming myself during those runs thinking I wasn’t mentally strong enough, that I wasn’t man enough, or resilient enough to ever run like those other runners. But really it was because I was just running too fast. I think that’s the number one reason people hate running: they run too fast and they end up hurting themselves or just wanting to explode from breathing so hard.

When I accepted the fact that it’s my heart that is racing, and I had to build up the muscle like I did when lifting weights, it all clicked into place. Every run since then, all I cared about was running as far as my training plan told me to run and doing it without going above 160 bpm. I let go of any expectation of speed (although my pace would naturally get faster each month). 

Following rule number 2 made me keep rule number 1, and have been running consistently for the past four months. Last week I ran 10 miles. Ten miles. TEN MILES. What?! Am I a runner or something running 10 miles? 

Even with all the identities I’ve taken on throughout my life—musician, photographer, writer, coach—I never thought “athlete” would be one of them. But I’m training for a marathon! I’m following a program, I’m scheduling my days and weeks around my runs, and even if it feels a bit awkward to say, these are all things an athlete would be doing. This is the most embodied identity I’ve taken on considering I’ve had such a spiteful and neglectful relationship with my body for most of my life. But these last four months have been a process of reconciliation between me and my body, this temple of God.

That run took almost two hours and I loved every minute of it. Feeling the rhythm lock into place and feeling the flow between my breath, my body, and my mind is addicting. I have had moments when I’d suddenly ask myself Who am I? Because I can still remember the time when I couldn’t imagine myself doing what I did. 

Running has become a teacher, an active spiritual practice, a bountiful gift I’ve given myself. There’s much more I want to write about how running has been this wonderful teacher for my life, but I wanted to write down while I can still remember, what it was like to start running and how I became a runner.

My birthday is this weekend, and while time tells me 40 years have passed since I was born, I feel as if I’m just beginning. I am bright-eyed about all the possibilities that this year and this new decade will bring. The word I'm holding onto and has become my true north star is surrender. Last year, I had to let go of so much that was constant, comforting, and true. And while the grief is still here, I am surrendered to whatever will unfold in me and around me. Because so much, so much, of what can happen is outside of my control and mysterious.

One thing that’s helped ground me and accept all this mystery is sitting in contemplation every morning. I’m choosing to use the word contemplation rather than meditation, because, while they are essentially the same thing, I approach this time with a specific intention that I don’t think applies to meditation—I’m seeking communion in and with the presence of God.

God is the name I use for the ultimate Mystery. I heard someone once say, “God is the blanket we put over the mystery to give it a shape.” You may want to name that blanket something else. It’s not about the semantics but the humility and courage to say, “I just don’t know, and yet I will sit here and trace the shape of this mystery.”

I usually start with breathwork to settle into my body and use this mantra I learned from James Finley that comes from Psalms 46:10, “Be still and know that I am God.” You start with the entire sentence, and every time you repeat it, you take off a word or clause until you are left with “Be.”

Be still and know that I am God. 
Be still and know that I am. 
Be still and know. 
Be still.
Be.

This mantra, this prayer, has been my way of surrendering to the mystery every morning. If God’s presence is one of infinite love and grace that is always before me, then I have to be still enough to notice and enter into it. As I repeat each fading line, I discover something else I need to surrender in order for me to notice. That’s something within my control, something I can do each day. 

And in those moments where I am still enough to feel God’s presence, I can feel my soul being stitched back together, the wounds and holes left from last year slowly closing up and being disinfected with that infinite love and grace.

Be still and know that I am God. 

This is where I begin, holding the most baggage, and with the most to surrender. For much of my life, I didn’t want God to be mysterious. And Christian theology in all its rigor and orthodoxy was what helped me find certainty and truth in the Mystery. I sat in church pews, lecture halls, and conferences wanting to know and be more certain about God. I wanted to take everything I was learning and create an orthodoxy out of my day-to-day life. But as I wrote in a piece a few months ago:

“God, until then, was only seen through the lens of Christian reformed theology. A theology that has a long tradition of scholarship and teaching on specific truths about who God is and what He is doing in the world. That tradition was the foundation of the religion I was born into. It had grounded me with a fundamental certainty in an uncertain world, but now that same orthodoxy felt limiting and constricting.”

The deeper I went into this kind of theology the more specific my tenets became. And while the bold lines of my theology were helpful guardrails growing up, they started to become borders that separated me from anyone who didn’t believe exactly what I believed. There was a fear and judgment of people of other faith traditions or even other Christians who did not agree with a Reformed Protestant theology.

So as I start here, I’m surrendering the need for certainty and reassurance. I surrender the legalistic, paternalistic, patriarchal shadows of this kind of rigid theology and the need to figure everything out. I surrender myself to the awe of this divine Mystery.

Be still and know that I am.

When I can surrender the certainty I have about who God is and the need to have it all figured out, I can start to accept who He is, for who He is. This idea of contemplation unlocked for me when I realized these times aren’t to think nice thoughts about God or who he is but to experience Him for who he is. It’s as if in thinking and reading so much about someone you forget you can just bask in their presence and experience them firsthand as they are in front of you.

