Let's Say: Screw Taboo

I didn’t choose to be asexual. I honestly doubt anyone would. 

And I’m not saying that to shame or dismiss the identity, only to establish that it’s complicated and doesn’t come with a clear road map or “solution,” (least of all a useful, modern explanation). Maybe its influence in my life has made me wonder about my creation more than the average person, but it didn’t make me special in wondering. 

To some extent, we all wonder about who we are. And while many of us eventually get comfortable with a scientific or psychological explanation for our existence, some of us receive these explanations and keep wondering. Because it can’t just be about the physical, we think—it has to be something else. Something bigger. 

Early on, before I learned about intuition and psychic phenomenon and the powers of spirit, I came to the conclusion that my condition had to be spiritual. My asexuality, and, even more than that—my identity—was a spiritual matter. And if it was a spiritual matter, then there was a spiritual answer. Now, me, being the obsessive person I am, wanted that answer. And to be totally honest? I was willing to do anything to get it. 

Which is how this particular story came to unfold.  

It was early August of 2026 when I stumbled upon a science-fiction television series about artificial intelligence on one of my (let’s be honest, over half a dozen) streaming platforms. The premise of the show went as follows: humanity had successfully developed anthropomorphic AI robots to assist in all areas of life, including home responsibilities and caretaking. These AI workers, as is often believed of AI, did not and could not possess human consciousness. They simply operated according to programming. Well, considering this criteria wouldn’t make for very good television, there had to be an exception: AI robots who could think and feel beyond the ordinary models—exactly like humans. These special robots were created by the archetypical “mad scientist”, who was driven to push beyond the limits of what had already been achieved (of course, primarily for his own gain). He therefore succeeded in creating six sentient robots, one of whom had the appearance and memories of his late wife. The robots later discovered an extra twist: when their minds were synced, they were able to access a coding sequence that would create more sentient robots. A visual of this synchronization looked like all six of them mentally meeting in a forest and gathering around a tree while placing their hands on it. The tree of life, you might surmise? It is a powerful biblical reference. 

But regardless of the religiosity that commandeered it, the image on the screen moved something in me. I watched these robot-human actors put their hands on this proverbial tree, and I started to cry. Because even though it was fiction, it felt like fact that they were accessing something profound and indescribable—consciousness, its source, its center. The only problem was, there was no clear understanding of how or why they could access it. And while this troubled these fictional characters deeply, it troubled me even more. It wasn’t just that these robots would never be able to understand their own sentience, it was that we, as human beings, also had no idea about ours. 

Or so I believed. 

It was then I began to write and research. I found myself revisiting topics I hadn’t thought about in a long time: paranormal activity, past lives, near-death experiences, the after life. Ah, the afterlife. Where Creator existed and where we’d go when we no longer existed—physically, that is. How had I forgotten about all of this stuff? I once was so invested. I developed an adolescent interest in past-life memories and near death experiences that had me reading and researching about them constantly. This, ironically, was all catalyzed by a different television show, my favorite one: The OA. A different premise than the series about AI, but similar in that it forced me, even at a young age, to ask myself, what else is out there? And how do I, as a lowly human being, access it?

Then, before I knew it, I had returned to a website of an organization I remembered stumbling upon almost a decade earlier: the International Association of Near Death Studies (IANDS). I’d always thought of Near Death Experiencers (NDErs) as inaccessible—occupying some high bracket of enlightenment that could only be shared with one another. I didn’t want to breach the community for fear that I did not belong and would offend those seeking a place to process what had happened to them. But maybe I could tell them, maybe I could explain: I feel this sense deep inside me, like I’m not home. Like I’ve never been home. And I don’t know if this is the reason for my aversion to sex or for my tendency to dissociate but maybe you can help me understand. Maybe you yourselves understand, and in some ways, I belong with you. 

That’s when my eyes scanned past the banner at the top of the page. There was an opportunity to meet them—nearly all of them—in just four weeks at the 2026 IANDS conference. It was the right time, it had to be. Why else would the conference be so close, right when I was having this sudden revelation about my troubling, lifelong relationship with consciousness? 

