Something Rather Than Nothing

What it Might Mean to Follow God

Every so often, my son and I spontaneously have a long and interesting conversation that spans physics, philosophy, psychology, religion, music, technology, culture, and more. We both love it when that happens, and it just so happens that last night was one of those nights.

My son is a very logical person, and hasn't had the kind of experiences that make God feel real to him. He has consumed a plethora of content, arguments for and against, and given the lack of direct experience, tends to land on the side of the skeptic. Yet, he admits that, at a minimum, agnosticism makes sense. There is really no way to know for sure, so how could one truly land in a position of atheism.

I said, "well, as a logician…" he chuckled, "what about the argument that if there is no God and you spend your life believing, what is the harm, but if there is a God,"

"You are not seriously going to try to throw Pascal's wager at me are you?" he said.

He went on about how history has so many gods and if you are going to believe in a god then the chances of picking the right one are so slim, and if God was all powerful anyway or all knowing anyway then, yada yada yada.

We then got into God creating man in his own image, but really it was man interpreting God in man's image, and how limiting that must be.

So, then he asked me.

So what then dad?
What is the point?
What does it mean to follow God?
Wouldn't it just be to do what you want and live a life that makes you happy?

Obviously, I don't know. I don't know God any better than the next person. Either we are all connected to God or we are not. But if I were to offer my best guess based on all I have read, studied, and experienced, I would say the following.

No, it's not just about doing what you want to live a life that makes you happy. Lots of people do exactly that and look at the result.

When people are allowed to act purely in their own self interest, and have the means to do so, other people are often radically hurt, the planet gets decimated. The sick get sicker, the poor get poorer, the hungry starve.

Why?

Not because we don't know how to solve these problems.

Because we have not earnestly and collectively prioritized solving these problems.

I go back to the baseline. Creation. Not whether it was evolution vs divine, but the simple fact that there is something rather than nothing.

Here we are.

Alive and not not.

Being and not not.

Something, rather than nothing.

As that something, I personally feel a responsibility of stewardship of that something.

There is a trajectory to being alive. You grow, you nurture, you get sick and heal. You try to organize and do better.

I suppose it's all where the rubber meets the road where people then diverge on this.

Some think pruning off that which does not serve is the way, others think optimizing what is working best is the way, some work to raise ceilings, others raise floors.

For me, I think the first move has to be to acknowledge that there is something at all.

We are all that something.

We are all inextricably connected.

When we make choices about the best way to move forward, we need to do so with that whole in mind.

If there is a God, that, to me, is what is in God's mind.

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My Heart Doesn’t Fit in a Box

A reflection on trans lives, human complexity, and the limits of our labels

It’s not uncommon these days that I involuntarily offer primitive prayers, crying out Oh My God. I am deeply saddened, and have been for years, but increasingly so, for the ongoing progress in the assault on the trans community. From the bottom of my heart, I am sorry. I am sorry you are living in a time when so many people are either afraid, ignorant, or have ulterior motives and using you as a scapegoat.

But let me step back for a moment.

At the highest level, we are all people. We all have hopes, fears, and lives shaped by both biology and experience. Human variation is real and worth appreciating. The problem is not that this variation exists. The problem is what we do in response to it.

But this is not abstract. Right now, a specific group of people is being targeted through policy and public discourse in ways that have real, immediate consequences for their safety and dignity.

However, out of fear, out of ignorance, out of a desire to hold certain things fixed, out of distraction, many have chosen to scapegoat this community, who, through no fault of their own, do not fit within what some have decided are our social “norms”, and now are a source of significant problem in our society. Though this community makes up (estimates vary but let’s say) <1-5% of the population, many legislative bodies are spending a disproportionate amount of time actively making the lives of these individuals significantly harder. As I recall, the role of government, at least in the US, is of the people, by people, and FOR the people, and in order to form a more perfect union. Union as in coming together, not as in eradicating diversity. Yet, in the last month or so I have seen:

Kansas retroactively canceling driver’s licenses if they did not match one’s designated gender at birth. So, if someone had a then canceled license, they would be driving illegally if they were driving to get the ‘legal’ license. Moreover, the Kansas law also established what amounted to a bounty – a private right of action allowing anyone who suspects someone is transgender to sue them for $1,000 in damages for using the "wrong" restroom in government buildings.