I experience this all the time in my coaching sessions. Really being present with someone doesn’t have much to do with what you think about them. It has to do with flow and the space you have with them at that moment. From there, so many things can emerge that neither of us could have known. We can both come in with what we expect out of a session or what we need from the session but realize what emerges is completely different but exactly what was meant to happen in our time together.

God isn’t something to figure out but to flow into. And entering into this flow allows me to descend from the intellectual heady relationship I’ve had so long with him into meeting him in my heart and my body.

Be still and know

“The glory of God is the human person fully alive.” 

Ireneus wrote that sentence back in 100 AD because he was fighting against the Gnostics who said spirit and matter are two separate things and that we should shed our material bodies as fast as we can. At the same time I was taught the right knowledge of God was good, I was also taught that my body, the carnal flesh, was bad. That everything holy and sacred was outside of me and I needed a savior and his holiness to make me good again. 

But what if everything is sacred? Even me?

What I surrender when I say these words is the shame and guilt I feel when I drop into my emotions and somatic experience of God. To know God means I have to trust the experience I have with him, something I was taught to doubt from an early age, because what I feel is usually sinful and wrong. But the truth I'm holding on to here is that yes, I’m a mess but God has created me and that means there is inherent dignity in me and I am worthy of love and belonging. And so is every living person and thing that is created. That what I know, that what is in me is battered but sacred.

Be Still

I spent so much of my life wanting to be distracted, not wanting to be bored. I always wanted some kind of stimulation, some cause to stir an effect in me. And while that desire fueled a sense of curiosity, it was mostly used to suppress or numb truths in my life that I was too afraid to face.  

Reality is tough to look at for too long. The truth is never something we want in all its truth-full-ness. I squint or wink to just see that part that I like and the rest I try and look past until the elephant is right in front of me slapping me upside the head with his trunk of truth. 

Being still is an act of surrender to reality, to truth saying, “I will do my best, truth, to stare at you right in the eyes for as long as I can.” And in that stillness, as I accept all of who I am, and what’s happening around me, I become humbled. I begin to trust that what is happening right now is what was always meant to happen, and it’s all for my good, and everything I’m experiencing is a gift from God.

Be

It’s a win for me if I can “be” here for a few seconds at a time. Sometimes I feel it for a moment, and then an enticing thought or emotion comes rushing in, and I give into the temptation to follow it down the rabbit hole. Then I suddenly realize I’m supposed to just “be”, and I need to surrender all over again.

Meditation in the way it’s been talked about was always hard for me to do, and I shamed myself for it. Why couldn’t I just be? Why couldn’t I sit on the floor, legs crossed, upright for hours, and just be there? I was too undisciplined, too frenetic, too uppity to be anything but grounded and calm. 

The big aha moment was when I realized that, I can be here, in this moment, but I am not alone. I can be present in relation to the infinite love and grace of God that is ever before me. The table is always set before me, as Jesus would say, and it’s up to me to eat from it and enjoy every morsel of food.

So by the time I am here, I am trying to surrender to any kind of striving to do anything. I am surrendering to my soul’s deep desire to just be in the presence of God. That in his presence there is a processing, healing, and care that’s beyond any conscious thought or emotion. It’s doing something underneath me and beyond me, and all I can do is try and stay there while my ego is clawing back for power and control. Everything that’s outside of my control is working to heal me from the bottom up.

It seems the practice of repeating this dimming phrase from “be still and know that I am God” to “be” mirrors my morning sits: it’s more about undoing than doing anything.

I officiated my first wedding a few weeks ago in Monterey, CA.

My friends May and Pat asked me out of nowhere a few months ago during dinner after I took engagement photos for them. I was taken aback because I’ve been to hundreds of weddings as a photographer and never once thought that was something I wanted to do or frankly could do. Coming from a Christian background, the person who is up in the front with the bride and groom is usually an ordained minister, cleared by God and the state to do the sacred act of marrying two people.

So the first thought that ran through my head when they asked me was, “Am I holy enough to do this?” And knowing I really am not holy if I’m wrestling with these big questions about everything my faith stood for. But the casual certainty May and Pat had that they wanted me to be up there with them, casted away my shameful, unholy, imposter, and I gratefully said yes.

I decided to let go of any pastoral, church-culture expectations about the role and just be myself. I was going to share as honestly as I can what I learned about being in a relationship and also share my love for the bride and groom.

For the few months leading up to the wedding, I read Bell Hooks’, “All About Love” and also wrote down random notes about marriage that I hadn’t really heard during all the wedding ceremonies I’ve witnessed. I was proud of myself for having written most of what I wanted to say the week before, and not rewriting everything the night before.

But 30 minutes before the wedding, I was doing one last read through when I had a flash of inspiration started writing out two brand new paragraphs. I had five minutes left till the wedding started and I had an adrenaline rush of panic realizing the ceremony was starting and I didn’t get to edit or practice what I had just written. My heart pulsed between in my ears, my throat was dry, and I felt like I was talking too fast the entire time, but I made it through and people enjoyed it.

