a journey of healing

actual heartbreaking healing

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.

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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.”