Ohio lawmakers passed a bill in the House (not a law yet at the time of writing this article) that wearing makeup while performing that is inconsistent with your designated gender at birth is a crime. That seems highly discretionary and problematic in terms of enforcement. Many men wear makeup, particularly on camera. Some just anyway. Many women don’t. Maybe ‘Big Makeup’ will step in and fight this one. Further, who’s to say what performing means. If a woman who presents more masculine is playing guitar in the park, is she breaking the law? This is a pretty open door to the erosion of civil liberties, but that is a bigger picture and I don’t want to take away from the clear and present assault on trans people here and now. 

Idaho passed a law that one must use the bathroom associated with the gender that was designated at birth. So, now someone in Idaho, designated at birth to be female, but presenting with broad shoulders, large biceps, and a full beard, must use the women's bathroom. That makes everyone uncomfortable. It may cause a fight. It may cause a call to the police resulting in wasted time for law enforcement since that person should be using the women’s room by law. Alternatively, if the person uses the men’s room, they are now breaking the law and could end up in jail. Nikson Mathews, a trans man with a beard and chair of the Idaho Democratic Queer Caucus, recently testified: "Every single day when I'm out in public, I have to decide: Do I feel like going to jail today, or do I feel like being attacked."

Again, the operative concept here is ‘designated gender at birth’, and that is inherently problematic. Regardless of how we explain any of this, no one should have to justify their existence in order to be treated with dignity and basic rights. It’s also worth acknowledging something we often oversimplify when we talk about sex and gender. The reality is far more complex than two clean categories suggest.

There are well-documented biological variations that complicate the idea of a strict binary:

• Some individuals are born with XY chromosomes but develop typically female bodies due to androgen insensitivity

• Others are born with XX chromosomes but develop typically male characteristics due to hormonal conditions

• Some people have variations like XXY chromosomes or chimerism, where multiple genetic patterns exist in one body

These are not edge cases in theory. They are part of the natural variation of human biology.

There is something worth naming about what is happening underneath all of this. We label things in order to understand them. Classification is the foundation of science, of knowledge, of how we make sense of a complicated world. That impulse is not wrong. But labels have a shadow side. When we draw a hard line and say this is one thing and that is another, we sometimes mistake the line for reality. The line is ours. Nature does not always agree.

Light does not stop being blue before it becomes green. A person with autism does not flip a switch between functional and not. These things exist on spectrums, and the spectrums are real even when our categories are not. The same is true of sex and gender. As the biology above demonstrates, the variation is far greater than two clean boxes would suggest. When we force a spectrum into a box, we do not eliminate the spectrum. We just make it harder for people to live safely within it, and in some cases, we make it illegal.

I am writing this for a few reasons, and I want to be honest about all of them.

First, for those who are suffering, you deserve to know you are not invisible. Many of us see what is happening. Many of us are angry. Many of us are grieving alongside you, even if we are not living it the way you are.

Second, for those who are still finding their way to understanding. Those who sense that something is wrong but haven’t quite landed on why, or who have been handed a narrative about trans people that doesn’t quite sit right. I hope the specifics here help. Not to argue, but to illuminate. The more clearly we can see what is actually happening to actual people, the harder it becomes to look away.

And third, I want to be careful here, because this is not a moment that calls for easy optimism, and I don’t want this to sound like cold comfort or a reason to wait. But I do see something unexpectedly hopeful buried inside all of this cruelty. Not enough to make today okay. But enough to hold onto. Bear with me.

