Being a stereotypical gay/SSA guy, I had no interest in sports or athletics. I seemed not to care very much about how my body looked either. However, my medical problems gave me a new perspective on how I treated my body. I was tired of being an awkward, flabby, doughy guy. So, I joined a gym. I definitely felt intimidated.

I reached a point of knowing I could trust God, and I was able to choose a more adventurous, challenging life to accomplish more of what really matters! I wouldn't trade the experiences in those three years of my midlife crisis for anything.

I didn't realize it at the time, but I'd made brotherhood my idol. Looking back, I see it so clearly now. So madly obvious. I made this pursuit of brotherhood and even ministry my idol. And I got the wind knocked out of me on the asinine climb.

Whenever I struggled, I sent my friend a message and he encouraged me. By all accounts, I started doing better with my depression. But that's how codependency can look at the start -- a "healthy" accountability relationship.

I hadn't wanted orientation change out of a desire to please God. I'd wanted to be straight because I simply wanted to be normal. I had been scared. I was internally homophobic, hating myself and especially other gay men.

The guilt was overwhelming. How would I tell anybody what I had done? What would they think of me? Beyond other people, how would these events impact my faith? Where was Jesus during all of this?

I don't wonder to myself: Have I, as an adult, ever embraced another man shirtless like this before? This isn't that kind of intimacy.

As I drove down the base of the mountain after listening to a sermon and enjoying some prayer, the thought once more popped into my head: "You like Annie!" I wanted to swipe away the thought again, but this time I actually considered it. Maybe I could like a girl?

My dad believed he needed to leave me free to live my own life. I had certainly been willing to be his full-time caregiver, but now that I knew his wishes, apparently God had other plans for me.

It felt good to be close to another man. And yet, was it right (healthy, faithful, acceptable) to like this? Is this what acceptance in a physical sense felt like?

My daughter had been injured by an accident — something that had no one to blame or fault. And in that time, I needed to know that it was all going to be all right. I needed to know that it would work out. I needed hope. And I needed to restore my faith in that hope.

I didn't want to lose my best friend to this soon-to-be relationship. I already knew what it felt like to be left alone, tossed away like an old rag doll by a straight relationship, forgotten. I don't know how many times this had happened to me, and I wasn't ready to go through it again. Especially by someone I thought would be my best friend for a long time.

I recently returned from a men's retreat in which I came face-to-face with my biggest struggle: not anything regarding my sexuality or sexual addictions. But simply feeling like a man. Like a man among men, assembled on an equal playing field rather than somewhere on another field's sidelines.

After I had lived in Seattle for a few months, some things out of my control started happening that threatened my ability to continue living in my newfound home. In addition to money troubles, a friend of my elderly father called from Florida to tell me that his health was declining and that he was not thinking clearly anymore. I decided right then I had to leave and take care of my father.

I love being a girl-dad. At the end of the day, my wearing some makeup or playing pretend with my daughter will not come to define her conception of gender.

Just imagining myself joining this group on this trip brought up several anxieties: the fear of sharing, sleeping, and showering among so many other guys. I also had masculine insecurities about cleaning up after Hurricane Katrina along with the ability to share my faith. But God is bigger than my anxieties. And as I'd eventually learn, jumping into the unknown with God tends to be the best option.

I knew I needed a miracle even to get out there, and now this triggering text message was stuck in my brain as I got ready. I packed my clothes for the weekend but needed to get some food in my stomach before the semi-long trip.

I've often felt great shame over being so highly sensitive. I thought I was the only guy who cried or got his feelings hurt so easily while the other men took life's unpleasantness in masculine stride.

Arriving at my new house, I found no one there to greet me. I knew where my new housemates hid the key, so I let myself in. My emotions were almost more than I could take: fear, loneliness, and confusion.

Just because I'm "out" doesn't mean I'm always going out of my way to talk about sexuality. Outside my closest friendships, I still don't feel comfortable sharing. I still feel ashamed of my sexuality. Even after all this time. All these stories, written or otherwise.