After the ceremony a some people made it a point to come up to me to tell me that they enjoyed what I said. A few even asked if I could share the message with them. So I asked May and Pat if I could share the prayer and message and they said yes, so here it is.

While this isn’t something I’m want to put out there as a service to hire me for, if a friend or friend of a friend asked me, I’d definitely be open to it. I also feel like I’m a one-song act becauseI don’t know if there’s anything more or better I have to say about love and relationships than what I wrote here. What follows is the best I got so far, so I’ll happily sing it for anyone who wants to listen.

Prayer for the Couple

Faithful Father, Immanuel, God who is with us, we thank you for this day and in all the ways you have led May and Pat to be standing here, together. Thank you for safely bringing their friends and family here to celebrate, to witness, and to simply be with the couple on this important day. And for those who aren’t able to be here today, we take a moment to remember them and thank them for how they loved us and what they mean for this couple and everyone here. 

Father, because you are here, we can feel everything we need to feel right now. Everything belongs: the exhaustion and frustration of wedding planning, the happiness, excitement and nerves of new beginnings, the hope we share for this couple, the anxiety of what’s ahead, the love we have for each other, and the sadness, pain, and grief that is also here right now, in our lives, and in this world.

Your faithful presence allows us to acknowledge and own it all. We find comfort in the promise that you will not spare us from anything, but sustain us in everything. 

So we stand here together, breathing in this moment, and allowing ourselves to settle in and be fully present to this beautiful celebration of marriage between May and Pat. 

Thank you for your faithfulness, for your Son, and for your Spirit that lives in and through us. In Jesus' name, Amen.

Message

I’ve probably heard hundreds of these messages as a photographer, and to be honest, I don’t remember most of them. 

I think one reason messages like this haven’t been memorable to me is because on such a beautiful day where beautiful people have gathered for a beautiful couple, it’s so easy to fall back on cliches about love that sound great, but don't really mean much more. Or, if you’ve been to a Christian wedding, the message can get so overly theological and preachy that it becomes more of a sermon than a celebration.

Luckily, I’m not a pastor, so you won’t be getting a theological sermon. And May and Pat, you are two of the most real and grounded people I know, so I won’t talk in cliches that will most likely make you vomit in your mouths.

We all know the golden rule: “You shall love your neighbor as yourself.” And at first read, this verse from Matthew chapter 22 verse 29, is saying that loving others is the second most godly thing to do. The first being love your God with all your heart, mind, and soul. Growing up as a Christian, especially a Korean Christian, I was taught this verse was God commanding us to love others and serve my church with every ounce of energy and time I had.

But loving others is a great thing — it’s why we’re all here today. May and Pat, you both love each other, and you love each other so much you want to be together in marriage. We are all here because we love you, and we want to party with you and celebrate this commitment of love you are making. Our lives are not complete if we don’t have a community of people we can love and serve and be together in celebration and in mourning. 

And that’s usually all we hear about this verse, especially on days like this. We love love, and you are now united in love. And you will love each other happily ever after.

And while all of that is true, I think the golden rule is saying something more. If you take a moment to let the verse sink in, it seems loving your neighbor as yourself is as much about self love as it is about loving them.

Brené Brown talks about love in this second way:

“Love is not something we give or get; it is something that we nurture and grow, a connection that can only be cultivated between two people when it exists within each one of them-we can only love others as much as we love ourselves.”

We can only love others as much as we love ourselves. 

This part is not talked about nearly enough, because the idea of loving ourselves feels awkward, doesn’t it? It can get woo woo real quick, or too positive and candy-coated.

For some of us, and this is true for me, loving ourselves can feel selfish. Like we’re taking up too much space, and we are being an inconvenience to other people. 

And even if we want to love ourselves, we’re not sure what that looks like because our culture doesn’t know how to do that in a healthy way. And the version of self love we are sold that’s about buying things, experiences, or freedom for ourselves, seems enticing — but leaves us emptier.

I’m still learning how to love myself better, but what I’ve learned is loving myself and loving others isn’t mutually exclusive. And as you are here, ready to be husband and wife, the one thing I want to say is that loving yourselves is a beautiful way you can love each other. 

One of my favorite definitions of boundaries is from Prentis Hemphill:

“Boundaries are the distance at which I can love you and me at the same time.” 

I love this definition because it brings this idea of self love and loving each other together.

May, I’ve said this to you before, but I’ve never taken for granted the time, presence, and vulnerability you’ve shared with me. I know it’s not the easiest thing to let people in and open yourself up in a real way, but when you do there’s no going back and they are trapped in your friendship forever. I’ve experienced that, and I think every person here, especially those to your right, know what I mean.

And Pat, I’ve loved getting to know you over Korean BBQ, inspiring me to keep lifting weights, and maybe this Christmas we can watch the Lord of the Rings trilogy together. 