What I find somewhat ironic about this urgency to say no, trans is not real. It is a social construct. If you are a boy, you are a boy. If you are a girl, you are a girl. Well, then to that I say fine, but you must then refine your understanding of what a boy or girl is. Girls can have beards and boys can have breasts. Girls can have broad shoulders and play rough while boys can enjoy makeup and wear dresses. If you drop the rules for what makes a gender a gender, then trans people don’t have to fight to be another gender. Perhaps conservatives are actually paving a way toward a warmer embrace somewhat in spite of themselves.

But that is way down the road and may or may never happen. Today, we have brothers and sisters, friends, family, neighbors who are being targeted, disenfranchised, attacked physically, verbally, and legislatively. As of March 20, 2026, there are 500 anti LGBTQ bills in the US. 500 bills targeting less than 10% of the population. We have so much more significant issues than what makeup people are wearing or what bathrooms people are using. In my role, I’m continuing to think about what it means to show up in ways that protect dignity and belonging at the local level, even when the broader environment feels uncertain.

To all of you who are suffering, you are not alone. Many of us see you. Many of us hear your cries. Many of us are trying to help where we can. I am deeply sorry, and I hope our society at large can change faster than it will.

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Listening to Survivors of Commercial Sexual Exploitation

Summit on Crime Survivors: Commercial Sexual Exploitation

January 29, 2026 – Seattle City Hall

This week I attended the second annual Summit on Crime Survivors, focused specifically on Commercial Sexual Exploitation. I went because I knew this was an area I did not understand well enough, particularly as it relates to our region. I wanted to learn, to listen, and to better orient myself to a reality that is often discussed abstractly, if at all.

The morning included remarks from organizers, elected officials, judges, advocates, and service providers. There was discussion of efforts to support victims and to mitigate harm upstream. A recurring theme was the lack of stable resources—especially for prevention. Funding for services is often reimbursement-based and uncertain, which makes long-term planning difficult and proactive work nearly impossible. This pattern is familiar across the nonprofit and government world: we regularly affirm the value of prevention, yet struggle to fund it because its success is, by definition, difficult to prove.

Just last week, I spoke with the executive director of a homeless shelter who shared a variation on a story he hears often: “If I had just had $500 to fix my car, I’d be fine right now. Instead, I lost my job, my car, and now I’m here.” Money to keep shelters open or to provide food is easier to secure than money to fix the car before everything collapses. Different issue, same structural problem. We fund crisis response far more readily than early intervention.

What stayed with me most deeply, however, were the voices of survivors.

While there was a formal survivors’ panel of three women, the room itself was filled with survivors. Many of the people I spoke with casually—standing in line for coffee, chatting between sessions—were survivors. Their presence, their attentiveness to one another, and their quiet leadership were striking. One woman noticed I had taken a seat in the back of the room and immediately invited me to join her table. She was a survivor. She was kind, grounded, and extraordinarily aware of others. Throughout the day, she made space for people, checked in on them, and helped orient those who seemed overwhelmed. Without any formal role, she became a kind of unofficial host. Watching her care for others was deeply moving.

Another survivor I met while waiting in line for lunch—I’ll call her “T”—shared a sense of real discouragement. She had prepared extensively to testify before a legislative committee in Olympia on these very issues. She was scheduled to testify remotely near the end of the session, but as earlier speakers went over their allotted time, she was ultimately cut and never given the opportunity to speak. Preparing to publicly share a deeply personal story is not a small thing, and having that opportunity disappear carries its own harm.

When I mentioned that I had recently met one-on-one with the state legislator who chairs that committee, her entire demeanor changed. She lit up. There was surprise, relief, and something like hope all at once. She immediately recognized his name and role, and I could feel how much it mattered to her that someone in that position was paying attention. I shared that he had raised this issue himself in our conversation—that it clearly mattered to him, that he and his staff were actively researching approaches from other countries, and that this work was not peripheral for him.

