I spent 20 years in public education, half in leadership. My deepest wish is that we better prepare our teachers to facilitate this kind of dialogue and understanding. We don’t. They are lacking in knowledge and application. Except in one movement; Waldorf schools.
Thank you for your courage in telling this story. It will help someone. I'm so sorry that you and Chad had this experience, and I'm sorry that so many others have and will as well. You are worthy of love, and so was Chad. I'm saving this post to share--with a few people now, but I'm sure there are others I'll need to share it with later.
Your post points out why it's so important for us to show children there are many ways to express our humanity, and many ways to find family. Your story of Chad saddened me. As alone as he felt, he clearly experienced a loving connection with you. And that matters. But you both deserved caring community support, to be able to just be two young people in love.
Thank you for opening a door that so many have been told to keep locked. What you’ve written here is more than a story—it’s a testimony. A soft, unwavering light in a world that too often demands shadows instead of truth.
Reading about Chad, I felt a quiet ache, one that echoes across time and space. So many of us knew a “Chad.” Some of us were Chad. Trying to breathe in a world that told us to be quiet. Trying to love without language. Trying to survive without being seen.
Your words don't just grieve—they honor. They gather the pieces of a life that deserved more time, more room, more tenderness. And in telling the truth with such clarity and care, you’re creating the kind of space that Chad—and all the kids like him—should have always had.
You’ve also named something I can’t help but echo with my whole being: this is what pseudo-Christianity can do. Whether it's disguised as well-meant but wrong-headed doctrine, or something more insidious like Christian nationalism or cult-like control, the result is the same—it silences, erases, and punishes. It teaches that obedience matters more than authenticity. That shame is holiness. That silence is salvation.
But your story cuts through that lie like light breaking through stained glass. The “Name-Me” practice you offer is an act of soul reclamation—a quiet, radical return to self in a world that would rather write our names in disappearing ink. It’s a way of saying, I still belong to me, even when the laws and the pulpits say otherwise.
What you’ve said so clearly—that removing visibility doesn’t remove reality—is something that needs to be shouted from rooftops. These policies don’t protect children. They protect ignorance. And they sacrifice real lives on the altar of fear.
Thank you for remembering Chad so fiercely and for reminding us all that worthiness is not something we earn—it’s something we are. Always. You have honored him, and in doing so, you’ve offered something sacred to the rest of us: the permission to grieve, to name, to remember, and to keep becoming.
Thanks for sharing this, it will definitely help us have a better tomorrow.
I spent 20 years in public education, half in leadership. My deepest wish is that we better prepare our teachers to facilitate this kind of dialogue and understanding. We don’t. They are lacking in knowledge and application. Except in one movement; Waldorf schools.
Thank you for your courage in telling this story. It will help someone. I'm so sorry that you and Chad had this experience, and I'm sorry that so many others have and will as well. You are worthy of love, and so was Chad. I'm saving this post to share--with a few people now, but I'm sure there are others I'll need to share it with later.
Thank you, Tania. I hope this information helps those you share it with.
Me too.
Your post points out why it's so important for us to show children there are many ways to express our humanity, and many ways to find family. Your story of Chad saddened me. As alone as he felt, he clearly experienced a loving connection with you. And that matters. But you both deserved caring community support, to be able to just be two young people in love.
Your story about Chad was terribly heartbreaking. I can't imagine dealing with that as a teenager and carrying it for so long. I'm sorry.
Rich,
Thank you for opening a door that so many have been told to keep locked. What you’ve written here is more than a story—it’s a testimony. A soft, unwavering light in a world that too often demands shadows instead of truth.
Reading about Chad, I felt a quiet ache, one that echoes across time and space. So many of us knew a “Chad.” Some of us were Chad. Trying to breathe in a world that told us to be quiet. Trying to love without language. Trying to survive without being seen.
Your words don't just grieve—they honor. They gather the pieces of a life that deserved more time, more room, more tenderness. And in telling the truth with such clarity and care, you’re creating the kind of space that Chad—and all the kids like him—should have always had.
You’ve also named something I can’t help but echo with my whole being: this is what pseudo-Christianity can do. Whether it's disguised as well-meant but wrong-headed doctrine, or something more insidious like Christian nationalism or cult-like control, the result is the same—it silences, erases, and punishes. It teaches that obedience matters more than authenticity. That shame is holiness. That silence is salvation.
But your story cuts through that lie like light breaking through stained glass. The “Name-Me” practice you offer is an act of soul reclamation—a quiet, radical return to self in a world that would rather write our names in disappearing ink. It’s a way of saying, I still belong to me, even when the laws and the pulpits say otherwise.
What you’ve said so clearly—that removing visibility doesn’t remove reality—is something that needs to be shouted from rooftops. These policies don’t protect children. They protect ignorance. And they sacrifice real lives on the altar of fear.
Thank you for remembering Chad so fiercely and for reminding us all that worthiness is not something we earn—it’s something we are. Always. You have honored him, and in doing so, you’ve offered something sacred to the rest of us: the permission to grieve, to name, to remember, and to keep becoming.
With deep respect, shared sorrow, and solidarity,
Jay