I say this because I’ve experienced loving boundaries from you both. I’m grateful that in our friendship, we were able to love each other and ourselves at the same time. And my being here and speaking in front of you, even though you know the kind of year I’ve had is yet more proof of your love for me and yourselves.

This, of course, is true to your relationship to each other. May, you don’t have to put yourself, your needs, and your health over the duty you feel to be a good wife, a good daughter, or a good friend. Pat, you don’t have to worry if you aren’t doing enough or if you’re being the most helpful for May or others in your life. 

We love each other as much as we love ourselves, and I know for both of you, your deep desire is to grow and help the other person to be their best selves.

So yes, love each other as best as you can, but also communicate with each other the things you need in order to love each other and yourself at the same time. How that gets communicated, how that’s received, and how that is worked out is the day to day frustration and beauty of marriage.

I’ll end here with this quote from Marianne Williamson I come back to, when I need to remind myself why loving myself is a beautiful way to loving others.

"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, 'Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous?' Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God.

Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others."

I love you both, all of us here love you, and your friendship in our lives has made our lives better. (And let’s be real, sometimes May, you’ve made our lives worse, but we love you anyway.)

Thank you for letting me share my heart with you today.

One of the greatest blessings in my life is to be an uncle to my nephew and niece.

My nephew, Matty, is my first love. Our relationship started with some confusion and suspicion of me because I looked like someone impersonating his dad (my brother, Eric). But as he got older, he realized I was the more obnoxious and silly version of his dad. We spent a lot of time sitting on the floor and just laughing and laughing together. I remember the first time he ran towards me in his awkward gallop as he shouted “Uncle Minnow, Uncle Minnow!” Picking him up as he threw himself into my arms felt like a part of me I didn’t know was missing was made whole as I hugged and kissed him.

I call him “Matty Boy” now and although he’s too big to pick up like that, he still runs into my arms and lets me hug and kiss him. We still laugh but also have full on conversations about his Pokemon collection. I have a whole rare Pokemon card deck thing he specifically wanted for his eighth birthday in a few weeks.

My niece Melanie and I have been building a bond of our own. She’s deeply empathetic, like her mom. When her brother is being scolded, Melly is the one that goes over and comforts him. Once when I banged my foot against the dining table and crumbled in pain, she stopped whatever she was doing and came over to me eyes wide open, asking me if I was ok. And while Matty was always excited and ready to tell me a joke or ask me to play Legos with him, Melly meets me where I am, even in my grief.

Recently my family met together for my mom and my niece’s birthday. Their birthdays are one day apart and for the last three years, we’ve made a tradition of celebrating them together. But grief has a habit of loitering, even at birthday dinners, salting them with bittersweet flavors. I’ve also learned grief comes in waves and the best thing I can do is to be kind to myself and feel it until it recedes. That week leading up to the dinner, the tide was high and the waves tried to sweep me away.

As we finished our meal, I asked Melly if I can pick her up as we left the restaurant. She smiled, stretched out her arms and hopped up into mine. She usually puts one arm around my neck and turns outward, taking in the world from the elevated position. But that night as she settled into my arms she hugged me, pressing her cheek into mine. She ran her fingers through my hair and rubbed my jacket collar as we walked towards the door.

As we got to my brother’s car I tried to put her down but Melly didn’t want to let go, and kept her cheek pressed against mine. As we took a few minutes standing there while everyone else was getting ready to leave, I realized I wasn’t the one holding her. She was holding me this whole time.

I dropped into my grief—my sadness and anger over what’s happened this past year. The bitter waves sloshing around me, and Melanie in her beautiful, effortless, three year old way held space as I leaned into her and took in a few deep breaths. She’ll never understand how healing she was for me that night. Not that she has to though, because all she did was exist and be herself. At that moment, she became an adorable vessel of God’s faithful presence in my life.

Her hug has been a source of comfort I am still drawing from weeks later as I can still feel her cheek pressed against mine.

The past three years have been me inhabiting some big questions around my relationship to Christianity. There was so much resistance for me to share and talk about this. But being a part of Foster and hearing so many other people grapple with their unanswerable questions pushed me over the edge to share mine.

If you’re interested in discovering and inhabiting your own beautiful question together, our season starts on October 16th, and applications close on the 13th.

I took this photo in upstate New York, where a few friends and I went to welcome the new year at the end of 2021. The trip was a milestone after everything that happened the past two years: the lockdowns in 2020, George Floyd’s murder, the protests and reckoning afterwards. 

The reckoning I went through brought up questions that challenged the religious system I was a part of as a Christian. Questions I didn’t have the courage to ask because I didn’t want to suffer the consequences. One of those being earlier that year, I left the church I attended for close to a decade. I was there when the church first started and was the closest community I was a part of until then. It made no sense that I was choosing to leave when there was no tragedy or falling out that had caused it. But the falling out was more within me as I was deconstructing the faith I had believed in my entire life.

Growing up in the church, I learned that questioning any of the beliefs we held onto was a hazardous thing to do. Genuine curiosity was seen as genuine doubt, and God forbid I questioned a faith that held God, Truth and religion were the same thing. 