It didn’t undo the fact that she had been silenced that day. But it did seem to lift something. There was a sense that her preparation hadn’t been wasted, that her voice belonged in that space even if it hadn’t been heard yet. The timing of that exchange—having spoken with him just weeks before, having this be the very issue he raised unprompted, and then standing in that lunch line with her—felt quietly profound. I felt genuinely honored to be able to share that moment with her.

The survivors’ panel itself challenged many common assumptions. Two of the three women had been groomed or manipulated into exploitation at a very young age. It was decades later before they fully understood themselves as victims. This is the reality of coercion: being forced into something in ways that are not always immediately recognizable as force.

Another panelist, a trans woman, shared that a roommate had secretly filmed and livestreamed her for years without her knowledge—capturing not only her body, but her transition. That detail mattered. Not because it made the crime worse in some abstract hierarchy, but because it revealed how exploitation so often intersects with vulnerability, identity, and moments of becoming. Her story made clear that exploitation adapts itself to whatever intimacy or exposure it can extract.

All of these women were used—unknowingly, non-consensually, and unwillingly—for the benefit of others. Two of the panelists were over sixty years old and had only been living freely for less than a decade. They were from here. They went to school here. They saw classmates drive by while they were trapped in circumstances they didn’t understand and couldn’t escape. One woman said that given the number of times she had been beaten, threatened, sold, drugged, and placed in life-threatening situations, “it’s a miracle that I’m alive.”

What I keep returning to is the cost of telling these stories.

Survivors are repeatedly asked to recount deeply personal trauma in rooms full of professionals—caseworkers, lawyers, judges, policymakers, and concerned citizens. This is not therapeutic entertainment. It is emotionally taxing. It takes something each time. And if listening is where it ends—if stories are gathered but systems remain unchanged—then even well-intentioned attention risks becoming extractive.

Listening is essential. Human connection is essential. Empathy formed through real encounter is different from empathy formed through reports or statistics. It shapes judgment. It sharpens discernment. It changes how decisions are made.

But empathy alone does not correct structural misalignment. Systems that reliably fund reaction while struggling to fund mitigation will continue to produce harm, no matter how aware we become. Prevention is harder to measure, harder to justify, and harder to defend politically—but the cost of neglecting it is borne by real people, often for decades.

This experience did not leave me with answers. It left me with a clearer sense of responsibility: to stay attentive to where human connection should inform decision-making, to question funding structures that privilege symptoms over causes, and to remain unsettled when awareness is mistaken for action.

That unease, I think, is where the real work begins.

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Grief as Learning: A reflection on The Grieving Brain

In the wake of a death—especially an unforeseen one—we search for answers. Why did this happen? How? What could have been different? Often the mind searches even when there are no answers to be found.

I didn't read The Grieving Brain until nearly two years after I lost my daughter. Even so, I found it deeply validating. It helped me make sense of experiences I had already lived through but didn't yet have language for. A friend recommended it after her own profound loss, and she too found it useful in navigating the disorienting territory that grief creates.

Mary-Frances O'Connor is a clinical psychologist, neuroscientist, and professor at the University of Arizona. The book reflects that background—at times academic, but consistently humane. She distinguishes grief from depression, explains why yearning is not pathology, and shows how attachment is not merely emotional but physiological. We quite literally build our lives, and our nervous systems, around the people we love.

At the heart of the book is a deceptively simple idea: the brain is a learning machine. More specifically, it's a predictive machine, constantly anticipating what will happen next based on past experience. This works remarkably well—until it doesn't.

How the Brain Maps Relationships

O'Connor explains that when we form deep attachments, our brains learn that certain people exist here, now, and close. Even when a loved one is not physically present—at work, traveling, living across the country—we still carry a stable internal map of their existence. They are part of the world our brain expects to encounter.

That map does not update instantly when someone dies.

A familiar example helps. If you always place your keys in the same spot when you come home, your hand reaches there automatically. One day, distracted, you put them in your coat pocket and hang the coat in the closet. The next morning, your hand still reaches for the old place. The brain is not broken—it's doing what it has learned to do.