As an adolescent, I had been scared to show interest in this field, to ask questions and make space for myself, but I knew in that moment that I had to try—or else I’d spend countless more years wondering why I was the way I was, and why I felt so fractured. I didn’t want to wait for permission anymore. 

Which is how, four weeks later, I stepped foot in the Hyatt Bellevue hotel in Seattle on what was day one of the IANDS conference. And how, four days later, as anticipated, I left an entirely different person than how I came in. 

Simply hearing about such a conference conjures images of a remarkable kind of gathering, and let me be the first to say, it was remarkable. Over one thousand people from all over the country—plus a handful from the rest of the world—were there to learn, connect, and expand their understanding of life after death, or consciousness outside of the body. Though I was what some of us at the conference jokingly termed “an enthusiast”, not an experiencer, I nurtured a not-so secret desire to know what life was like on the other side. I desperately wished that I could see it for myself. But nobody embarks on a path towards death with a promise or goal to come back. Typically people die only against their will, yet here were these people—anomalies, in the best sense of the word—who’d done so and returned. Now, they were sharing their experiences, writing books, conducting research, and it was all so profound, so beautiful, I can’t help but admit that I am still without proper words for the experience. 

I am trying to find them, though, because there was something about this conference, about the people there, that begged to be translated. Not just for my sake, but everyone’s sake. All of humanity and the planet that hosts us. 

But, before I talk about our great planet and the hardwired need to save ourselves, I’m going to share what I learned about my soul. I know I am just one example, but I’ve come to see that no one example is inconsequential in the grand scheme of this place. 

I learned at the conference from many panelists that, as spirits, before we are sent to earth, we convene with Creator about our next life in what’s called a pre-life review. This is exactly what it sounds like: we are provided with options for our soul’s next journey on earth, and before we are sent, we consent to the events of a specific life. You read that right—the life you live now was a promise you made before you even had a body. 

It sounds insane, I get it. And I’m not going to try very hard to convince you because that’s not the point of this essay and ultimately up to you to decide. If your faith lies in Christ or Allah or the countless other deities we as humans have prophesized and prayed to (materialism included), then you will probably find all of this blasphemous. But if you’re like me, and you’re curious and open-minded and maybe unaffiliated with any one conception of God or the afterlife, then consider that what I’m saying might hold merit. The study of near-death experiences and associated phenomenon is the most researched understanding we have of the afterlife and consciousness outside of the body. The Near Death Research Foundation has the largest database of recorded NDE’s, close to 16,000 , which is a small fraction of the estimated 9-20 million that have taken place in America alone. Furthermore, somewhere between 1,000-2,500 scholarly studies have been produced on the topic of near-death experiences and life after death, many uncovering clear patterns and statistical significance in their findings. 

I know without truly reproducible, materialistic science, none of this can be called fact, but I believe it nonetheless. I choose the percentage of all of this that asks for faith, because it feels true inside of me, and isn’t that all faith is?

Still, faith alone doesn’t easily provide answers. If my life was hard—full of obstacles caused by my journey as a young, chronically ill, dissociated and asexual person—then why had I agreed to it? What great purpose was there in what felt like these strange, uncommon pains?  

It all came to a head on the last day of the conference. I was rushing to the final panel with a friend of mine I’d made a couple days earlier. In real life, this friendship had only existed 48 hours, but in conference time, we were at least three weeks in. Even though I hardly knew anything normal about Will—his job, his family, his friends—I had this feeling like we did know each other. At this point in my life, I was able to acknowledge the degree to which knowingness could be achieved by similar nonverbal cues and shared empathy, most of which we both reflected back to each other, but there was also this look, one that Will described as “highly conscious”. He could see it in my eyes, and I could see in his.

Except, I couldn’t help wondering if something was missing. Maybe it was because I didn’t know enough about him—there was the fact that he never shared his struggles as openly as I did at the conference, which wasn’t a bad thing, but also meant I couldn’t see or believe his pain as clearly. It seemed to me he’d encountered so much joy in his life that the pain had seeped out of his eyes, his soul. Maybe it never existed to begin with.  

Despite all this, I wanted to believe Will was capable of understanding me in a meaningful way, but I couldn’t get past my usual block: how could he? If we didn’t have similar life experiences, and if he didn’t share my deep pain or even a masochistic love for pain in general, then where was our common ground? Was it in the lightness of being alive, our drive towards human connection and adventure? Was this enough to create profound knowing between two people? 