In order to fit in and make sure I got to heaven, I suppressed any doubt and just believed. And I really did believe, and still do believe the central tenets of my Christian faith, but I don’t think getting here had to feel so dangerous and sinful. Because back then, I didn’t know I needed a safe space to be seen and heard for who I was and what was coming up for me. I didn’t know I needed empathy—for someone to sit with me and wrestle through questions about my faith and how it fits in with the world, not told to just pray more and memorize Bible verses.

What I really didn’t know was that the people I was looking to didn’t know how to hold that safe space for themselves. The pressure to not question my faith was the same pressure they put on themselves. They were just as confused, afraid, and lonely as I was, and religion was there for comfort and some kind of status, not for growth and transformation. Leaving my church that year was my way of giving myself what I needed as I sat with the unanswerable question of how I could reconcile my relationship between God, Truth, and religion.

God, until then, was only seen through the lens of Christian reformed theology. A theology that has a long tradition of scholarship and teaching on specific truths about who God is and what He is doing in the world. That tradition was the foundation of the religion I was born into. It had grounded me with a fundamental certainty in an uncertain world, but now that same orthodoxy felt limiting and constricting. I once heard a podcast someone say, "God is the blanket we put over the mystery to give it a shape." These days, my relationship with Mystery and its endless discoveries feel more certain than the theological truths I used to study or debate over.

The function of healthy religion is to “re-ligio”—to re-ligament or re-align us with what really matters. But in the wake of my reckoning with white supremacy and as a person of color, I saw how people used religion to project dehumanizing prejudices against “unbelievers” and “sinners.” I saw what poisoned religion looked like: one built not to align us, but divide us from one another. A system that championed power, status, and ego, not faith, hope, and love.

The photo reminded me that there were others who were asking the same questions. Questions that aren’t meant to be answered rather teach us to “be patient toward all that is unsolved” and to “try to love the questions themselves,” as Rilke would say. Asking the questions, wrestling with them, and writing about them is the way to find others and feel less alone. I’m shedding the guilt of doubting what I once held to be true. I’m realizing asking questions isn’t an act of rebellion but a sign of growth.

And when it comes to this faith tradition I have reclaimed and still hold dear, these questions are leading me somewhere cosmic, somewhere much larger than the straight and narrow certainty I was taught to believe.

“Grace is just the natural loving flow of things when we allow it, instead of resisting it.”
— Richard Rohr

In April of 2013, four years into being a photographer, I made a mistake that I thought would end my career. It all started when a group of friends and I were planning for with a short vacation to Puerto Rico. The earliest everyone could leave was on a Wednesday. April is usually when the wedding season is in full bloom and I had a wedding to photograph that Sunday morning. We were deciding on when we should fly back, the responsible choice being Friday.

“But, then we’d only stay there for one full day?
That feels like a waste doesn’t it?
I mean, the flight back to New York is only four hours!
And we’ll be in the same time zone!
If I get back by Saturday evening, I’ll have plenty of time to rest and be ready to photograph the wedding.”

So we decided, on my insistence, to stay the extra day and leave on Saturday. The vacation was great and we arrived at the airport Saturday afternoon sunburnt and relaxed. As we were checking in, we found out our flight would be delayed a few hours. The attendant at the counter assured us the flight wasn’t canceled, we’d just be getting to New York at 10pm not 7pm.

“No biggie. That’s still plenty of time.
I’ll be tired but I know what I’m doing.
I’ve photographed dozens of weddings till now, I’ll be fine.”

We went to get some dinner while waiting, and when we got back we boarded the plane. An hour later we hadn’t left the gate.

“This is the captain speaking, sorry for the delay folks. We’ve been trying to fix a piece of equipment here, but unfortunately it’s broken and there is no replacement part here in San Juan. So we are going to have to ask everyone to deplane.
There’s another plane that’s en route and we will get you on there as soon as possible.”

“Uhhhhh, ok, well, at least there’s a plan to leave tonight.
The flight’s not canceled. They said it wouldn’t be canceled.
It’ll be ok.
I’ll get home tonight. I’ll sleep on the plane.
It’ll be ok.”

After waiting another few hours, we were getting ready to board when we were told we didn’t have a flight crew. Apparently flight crews can’t work more than a certain number of hours per shift and with all the delays they would reach their limit while on route to NYC. They needed to rotate in a new crew, but there wasn’t one available in San Juan. 

The plane was working but the flight crew wasn’t.The flight was canceled.

The next one will be in the morning at 6AM. By the time I got back, went home, packed my things, and got to the venue, the wedding would be half way done.

A recurring nightmare I’ve had as a student was one of me frantically studying 30 minutes before a final for a class I forgot to attend all semester. I flip through the textbook, scanning each page, trying to learn, memorize, and make up for what I didn’t do, all the while with a nauseous pit in my stomach of futility and panic.

When I became a photographer the nightmare mutated into me frantically packing and driving to a photoshoot that’s starting in 30 minutes, but would take me two hours to get there. Same blitz of effort, begging time to slow down, trying to make up for my mistake, all the while knowing it’s useless.