Grief works the same way, only the discrepancy is far more painful.

The brain continues to predict the presence of the person who has died. Each time reality contradicts that prediction, it hurts. Not metaphorically—neurologically. O'Connor frames grief as the repeated correction of a deeply learned expectation. This is why grief can feel so disorienting, even when we consciously know what has happened. Knowledge and learning are not the same thing. Unlike depression, which flattens experience, grief is marked by yearning—the continued pull toward someone who is no longer there.

When my daughter died, I experienced this painfully and clearly. In the months before her death, she had been traveling across the country. We weren't in close proximity, and we communicated only intermittently. After she died, those surface conditions were the same: she wasn't physically with me, and we weren't texting or talking in any given moment. My brain's map had not yet caught up to the deeper truth—that she would never again be here, now, and close in the way it expected.

My conscious mind knew this immediately. My brain did not. Each time the discrepancy surfaced, it hurt.

The most important takeaway from this is simple, but not easy: the brain needs time. Time to unlearn an old map. Time to build a new one. The pain is not a failure of healing—it is the healing process itself.

O'Connor offers an image I found helpful. Imagine walking through your home in the dark, used to brushing past a table in a particular place. If the furniture is suddenly rearranged, you immediately notice the absence. You may even question whether you're in the right room. Eventually, though, you learn the new layout. The room still works. Life still works. But the learning takes time.

For me, part of that learning involved realizing that my relationship with my daughter had to change—not end, but change.

Discovering the Scripts

I knew rationally that she was gone. I knew I would never again exchange looks, jokes, or hugs, or watch her become the person she was so beautifully becoming. But I also knew I would never forget her. Which meant the relationship itself was not disappearing—it was transforming. I just didn't know what that meant yet.

I noticed that most nights, as I was falling asleep, I was running the same internal script: I love you. I miss you. I'm so sorry. Over and over. The words were sincere. They were also static. I realized that if I kept repeating the same script, my brain had no new information with which to learn. I was reinforcing longing without offering a path forward.

So I made a conscious decision to interrupt the script.

Instead of speaking only from sadness, I began to invite different forms of connection. I intentionally recalled memories. I noticed moments in the present that she would have found funny or beautiful. I tried to experience joy with her, rather than only grief for her. This did not erase the loss—but it did allow my brain to begin building a new map, one that was less constantly jarring.

This, I think, is where agency quietly enters the grieving process. Not in forcing ourselves to "move on," but in gently offering the brain new experiences to learn from.

The Role of Mindfulness

The other major lesson I took from the book—one that reinforced practices already present in my life—was the importance of mindfulness. I've meditated on and off for more than twenty years, and I believe this helped me notice the scripts I was running in the first place. Mindfulness didn't make the grief go away. It changed my relationship to it.

One of the most painful patterns in grief is the endless chain of what-ifs. What if I had done this. What if I had said that. What if, what if, what if. These thoughts arise without warning, and early on they can feel inescapable. But they don't lead anywhere except deeper pain.

Mindfulness offers a different option. Not suppression, and not avoidance, but recognition. When a thought arises, we can notice it. Feel it. And then, if we choose, not follow it. Over time, this becomes a capacity. The thoughts still come—but they no longer carry us away from the present moment every time they appear.

The goal is not to stop thinking. The goal is to avoid being endlessly dragged by thought. Meditation, as unglamorous as it may seem, is a kind of medicine. And like most medicine, it works best when practiced before we're desperate for it.

What the Book Offers

There is far more in The Grieving Brain than I've captured here, and I would recommend it to anyone—whether grieving now, supporting someone who is, or simply wanting to understand how deeply human attachment really is. The book does not promise relief. What it offers instead is orientation.

Grief is not a malfunction. It's the brain doing its best to learn a world that has been irrevocably changed. Understanding that doesn't remove the pain—but it can make the pain feel less lonely, less frightening, and less wrong.

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