I’d never thought so. But maybe Will did. I just couldn’t help but wonder if it was because he was also blinded by something else—the intrusion of human desire. 

For me, desire and pain have always been inherently linked. When you see someone or something struggling, you usually desire to help them. By consistently expressing my pain, I make myself a walking advertisement for those wanting to help. 

And I think, even if Will wouldn’t frame it this way, he first and foremost wanted to help me. The desire to do so can bleed into the desire to care: platonically, romantically, sexually. But to bleed desires is to be unclear in your knowing of a person. It creates an egoic shift that decenters the other’s desire. This is something I’ve seen myself and many others do throughout my life. And while it’s a very human act, it becomes difficult to navigate these two conflicted intentions in conversation. 

Case in point: when on the way into the panel room, he pulled out an $100 bill and said, “someone at this conference gave this to me and told me I was supposed to ask you out to dinner”—I balked. First, because I thought it really would be a clever pick up line, if it was in fact one. Supposed to implied that Creator or spirits intended this, that it was fate being oracularly communicated by someone at the conference who had the ability to access this information. 

Naturally, the only response that felt right was to laugh. “Are you messing with me?” I said, maybe a little too quickly. 

He shook his head. “No. I swear on it, he just came up and gave this to me. I can find him and…”

“No, no it’s okay. I believe you.” I laughed again to hide my obvious shock and embarrassment. 

“You mean platonically, right?” 

“It can be whatever you want it to be,” he replied smoothly, with a smile. 

“Well, I mean, I don’t, I think—yeah…it would have to be platonic…” I managed to get out. 

I don’t know if anything else was said because then the ballroom door was open and we were walking into the panel and waving to our conference friends like Will hadn’t just shifted the entire nature of our connection with one foolish, giddy question. It was the same proposition other men had made eight months before, a year before, and on and on before that—each offer likely proceeded by the same thought: Maybe this girl is someone special. Maybe she could be mine. 

So there I was in my seat, stewing in that familiar mixture of panic and the debilitating self-awareness that comes from knowing of someone else’s affection, when a new feeling crept up, one that didn’t bring the typical revelatory thrill of being desired but rather, intense frustration—anger, even. The long grappled with fears about my identity rushed to my head with ferocity: why was I like this? And why did I outwardly project as normal if I wasn’t, would never be one—least of all for a man?

I told Will I was going to the conference bookstore and practically bolted out of the room. Outside, I took a few deep breaths, but I was still shaking. Why was I like this? Why was I like this? WHY WAS I LIKE THIS! blasted on loop through my head, right into every cell. 

I looked up and saw most of the tables had been emptied and were starting to be broken down. All but one remained, front and center with a purple tablecloth. Purple tablecloth….one of the girls I met the night before had mentioned this, how there was a medium doing sessions in the lobby. At a table with a purple cloth. I didn’t think, just let my legs move me forward. 

“Hi, are you still accepting people?”

The woman behind said table—older, but not yet grandmotherly-aged—glanced up. “Yes, actually. My sign sheet is up right here.”

I checked the spreadsheet, then my phone. “Oh, last slot.”

“Yeah, funny thing…I was about to pack up, but I decided to stick around. Probably for you.” She smiled, all knowing. 

The signs were there. 

“Yay, I’m grateful I didn’t miss you! A girl I met yesterday told me I should come see you.”

“Well I’m glad you made it.”

“I’ve seen a few psychics, but never a medium…”

“Okay, so one thing you need to know: all mediums are psychic, but not all psychics are mediums. I can do a regular psychic reading for you, or I can do a reading where I reach out to some of your angel guides or loved ones.”

“Hm…well, the thing is…I don’t have many deceased relatives, so it probably wouldn’t be worth it.”

“That’s not necessary. There’s still spirits up there looking out for you. Ones who you knew when you were there, or from previous lives.” 

“Wow…okay, that’s really cool. Honestly, I just have a question I want answered. Whatever way you can help, I’d be grateful.”

She nodded, bird-like. I could see a simmering of something in her eyes. “Let’s start with the question.“

“Right now?”