I’ve managed to wake up right before the gut punch moment of failure. I’d reassure myself it was just a dream and comfort myself back to sleep. 

“Wait, this isn’t a dream. I’m not sleeping.
I can’t make myself wake up.
This is really happening.
I’m not going to make it to this wedding.”

In my dreams I’m panicking and frantically running around, but as I was awake with adrenaline coursing through my body I found myself calm and collected. I went up to the attendant at the counter and explained my situation. She told me that American Airlines didn’t have any more flights going to NY that night, but there was a JetBlue flight that was leaving soon.

I hurried over to my friends, who were together in a panicked huddle, praying I could get back home. I told them about the flight leaving today, and that I’ll head back on my own while they wait for the morning flight.

They drove me in one of those carts to the other side of the airport to JetBlue’s gate. I made it to the gate with time to spare, ready to buy the ticket then and there. The nausea started to subside as it seemed like things might work out. My attempts weren’t futile! Maybe I can make up for my hubris by paying for an overpriced ticket, getting to the wedding, and doing a great job at this wedding tomorrow. 

But, for reasons I’ve forgotten and outside my control, the JetBlue flight also got canceled. The gut punch I avoided so much in my dreams once it landed, wasn’t so much a punch as it was molten lava erupting from my stomach up to my head and then traveling back down my neck and shoulders, melting my ego, and hardening in the deepest parts of my gut and soul.

“No need to wake up buddy, this wasn’t a dream.
It really happened.
You’re not going to make it to the wedding and there’s nothing you can do.”

I called the wedding planner 12 hours before I was supposed to be onsite to tell her I won’t be able to make it. She responded with a scream, yelling at me about how unprofessional I was and how I’m fucking up the entire day. When I told her I had people who were ready to sub in for me, she said she’ll take care of it and hung up on me. 

The hotel the airline put us up for the night had a hot tub, and so my friend and I sat there with a glass of whiskey and a cigar coming to terms with the biggest mistake of my career.

On the flight back the next morning, I prepared myself to atone for my sins. I was ready to pay back the cosmic debt I had incurred on this couple’s wedding day and whatever I had done to displease God. 

I emailed the couple when I got back to NYC a few hours after I knew their wedding was over. I told them how sorry I was and would refund their money. After I sent the email, I waited to receive their punishment and consequences of my mistake. I was ready to take it in humility and beg for forgiveness.

The next day I got an unexpected call from a friend. 

“Hey Minnow, it’s Matt, remember me?”

“Of course! How are you doing?” 

Matt briefly worked as an intern for an officemate of mine and we hung out a few times while he was here.

“I’m good too. Hey, so I’m calling because the strangest thing happened yesterday. I was at one  of my best friend’s wedding and after it was over we were sitting together having a drink talking about their day.
They told us they loved how everything turned out except for the fact the photographer they hired never showed up.”

“…oh dear God.”

“I said, ’What??? Who? Who was this loser?’ and they answered, ‘Minnow Park.’”

“Holy...”

“I was so surprised to hear your name. I told them that I knew you, and that you were a great guy and that there must have been something that went totally wrong for you to not not show up. I told them you wouldn’t just bail on them for no good reason. It sucked that this happened, but I hope everything is ok man.”

The couple responded a few days later with words that were just as gracious as Matt’s. They were, of course, disappointed but they were understanding. All they asked for was the refund on their deposit. I don’t know what they said or didn’t say to all their other friends who were getting married, but I was able to still go on photographing weddings for another 10 years. 

The punishment and verdict I was waiting for never came. I realized how I was in some way looking forward to atone for what I did because then I wouldn’t have had to make sense of what just happened. I knew I deserved punishment, and yet I was offered grace. Accepting it meant that even in my hubris and foolishness I didn’t deserve to be rejected and cast aside. All I could do was accept and keep going.

I remembered this story the other day as I was driving to the gym. The beats of this story have played out in similar rhythms at other times of my life. This year especially has been one of the most, let’s use the word, intense years of my life. It’s turned me upside down underneath an avalanche of loss, grief, and shame and I think my brain offered up this story as a point of reference to say, “Really, it’ll be ok.” Because as everything is settling down, I’m finding there is always grace waiting to be offered.

But if it’s true that, “Grace is just the natural loving flow of things when we allow it, instead of resisting it.” Why do I spend so much time resisting grace? Who doesn’t want grace and love? I do, but when it was offered by Matt and the couple, I had to convince myself it was ok to receive it.

It seems my ego doesn’t actually want grace and love. It would much rather work and earn all the good things that come its way. It feels better to say, “I made it happen” as opposed to, “This is all happening for me.”

Working hard for what I want is something I can control, something I can boast about, and feel secure in. But receiving what I need, without any merit and allowing myself to be loved, forgiven, and accepted feels threatening and undeserving.

I think that’s why God designed life to be punctuated by great love and great suffering, because those are the only things that can get my ego to stop scheming and allow me to plumb into my soul. And it’s there, free from ego, I can surrender to the grace and love that has always been offered to me.

