I Chose Myself (And It Still Haunts Me)

Dear friend,

I don't know how to tell you this without sounding like I've betrayed everyone I once stood beside. Maybe I have.

It started small. An offhand comment in a meeting: "Maybe we should let someone else lead this time." I'd been running these activist gatherings for months, but the implication was clear—I was taking up space. Space that belonged to others. Space I didn't deserve because I was Asian, male, too privileged to understand real suffering.

I nodded. I stepped back. I gave the microphone away.

Then it happened again. And again. My opinions didn't matter in discussions about policies I'd spent years researching. I was told I was hogging resources, being a typical male, a misogynist by default. When I got cancer—a very male cancer, a "less important" one because it's more treatable—I found myself apologizing for even mentioning it. As if my suffering was also taking up too much space.

I kept choosing others. Every single time.

But here's what no one tells you about that choice: eventually, you run out of yourself to give away. You become a hollow thing, nodding along to talking points you've heard a thousand times, watching social media fill with people who seem perpetually angry at you for existing. You unfollow friends. Not because you disagree with them, but because you can't keep reading posts that tell you your identity disqualifies you from mattering.

I was a single-issue voter for years. Only Democrats could win because they supported my LGBTQ friends. Even as I started questioning other policies, even as the activist spaces made me feel smaller and smaller, I held the line. I refused to "take away the rights" of people I loved.

But who was choosing me?

Eventually, I made the choice. I stepped back from activism. I unfollowed the friends whose feeds felt like daily indictments. I stopped trying to prove I was one of the good ones. I chose research fields that avoided equity frameworks, even though funding still demanded I bend the knee to leftist orthodoxy.

I chose myself.

And it sucks.

Not because the choice was wrong—I don't think it was. But because it feels like betrayal. Like I've abandoned the people who needed me to keep fighting. Some friends literally told me to unfollow them, to stop being their friend if I aligned with any political party that allowed policies against them. I haven't lost those friendships yet, but I'm avoiding them. Bracing for impact. Living in the space between traitor and coward.

The guilt is a cocktail: shame that I couldn't keep giving, betrayal of the friends I once marched beside, relief that I can finally breathe, and sadness that breathing required this much distance. The loneliness is its own punishment.

And now I'm exploring Christianity. Specifically, Anglicanism. A tradition that's currently schisming over LGBTQ ordination, same-sex marriage, and female priests. The irony isn't lost on me.

I don't know yet what Christianity requires me to believe about these issues. I'm still figuring that out. What I do know is that I can't keep erasing myself to make others comfortable. I also know that wearing a "Christian badge" feels like it will cement the wedge between me and the friends I still love. Friends who see that badge as a declaration of war.

I don't have answers. I don't even know if I'm asking the right questions.

What I'm trying to do now (you're welcome to join me):

1. Sit with the guilt instead of fixing it.
I'm learning to pray the Psalms of lament—especially Psalm 13.

>Psalm 13

Not to resolve the tension, but to name it before God. To let the ache exist without needing an immediate answer.

2. Write letters I won't send.
I'm drafting emails to friends I'm avoiding. Not to justify myself, but to articulate what I'm wrestling with. Most of them stay in my drafts folder. Some I delete. But the act of writing helps me see what I actually believe versus what I'm afraid to lose.

3. Ask smaller questions first.
Instead of "What does the Bible say about LGBTQ issues?" I'm asking: "What does it mean to love someone and disagree with them?" and "Can I hold space for my own suffering without diminishing theirs?" I don't know if these are the right questions, but they're the ones I can actually engage with right now.

4. Protect one friendship.
I'm identifying one LGBTQ friend I'm not willing to lose and being radically honest with them about where I am. Not to debate theology, but to say: "I'm exploring something that might put distance between us, and I don't want that to happen. Can we talk about what that looks like?"

5. Remember that choosing myself doesn't mean forsaking others.
This is the hardest one. I'm trying to believe that stewarding my own life—my health, my conscience, my capacity—is not the same as abandoning people who need solidarity. I'm not sure I believe it yet, but I'm practicing it anyway.

A Prayer for Those Caught Between

For Grace (Book of Common Prayer, Morning Prayer - Wednesday Collect)

O Lord, our heavenly Father, almighty and everlasting God, you have brought us safely to the beginning of this day: Defend us by your mighty power, that we may not fall into sin nor run into any danger; and that, guided by your Spirit, we may do what is righteous in your sight; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

A Personal Prayer

God, I don't know how to hold all of this. The guilt, the grief, the fear that I've become someone I don't recognize. If choosing myself was wrong, show me. If it was right, help me stop punishing myself for it. And if there's a way to love both you and the friends I'm afraid to face, teach me that path. I'm tired of being hollow. I'm tired of being a traitor. I just want to be a person who matters—to you, to them, to myself. Amen.

This is part of my ongoing exploration of faith, culture, and what it costs to build a life that doesn't erase you. If you're wrestling with similar tensions, I'd love to hear from you. Subscribe to get the full archive and deeper dives into these questions.