“Yes, you’ll be my last client of today, of the conference!” She gestured to the chair across from her. I came around the table and sat down, trying to suppress my nerves.  

She looked back at me expectantly. With the weight of the whole world—life, death, and beyond—staring back at me, I let my question free from its cage:

“Why am I like this…w-why am I asexual?”

She shifted her feet, looked up, nodded sharply and, not more than a second later, began to speak. “What would you say if I told you…” she leaned in conspiratorially, “you’re not from here.” We both stared back at each other in what may have been the purest moment of silence I’d ever experienced. She let me have this moment, then continued: “You’re from another place. A dimension where there’s no sex and no gender. Spirits there are made entirely of light and communicate similarly to how they do beyond. That is, telepathically.“

Nonsense, the average person would think. Complete. Bull. Shit. Except, like shoddy scaffolding collapsing inside me—the truth of what she said hit the floor of my soul. And sank. Not just because one of the other psychics I’d seen told me something similar, but because tears were filling my eyes, and I suddenly couldn’t breathe. I knew positively and with certainty for the first time in my life that I had been right—the issue of my asexuality was a spiritual problem all along. 

“Oh my God…that’s why I never feel like I’m home.”

She nodded as if she already knew I would say that. 

“Then why…why would I be put here? Why not stay where I’m from?”

She looked up again, mumbled something under her breath. Nodded. “You answered a call.”

Suddenly, she had a pen in her hand and was fishing out a piece of paper. “Somewhere around World War 2, there was a call for people to come to earth. To bring light and love.”

She drew a slanted line across the page, then added shaky circles ascending up it. 

“I’m seeing all these souls—like yours, made of light. But some are translucent and some are not. You…you’re in the middle, kind of a hazy light. I call these souls “bridge kids.” They’re like a combination of indigo children and crystal children, but you won’t find anything about them online. It’s just a term I made up to make sense of them. You can, however, look into indigo and crystal children…”

I nodded, entirely losing the plot but also entirely engrossed in the unbelievable things that were coming out of her mouth. 

“Anyways, there was the call from Creator for souls to come to earth. You accepted this call because you wanted to help the planet. Not the people, though—the planet.” She jerked her head up, nodded twice. “Yes, that’s right.” I processed for the first time that this was not just a conversation between the two of us. 

“Mother Earth,” I whispered. I felt tears prick my eyes again. “I’ve always wanted to save her…more than anything. Sometimes, it’s like… I can feel her pain.” 

“This is where you feel most connected, most yourself. But maybe you’ve gotten too mixed up with people.” 

“I have…”

“Even though they’ve never really understood.”

“No….they haven’t.” I wiped my cheeks. “But wait, are all asexual people like this?” I thought of all the ones I’d met and still knew, which was many. Maybe this could be their answer, too. 

“No,” she answered quickly. “For most people, it is true asexuality, but for you…it’s this feeling like, how do I exist in this body? Body, what is a body? And I hate to tell you this, but there’s not many of you here. Not at this time.” She looked down at her arm, where the hairs were standing completely upright. “Yes, yes. That’s right.” I was adjusting to this new metaphysical method of communication. It was so charged, so electric. 

“Wow. This really explains why I’ve always felt like such a freak.”

“Listen, you’re preaching to the choir. I’ve never felt like I belong here either!” She laughed fully for the first time, and I knew she meant it. I wondered what kind of life it was to be a psychic, to receive these powerful messages with or without consent. “But trust me, you’re not. You’re just here on a mission.”

“I have always felt like I’m on a mission…that I have this great, ginormous thing I need to achieve. To help the world.”

“And you will.” Another sharp nod. 

I had so many questions, but there was one more thing in particular I needed to ask, that I had spent the past three years searching for clarity on. 

“…If I’m here for a reason… and I agreed to all this, then did I agree to develop my dissociative disorder? Even though the woman who caused it…I was worried about seeing her?”

She paused, lost herself once more in the third party of our conversation, and looked back at me sincerely. 

“Whatever hardships you go through are the hardships meant for you in this life. I understand that you were weary of this woman. That was your intuition. Ultimately, though, you went to see her. And if not her, it could have been someone else. This experience of not being in your body, not being grounded, is very core to this lifetime.”