So yes then and now, from Puerto Rico, all the way to the storm that has been this year, all is grace.

That wedding planner though? She probably still hates me.

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I felt awe in Hawaii. It’s a feeling rare enough that even when you expect to feel it, it’s unexpected when you actually do.

We headed out to Volcano National Park at around 5AM, taking advantage of our 6 hour jet lag from New York. We were told the best time to see the volcano was at night, which means most people go visit the park during sunset and stay till evening. The last time this volcano erupted was decades ago and so for weeks the park’s been packed around that time. But during dawn to sunrise, not so much.

We drove along Crater Rim Drive, the road pitch black except our headlights and the taillights of the few cars ahead of us who had the same idea as us. About half a mile to the entrance of the park, Becky pointed out towards my window to an orange glow in the sky. Now theoretically we knew we were going to see a volcano, but it didn’t become real until we realized that the sky was orange from the glow of lava spewing up from the earth. A surge of awe coursed through my body. My mind went blank and did my best to keep us on the road while shouting, “Oh my God, you’ve got to be kidding me!”

We parked the car and walked the short distance the crater overlook. What we saw made my jaw slacken, my breath deepen, and left me speechless trying to understand what was happening. After a while I just stood there holding my wife’s hand realizing we were far, far away from Queens, NY.

Recently, I’ve been trying to understand how I can be more in tune with my body and emotions. I’ve always said my body is a blunt instrument. I’m healthy in that I don’t get sick often, but I also don’t feel relaxed and free. Being emotionally fluid or somatically sensitive are very foreign concepts to me. I was never taught what that meant or shown what that looked like. The mind was championed over the body or soul. My experience of myself, my community, and God centered around what I knew to be true theoretically or theologically, not what we experienced, felt, or sensed in my body.

But standing there at the crater watching an volcano erupt in front of me, my body and emotions relished and fully invited the moment while my mind short circuited trying to understand what it was seeing. Once I stopped trying to figure out or control what was happening and give into the experience, I felt really vulnerable. I felt myself open up, get out of my head, and welcome in joy and awe.

The one thing I could do was take photos. I pointed one of the best cameras money could buy at the scene in front of me, but quickly realized how futile it was to even try and capture anything close to what I was experiencing. I mean, how can it when my mind can’t even understand what it saw? Do I think a sensor can do any better? Photos never do justice to this kind of beauty, especially the beauty of Hawaii. When we came back to the house and I was editing these photos I realized the point of the photo isn’t to capture what happened.

No, the photos serve as evidence of when I was in those rare moments of awe and how awe helps me remember that there are many things I don’t understand and much of that is beautiful, not threatening.

These photos remind me that the universe is a fundamentally benevolent place and the God who created it is fundamentally loving, not petty or cruel. Awe puts me in my place, and from where I am I can trust that whatever is outside my control is for my good, and whatever is in my control I must steward to the best of my ability. I can open my heart and it will be accepted, not broken.

As the sun rose, the light from the lava dimmed and we decided to walk along the path around the crater. As I was just starting to process what I saw down in the crater, I looked up and I was dumbstruck with awe once again.

I went to Hawaii for the first time a few weeks ago. Before going on this trip, Hawaii to me was about leis, beaches, and Israel Kamakawiwo'ole’s “Somewhere over the Rainbow”—the ignorant perspective of Hawaii designed to make you want to visit and leech off the islands for your touristy pleasure. The final few days of our ten-day trip was in Waikiki Beach where we felt that parasitic tourist energy around us. But most of our trip was spent on Big Island. I only knew of Big Island because a good friend lives in Waimea, and I feel lucky to have gone there as my first experience of Hawaii.

The other thing I knew about Hawaii was “aloha” and that it meant hello. We were greeted with aloha whenever we met someone or entered a store, but we also saw signs that said “Made with Aloha” or “Spirit of Aloha.” When we asked about what that meant, the greeting wasn’t just hello but an honoring of a way of life and worldview—a Spirit of Aloha written into Hawaiian Law:

''Aloha'' is more than a word of greeting or farewell or a salutation. ''Aloha'' means mutual regard and affection and extends warmth in caring with no obligation in return. "Aloha" is the essence of relationships in which each person is important to every other person for collective existence. ''Aloha'' means to hear what is not said, to see what cannot be seen and to know the unknowable.

A spirit of acceptance, grace, and belonging written into the laws of a state. Imagine that. While other states in our country try and control how we take care of our bodies, how we love, or what we learn, Hawaii has codified what it means to meet someone where they are.

Even there state initials are welcoming with an all caps “HI!”

In the Bible, there’s a passage Isaiah that says as we move in the world with joy and peace, the mountains and hills will break in singing, and the trees will clap their hands. It’s a beautiful promise of how when we move in love, aligned with ourselves, that nature will celebrate and move along with us.

