You Were Never Broken

I spent a lot of my childhood trying to figure out what was wrong with me.

Not in some abstract, philosophical way, but in the very real, daily experience of watching other boys exist and realizing I didn’t seem to move through the world like they did—or at least the way I thought I was supposed to.

It often felt like there was a language other boys spoke fluently that I never learned. They seemed to understand the rules without anyone having to explain them—what to talk about, what to care about, what to joke about, what to like. Sports, cars, video games, girls—it all came so naturally to them, and I felt like I was standing just outside of something everyone else had been invited into.

It wasn’t something I set out to learn.

My mom noticed I wasn’t like the other boys, and she believed something in me needed fixing. So I was signed up for the sports—baseball, swimming, basketball, even iceless hockey—one after another, hoping that maybe something would finally click. That maybe, if we just found the right one, it would unlock whatever it was that seemed to come so naturally to everyone else.

And when that didn’t work, the problem didn’t go away—it just showed up somewhere else.

School wasn’t safe either. I was bullied, pushed around, beat up—so often that it stopped feeling like something unusual and I just started to expect it. The torment just became part of my everyday life.

So the solution was to make me tougher.

After repeatedly getting beat up at school, I was put into karate to learn self-defense—to learn how to fight back, how to protect myself, how to be stronger.

But it didn’t feel like protection.

It felt like I was just being moved from one place where I got hit to another—and now we were paying people to do it.

And the truth is, some of what I experienced started even earlier than that—before I had the language to understand what was happening.

I was taken advantage of in ways I didn’t understand at the time by someone who knew exactly how to use my fear of my mother against me—especially my fear of what would happen at home if ever I were “in trouble.” I learned quickly that staying quiet felt safer than telling the truth, and that compliance felt safer than saying no.

Somewhere along the way, all of that started to settle into something deeper.

It wasn’t just that I felt different—it was that I started to believe something in me was wrong. I was broken. That if I could just fix myself—be more like the other boys, more “normal,” more acceptable, be less of whatever I was—then maybe things would get easier. Maybe the pain would stop. Maybe I’d finally be good enough and accepted as “one of the boys.”

And that belief didn’t stay contained to just me—it started to shape how I saw everything.

I certainly felt that I wasn’t enough for my mom. At one point she pawned me off onto a guy from church that was supposed to teach me what it was to be a man. All I remember from that experience is mowing his massive lawns (he had three houses) and watching him fix his car. These experiences left me feeling like I wasn’t enough for my church, and eventually, I started to believe I wasn’t enough for God either—that something about me disqualified me before I ever had a chance, that kids like me didn’t deserve God.

So I did what I thought I had to do to survive.

I learned how to stay quiet. How to blend in. How to not draw attention to myself in any way. I hid parts of who I was before I even fully understood them—especially the parts of me that didn’t align with what a boy was “supposed” to be—because I knew, somewhere deep down, that they weren’t safe to show.

It was easier to disappear than to risk being seen. And even when I was surrounded by people, I felt completely alone.

But here’s what I didn’t know then—what I couldn’t have known then.

None of it meant that there was something wrong with me. Nothing needed fixing. None of it meant that I was broken.

I wasn’t broken. I was adapting.

I was a kid trying to survive in environments that didn’t feel safe, doing the best I could with what I had—learning how to read the room, how to protect myself, how to make it through. Looking back, the parts of me I thought were weaknesses were often the very things that helped me endure.

If I could sit down with that younger version of myself now, I wouldn’t try to fix him or change him. I’d just sit beside him, wrap my arms around him, and tell him the truth—something no one ever told him when he needed it most: you were never broken.

You were never broken.

There was never anything wrong with you. You didn’t need fixing. You were a kid trying to survive in environments that didn’t feel safe, doing the best you could with what you had in a world that didn’t know how to make space for who you were. And you were always enough—even then.

And if I’m honest, some of that still lives in me.

I still find it difficult to relate to other men, and I have very few male friendships because I often feel “less than.” I struggle to connect in the ways that seem to come so naturally to them. I don’t lift at the gym, I’m not in a fantasy league, I’m not super competitive or considered physically strong, so I don’t naturally fit in.