“So…so will it ever get b-better?” I could hear the breaking in between the syllables, fear damaging the shape of the words, my hope. 

“I don’t think you’re meant to be like this forever. You will find your way back. If not to where you started, then at least closer.” 

“But how?”

Her eyes darted up and the pen was moving again. 

“I’m seeing a circuit board.”

“Really? Wait. Oh my god.” It had to be…

“Is that significant?”

“Well, I don’t know, but the only treatment option for my dissociative disorder right now is this therapy called trans-cranial magnetic stimulation. TMS. I think it’s very circuit-related. Externally, and I guess internally, to the brain…”

“The thing I’m seeing looks a lot like a Rife machine. Have you heard of a Rife machine?”

I shook my head. 

“It operates using different frequencies. You know how everything is a frequency, right? That’s not just spirits, it’s science. I think your problem has to do with your brain’s frequency. It’s out of alignment.”

“Huh…that’s kind of like the TV show Pluribus. Have you seen it?”

Now she was the confused one. There I was relating everything back to fiction, realizing it was never all fiction for some people. “This woman discovers that the only way to interfere with an alien species that has invaded humanity’s minds is by disrupting it with certain radio frequencies…” It was also starting to make sense why these shows had such a grip on me.

“That’s interesting. Well, whatever solution you’re seeking, I believe it involves this sort of circuit board and frequencies.”

I mulled this over, trying to come up with an instant answer to the mystery of the circuit, even though I wasn’t sure what significance it could have at all. 

“Okay…and you really think I can get past this one day?” I could feel the tears trying to break through again. 

“I think you have a large team of angel guides. Larger than most. And you’re an intuitive being. You can trust that intuition, develop it. Not right away or too extensively. First, you need to ground. I wouldn’t recommend any work that could take you further outside your body. Just go where you can find a sense of peace. Outside, in nature. I’m seeing a hand on a tree.”

A hand on a tree…the tree of life? The source of consciousness?

“Yes, go touch a tree. Many trees.”

Because I always knew, trees are the children of our Creator, like capsules of code that hold the essence of life, of being. I’d learned to rely on their wisdom, their strength, their peace. I thought of a book I loved by an influential environmental activist, The Legacy of Luna: The Story of a Tree, a Woman and the Struggle to Save the Redwoods by Julia Butterfly Hill. Julia lived in a tree named Luna for two years to protest clear cutting and deforestation of the coastal redwoods. She was the kind of woman I wanted to be: a martyr for Mother Earth, one of few strong voices for a voiceless planet. Maybe I was closer in entity to any given tree than any given human I knew. Maybe we shared the same consciousness code. 

The session ended shortly after the discussion about the circuit board. The medium asked if she could place her hands on my head to finish the reading, and I allowed it. I don’t know if this is what sent me over the edge later that night as I descended into the most intense panic attack I’d had in three years, but it felt spiritual as much as it did biological. The panic, I reasoned, was a side effect of revelation. 

I could feel it building in the hours after our reading, but I ignored it. I had gotten so good at ignoring the symptoms of my anxiety and dissociation over the years This time, it was because I wanted to enjoy the last day with these people: my dear conference friends, later dubbed “spirit family”—parents whose children were hurting the way I’d once hurt but who, no matter their inability to understand, loved their kids enough to keep them afloat. One of the women in the group, my spirit mom, noted my ability to put on a good face despite everything that I shared I was going through. “I really wouldn’t have known,” she whispered while I wiped my eyes in the bathroom mirror and smiled. 

Less like family but more friends were the two thirty-something men in the group, older than me by many years but who wanted to see me or sleep with me? Maybe both, considering they so obviously wanted love—concentrated and loyal and very human in form. But I didn’t. At least, not in the same way. I tried to tell them this, but even with my new revelations about my identity, the words fell on deaf ears. To empathize with someone is to have experience what they went through, and few people know what it’s like not to want sex, not to want companionship.   

Loose on the city streets, truly alone for the first time in 96 hours, both the city and my mind collapsed. A state of entropy. It could be described a little like the final scene in Inception: buildings careening off their axis, freed from the leash of gravity and tilting towards earth. So many dimensions of reality raining down—an urban kaleidoscope of my mind’s making and breaking. 