Aloha points to that kind of alignment and everywhere I went in Hawaii, I saw the mountains and trees and waves move and dance in agreement. I never fully understood the “energy” of a place until I went to Hawaii. The accessibility of Hawaii being a domestic flight does an injustice to the transporting affect of being there. When confronted with the sheer beauty of a valley and river, the best point of reference my city-addled brain could muster was scenes from Jurassic Park that was filmed in Hawaii. My joke was I was expecting to see a brontosaurus in the distance eating off of a tree because, of course dinosaurs were still alive in a place like this.

And my god, it wasn’t just the beauty but the variety of natural beauty around us. Most of these photos here are from Big Island where we went from lava fields to lush greens to beaches to rainforests and back.

But the parasitic nature of tourism, although necessary for the economy, and the toxic legacy of imperialism creates this tension of beauty and anger on the island. A beautiful park and hike would be juxtaposed to rundown neighborhoods and prices that seemed high even to two New Yorkers used to $5 coffees. I wondered how hard it must be for some people to live in such paradise, having to commercialize their way of life rather than just enjoy it.

There’s also sense of urgency about how the ancestral knowledge of Hawaii—the wisdom, traditions, and way of life are going to be forgotten with their Kūpuna, the elders in her community. There was a time when the people who lived here were fully in sync and aligned with the lands around them. That wisdom and synergy was lost as her parent’s generation was more concerned about wanting them and their children to be American and Christian more than Hawaiians. But that’s changing and Kolby’s project Hometown Legends is trying to preserve the stories of their elders for her generation and her daughter’s generation.

There’s something about being aligned and wholehearted humans where we have to own our story, and not discard it. When I was younger I was so eager to let go of my Asian baggage so that I can fit in with other Americans. More recently as I have been deconstructing Christianity from the religious institution of Christianity, I’ve been wanting to cast all of it in a patriarchal, racist lens.

But this trip and talking with Kolby reminded me the more loving and difficult work is to include what was helpful and true and at the same time transcend ideas that keep us small and bigoted.

The spirit of Aloha welcomes all the different voices and is curious to hear what is not said, and try to see what is unseen. Owning those stories both the light and shadow allows us to share the fullness and complexity of life at the same time making someone feel fully seen. And maybe when we all walk out together in aloha, we can see the nature dance along with us in unison and praise of a generous and loving universe.

Mahalo, Hawaii.

Prentis Hemphill has my favorite definition of boundaries:

Boundaries are the distance at which I can love you and me simultaneously.

I was never, ever taught that boundaries can increase love. It was always sold to me as a last defensive measure. You put up the boundary when people are invading your space or your emotions and you can’t take it anymore. They should be dramatic and devastating.

Basically, you should be nice to people and love them until you you have to draw a boundary with them.

But no, not true. Those are the very things to unlearn.

Boundaries are actually a great way to create more loving and trusting relationships. It’s like realizing a grenade in your hand is actually a bouquet of flowers I can give to anyone I care about and want to love better.

A good boundary has two components to it (this podcast from Art of Accomplishment is the chef’s kiss):

1. Say the truth of what you are feeling, even if it’s scary.

2. Do not try to control or change the other person. A good boundary doesn’t tell them what to do, it tells them what you are going to do.

Sigh. I’m terrible at this.

The worst example of this is how a friendship of almost 10 years ended not because they said, “Fuck you!” to a boundary I set, but because I didn’t say anything and just walked away. I ghosted them—the only friendship that made me go paranormal.

I knew the friendship was toxic and burning me out, but I didn’t tell him that. We retreated back to our individual lives. I didn’t draw a bad boundary because no boundary was even drawn. That may have been the easiest path then, but now I regret it. I missed an opportunity for vulnerability, connection, and love, things I want to welcome more in my life these days.

The best example was a boundary set with me a few years ago by a still close friend. A group of us were at a cabin upstate hanging out for the weekend and during a conversation I mentioned to a friend about how something he said reminded me of his mom. He stopped what he was doing, turned to me and asked, “Please don’t talk about my mom in that way, you never met her or knew her.” We became close as his mom became ill and when she passed away I attended her funeral but never had the chance to meet her.

I apologized, and I have never brought her up in a familiar way ever since then. His boundary didn’t offend or hurt me, but rather made me love him more. It also made me trust his words more because he was vulnerable about what he needed.

As I’m putting this to practice, I’m internalizing the first rule of a good boundary as: what I feel matters, and it matters enough to be expressed, no matter the consequences.

That last bit about consequences was a third rail for me. God forbid I make my wife angry, or my friendships uncomfortable, or create any awkward situation. I felt I couldn’t bear being the one that rocked the boat, all the while I was the one running around making sure everyone was ok when the boat eventually capsized.

But honoring my truth and feelings even if it’s scary means I am loving myself in creating the boundary.

The second rule about not changing or controlling the other person is about loving them in creating the boundary. The expression of my feelings doesn’t have to have power over the other person. It just has to be a clear exchange of what I am going to do if they do this.

Asking for what you need isn’t hard because you don’t know what you need, but because it’s scary to express it.

But do it correctly and you’ve just handed someone a flower, telling them you care about them, and you care about them enough that you want to set boundaries where I can love you and me at the same time.