I’m often intimidated, so I stay quiet—not wanting to embarrass myself or make anyone uncomfortable with my very different version of masculinity.

And I also see it now in the way I sometimes struggle to relate to my own son—because in so many ways, he is everything I thought I was supposed to be and never felt like I was.

There have been moments that have been harder than I expected. Moments where that old feeling creeps back in.

Like when he first started bringing his girlfriend around and asked me to stay in my room… and then later, when I was allowed to be out in the house but told I couldn’t speak because he was worried I might embarrass him or come across as “zesty.”

Or the night I spoke before one of his choir concerts and kids asked him to his face if his dad was gay. Kids can be so cruel. He should have never been put in that position. We had a long conversation afterward, and while I told him I wouldn’t apologize for who I am or shrink myself to make other people more comfortable, I also understood what he was navigating. And if I’m being completely honest, it broke my heart a bit.

Or when I showed up to his volleyball tournament wearing the bright orange sweatshirt he had bought me for Christmas and my Mean Girls on Broadway hat, and he was mortified to be seen with me.

And I know those moments aren’t about me. But it’s hard not to feel that old story start to whisper again.

But let me be clear about something—I love my son more than anything in this world! And I know he loves me too.

He is not the problem. His struggles are very different than mine. He doesn’t have the 48 years of lived experiences and years of therapy to understand and process all the work I’ve done to finally love and accept myself for who I am today. He is a good kid navigating his own world, his own pressures, his own understanding of what it means to be who he is.

What I’m realizing is that this has far less to do with him and far more to do with me.

With the boy I used to be. With the stories I carried for years about not being enough. With the parts of me that still expect rejection, even when it isn’t actually there.

And I would be remiss if I didn’t say this as well—I would not be who I am today without Allyson. Her love, her support, her patience, and her unwavering belief in me have quite literally saved my life—more than once! She is my rock, my person, and I am endlessly grateful for her.

And the truth is, I did find where I belonged.

It just wasn’t on a baseball field or a basketball court or in a swimming pool or on a mat.

I found my people in the drama room. I found a place where the things that made me feel “different” were actually valued. Where expression wasn’t something to hide—it was something to explore. Theatre became not only my sport, but my everything. Turns out, I’m really, really good at it too.

And the funny thing is, I’ve even come to love things I once felt shut out of. I love watching football. Sure, I still ask a ton of questions, but I’ve learned the language in my own way—and yes, I know what “first and ten” means. (Go Devils!)

It just took me a long time to realize there was never only one way to be a man—and that my version of masculinity isn’t wrong or right, it’s just different. And that’s okay. Masculinity looks different for everyone. There isn’t one “right way” to be a man, and I think it’s time we stop buying into the hypermasculine stereotype and start celebrating the men who are doing masculinity differently—for the sake of every boy who doesn’t fit that mold.

And maybe that’s the point I’m still learning, even now.

That who I am has never been the problem. The problem was the narrow definition I was handed and tried to fit myself into—the one that told me there was only one way to be and never had room for who I actually was.

And for a long time—sadly—I believed that meant I wasn’t enough for God.

But I see it clearly now.

God doesn’t make mistakes. I was never a mistake. I was never too much, too far gone, or in need of fixing. I was always seen. Always held. Always loved.

The guilt and shame I carried for so many years were never from Him—they were placed on me by others, by systems that didn’t understand me, and by lies I learned to believe.

What a relief it is to know now that I was never disqualified from His grace, His love, or His mercy. That nothing is too big, too much, or too bad for God. That I have always been enough for Him—and so are you!

And if there’s anything I know now, it’s this:

I was never broken.

I was never “less than.”

I was just a boy trying to survive—and a man still learning, even now, what it means to live in the And.

To be strong and sensitive. To be different and enough. To be healing and whole. To be masculine in a way that works for me—and is exactly what my son needs.

And through all of it—every dark moment, every question, every attempt to become someone I thought I needed to be—God never left.

I was always His.

Always loved.

Perfectly imperfect.

And I’m still learning, even now, that I was always enough.