Maybe my dissociation was its own gift, I thought to myself as I navigated my maps to the nearest green space. Not psychic, not intuitive, and hardly enjoyable, but a gift nonetheless: the ability to disconnect from all the intensity of trying to live in a human body, when I was never built for it. All the years of indulging my victimhood—my illness, my weirdness, my inadequacy—because I couldn’t handle what it took to be alive. To be me. 

I laid down in the grass at the center of the field and started to cry. Big, gasping sobs interspersed by sips of oxygen. I had to get it out, all of it, this pain that was so deep and so divine, yet was never truly mine alone. 

I reached for my phone, pulled up a chat with an old friend. 

Just texting because I thought you’d understand 

this weird feeling I’m having right now

like everything is so scary…but it’s going to be okay

because it’s all love in the end

I called another friend, one who had studied death in graduate school. He was always there for me, and had taught me a great deal about unconditional love even over the course of one short year of friendship. He would understand. Not perfectly, but protectively. Unfortunately, given our 12 hour time difference, he didn’t answer the phone, but in between sobs, I spilled my guts anyways. Sometimes you just needed to get it out. 

“Hey…wow I feel stupid. I’m just…having a weird moment… I saw this psychic or this media lady and she told me things I felt like I was waiting to hear my whole life. It was just really freaky…like a good freaky, but I don’t know ….I feel like people never loved me. Not really, like they didn't care or didn't show that they cared and it just hurt… it made me hate myself… but I don't wanna live like that anymore. And I don't wanna do that to other people… I just think it's so pointless… it's like, the universe is made of love. We don't have to be so mean to ourselves. Honestly, I think you’re the first person that really showed that to me. Gosh. I feel so dissociated right now, but I don’t know… I also feel hopeful…like I’m standing at the precipice or something and if I go too far, I won’t come back. Not in a bad way but in a way of safety…I don't wanna be afraid of it. I think we'll be OK if we choose to be OK, believe we’ll be okay. You know? Okay. I just wanted to say that. Sorry to bother you even though I know you said I can call whenever. I love you.” 

All my life I thought someone else could make it all make sense, could fix what went wrong inside me. I wanted someone to know what was happening to me in that park in Bellevue, Washington, but even if they responded, they wouldn’t have had The Answer. Nor would I, or any psychic I ever saw. I was alone. In my body, yes, but not in the greater sense of the word. Because I was a part of the universe. Indra’s great tapestry, the divine light, the celestial orbs I’d been learning about the past few days—they were me, and I was them. I couldn’t see this, but I could feel it more than I ever had. 

I needed to start giving myself permission. Just like I did to go to the conference. But I had to do it everywhere in my life, too. An entire upheaval of thought and action, starting with one situation in particular. 

The next morning, Will texted me on his way to the airport. We hadn’t properly been able to say goodbye the night before, since I’d rushed out of the restaurant to release my rising panic. But I knew there was something left to be said, for both of us. 

Will

As I was leaving this morning I bumped into John

and he and I spent the next hour on the way to the

airport talking about the conference and our lives. 

He was the one who randomly slipped $100 into my

hand in the middle of the keynote and told me to take

you out to dinner. I loved yesterday just how funny and

smart you are, also we’re strangely similar in

some ways it made me question why we met. 

Aww u left I was gonna text to meet & say bye but I realize I’m also really awkward at goodbyes (much as I love sentimental stuff, I’m also an anxious avoidant😭) and I know I’ll see you again🥹✨I hope!!

Hopefully it’s okay if I share, but I think we met because I am learning and celebrating that you can know someone without knowing everything about them🫶🏻being seen or cared for can be very different than what society made me believe…maybe /im sure you have a different lesson (it arrives eventually) but thank you for “letting me go”/ understanding. I am more okay walking through this world on my own than I’ve ever been. I always thought it was a bad thing or it made for a “bad story”, but I think for me it’s the true story, and it’s actually okay✨🥹at least for now:)

I know the $100 will get u where u need to or r meant to go 💓it could even be a conference memento like a little lesson

that we are all guided and guiding people🤯😣

sorry for this being the script to a coming of age movie but

that’s my thoughts and they always come out better in writing :)

Super safe travels⭐️

Will 

Oh no I’m totally taking you out on a date one day,

I promised John 🙏 😌 nothing romantic if you don’t

want it to be, I respect everything you told us yesterday. 

