Is what we are told.

And it's the hardest thing to unlearn.

The truth is the opposite:

True love makes you calm.

It's CHAOS that makes you feel crazy.

Like the buzz in your ears after a firework show…

when a soul grows accustomed to chaos,

it can take a while to finally "hear" peace

…a good while after you’ve already stepped into it.

You know what the most wonderful thing has been?

The realization I have had this year

That I’ve been standing in safety for a while…

And my heart can finally hear it 💚

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Oh hi, reader.

Sorry I disappeared for a while. I was busy enjoying a phase of healing that felt like adjusting to peace. Thank you for waiting beside me while I worked my way through the forest.

I’m so excited to share all this sunshine! ☀️ 💚

Publicly killed in cold blood.

…and the internet’s already shredding his story in ten thousand different ways.

Some are painting sainthood onto this man, whose entire platform was based in provoking outrage.

Others are taking the nasty approach of turning his death into a punchline.

To be honest (and I’m talking to half the dang internet)…

Y’all are acting SO GROSS right now.

I don’t know how some of you post the things you do online and still expect to be trusted in the real world.

The lack of integrity and empathy on social media right now is truly sickening. It makes me wonder what kind of society we are building.

Because no freaking way are this many grown-ups being so intellectually dishonest.

On one hand, there are people proclaiming that Charlie Kirk is now a martyr, aligning his life to the ministry of Jesus.

This man who openly said things like, “Black women don’t have the processing power to be taken seriously,” and “MLK was awful — he’s not a good person.”

That was the message Charlie was sharing until the literal moment he died. To glorify him is to sanctify that message.

Is that really the gospel y’all claim?

On the other side, there are folks who can’t seem to contain their evil delight that an ardent 2A supporter was killed by a gun.

First of all…are y’all okay?

You can’t seriously pretend to care about gun violence and then clap when a bullet claims your enemy. That mindset — the one that turns an opponent into something less than human — is exactly what pulled the trigger this week.

The hypocrisy is astounding, and sadly it seems that self-righteousness has snuffed out your empathy. I'm not sure where the high road is, but I'm damn sure that you aren't driving it.

Some of you are firing Charlie’s own words back at his body. I guess the irony was too tempting, and you just couldn’t help yourselves.

But what was the cost of making these jokes?

I promise you, there was a trade-off.

You traded kindness for cruelty.

You traded empathy for a punchline.

And for what...a few laugh emojis?

Do we genuinely believe that one moment of irony justifies a lack of humanity?

To be clear, I do not. And I never will.

Empathy has to matter.

Folks, I fear we are losing the plot.

The chasm grows wider each day.

We can hardly hear our own thoughts, our own values, through the screaming and chaos and crossfire.

Maybe, juuust maybe, if we caught our breaths, centered ourselves for a moment…

…but no.

The headlines keep rolling in, and with them the outrage and hot takes.

A school shooting in Denver.

Russia bombs a NATO ally.

Oh, look — Taylor Swift is engaged.

Angry politics, angry politicians.

Oh no — it was September 11th again?

I forgot!—weren’t we supposed to REMEMBER?!

But it’s too much to remember when every day is a new scrolling ticker of horrors. We turn on the TV, sip on our coffee, and consume the very things that consume us.

Each headline is another chance to take fear out for a spin — and God knows we’re all going to take it.

No wonder we’re so oversaturated with the trauma and performance of it all.

Our nervous systems weren’t built for this.

And I don’t think our souls were either.

Here’s what I do think, though…

I think that some of us are waking the hell up.

We are witnessing this moment, this brutal harvest of hatred…and none of it feels like “winning.”

No matter what they promise us, the powers that be will continue to try and divide.

The more they succeed, the angrier we become.

And in our anger, the sickness grows.

Who steps right in with a promising solution?

Politicians. The President. Talking heads.

Reasy to sell you a snake-oil cure — more hate, more division, more power grabs.

They make us sick and commodify the medicine.

I don’t know about you, but I am tired.

This week gave us a front-row seat to where this path ultimately leads. A man was assassinated in public. In front of his very own babies. And before his family could even bury him, the internet was clawing for a story — fighting over who could score the sharpest punchline, who could paint the most righteous halo.