Aw sorry for leaving without saying bye, I just love life

unfolding fast and jumping on a flight back home felt like

the right move. 

I resonate that you’re drawn to finding your path solo.

I do now have a fire inside me wanting to show you just

how fun life can be, I see so much consciousness in your

eyes and think you of all people are so receptive to life going

well.

I was never going to perfectly understand Will, and he was never going to perfect understand me: this was the fallibility of human connection. I knew that, but it didn’t mean it wasn’t hard to accept. It was true that him helped me realize I was getting one step closer to not relying on people—specifically, men—as a means of self-worth and salvation. He might have seen the glimmer in my eyes and felt drawn to it, but it didn’t mean I owed him me. I was still just a person at the end of the day, as flawed and prone to sadness or rage as anyone else. He didn’t know because he only saw the best of me. One day I hoped to accept that it was okay not to always show people the best of me. 

I knew the dust (and my dissociation, post-panic attack) needed time to settle. Luckily, I had chosen a flight a few days after the conference so I could travel around the forests of Washington and give myself space to process. In hindsight, this was a very intense choice: to go from four straight days of human interaction to four straight days on my own. In the woods. But maybe it was also everything I needed: challenging, beautiful, comforting, lonely. Companionship would have been opposite the point. Though I spent the whole time anxious and dissociated from everything that had transpired, I had this renewed understanding of myself as capable, fierce, alive. I could handle whatever came. Hadn’t I always? 

It was only when I returned to California five days later that I could tell something had really shifted. Though I’d always cherished my apartment and the college town I’d started to call home the past few years, my love suddenly felt effusive. Unwavering. And while I used to encounter occasional frustration with my roommate for just existing, now I was just grateful to have her, to have provided a space for her to move into when she really needed it. Craziest of all, there was the sudden onset of empathy for my parents, who I’d spent the past three years distancing myself from. I reached out to my mom and apologized for not speaking to her for 12 months, finally internalizing the knowledge that with my silence, I had slowly broken her heart. 

Operating with any energy opposite to love, I saw all the ways I had profoundly limited myself and my purpose. 

Since graduating college the year before, I tried what felt like a little bit of everything: working on film sets and farms, baking and event planning for free—trying to get people to like me, to need me. I made connections with young people all across the county, hosted events that only seemed to lead to more events, volunteered hours every week but never felt like I was contributing to anything. 

What was the point of it all? I asked myself every step of the way. I was searching and searching down what felt like an infinite hole. I labeled it existentialism, and also The Reason for all my suffering. I was never going to be happy because it would always find me—that fixed singularity towards nothing. 

I wanted a purpose, but I hadn’t been able to refine my definition of it. Then came IANDs. 

And I finally understood that everything I did was in service to something greater. All those little connections and creations I’d been making were building a web that would soon provide me new friends, creative outlets, opportunities for personal and professional growth. It would give back to me what I’d given to it, in the full cyclical nature of Creator’s intricate universe. 

And my complicated identity that never seemed to have a solution?

There were other people out there who shared it. Maybe not for the same reason, and not from the same cause, but who nonetheless needed someone to tell them they weren’t alone. I could be that person, was maybe born to be that person. 

So I’m going to become her.  

Which is how this story, one month later, comes to a simultaneous soft close and revelatory beginning. As I begin to unlearn the compulsory desire to be desired, to be chosen as a woman prized above all others. As I begin to truly deconstruct the great epic fairytale of heterosexuality, monogamy, and motherhood. As I stop displaying “normality” (people-pleaser, high functioning worker, happy girl, sexually desirable) for everyone else’s sake, when I don’t want to be those things unless they’re on my own terms. 

I’m going to be asexual, neurodivergent, dissociated, and chronically ill, and I’m going to be loud and proud of it—both online and off. 

Whatever it takes to get there, whatever enemy or ego troubled people need to kill, I hope they get to be loud and proud of their identity, too. Together, we can learn to say: screw taboo. Fuck shame and guilt. Because we weren’t made of darkness, and we don’t need permission to step into the light.