We are so accustomed to performing our lives that death itself is now content.

Yesterday, I read a post from a man claiming it was time for a new Civil War. He said Christianity needed to “rise up" and reclaim its “power in America”.

First of all, sir, what a wild take on Christianity. Who gave you those marching orders?

Second, has anyone played this out? Like what that would ACTUALLY look like?

Are you prepared to shoot down your kid’s Little League coach? Torture your Starbucks barista for treason? Do you really wanna see “American Meat Grinder” videos trending on TikTok?

Be serious, y'all. We don't actually want this.

Stop saying horrible shit you don't mean.

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There’s an epidemic of bravado these days, and the “find out” phase has been awful.

Believe me, our children will grow to hate us if this is the path we keep choosing.

The truth is, if our country is ever going to heal, we have to try something new.

Of course, that’s not what the politicians will say.

They want you to re-up on the hatred.

They’d have you believe that the path to peace is complete and utter dominance — one side crushing the other, healing the world by stomping your neighbors to the ground.

But friends, look around.

All this blood, all this anger.

How is that working out for us?

I once read an analogy about boarding the wrong train: at some point, you realize you’re headed the wrong way. And the longer you stay on board, the further you go, the more expensive that mistake becomes.

America, it is time to get off the damn train.

If we want to stitch this thing back together, it will look like reaching toward the middle — across the gap, with a heart for peace, and a sincere willingness to listen.

I know some of you are shaking your head. You wonder if hope is still worth pursuing, if healing is worth trying for.

Well, I believe trying is the whole damn point.

To live is to breathe and to TRY.

We try to do better.

We try to love more.

We try to circle back toward decency.

If we cannot, as human beings, find one another again…we will never heal as a society. And if we lose our humanity in the effort to save it…

I am afraid that we’ve already lost.

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Hey friends,

Your presence here means the world to me. Knowing you’ve taken the time to read thoughts on empathy and human kindness reassures me that these values still resonate.

If this article resonated with you, please consider sharing & subscribing to keep the conversation alive. I’ll always keep my content paywall-free because encouragement shouldn’t come at a cost. For those who choose to offer financial support, thank you for keeping the lights on.

With love and gratitude,

Mary Katherine

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Not That Wheel, Jesus! is out THIS WEEK — and I’m coming to see you IN PERSON!

The NTWJ! Book Tour kicks off TUESDAY.

EEEEEK!

YALL COME SEE ME!

I sincerely cannot wait to get this book into your hands, out into the world, and to hug your necks in real life.

After three years and some VERY unexpected life changes, this story is finally ready to be told.

NTWJ is a wildly hilarious (and sometimes heartbreaking) journey through faith deconstruction, an unexpected divorce, and the off-road path to healing and a softer, freer kind of spirituality.

Here is where I will be:

📍 Huntsville, AL – Aug 12 – Blue Apple Bookshop

📍 Orlando, FL – Aug 13 – Writer’s Block

📍Florence, AL – Aug 14 – Court Street Books

📍Nashville, TN – Aug 16 – Books-A-Million

📍Atlanta, GA – Aug 17 – Foxtale Book Shoppe

Tickets include a signed copy of Not That Wheel, Jesus!

We’ll laugh, maybe cry, and have the kind of conversations that matter most.

I cannot wait to see you on tour. 💛

NOT THAT WHEEL, JESUS

BOOK TOUR

That question is the heart of Not That Wheel, Jesus!—my new book coming out next month! Today, I am sharing Chapter 3 with you. It’s called “Church Hurt” and it’s one of the most personal chapters in the whole book.

If this resonates, be sure to pre-order your copy, HERE or at the bottom of the page.

Chapter 3: Church Hurt

Let’s rewind a little bit to the late 1900s (as my kids like to say) when I was a well-traveled soul in the musty-scented corridors of the Third Baptist Church of Dothan, Alabama. I was leading worship and driving my fish-stickered Honda to church every Wednesday and two times on Sunday.

I was a full-fledged Jesus Freak at the absolute peak of what is now known as the Purity Culture movement. If you know, you know; but if you don’t, let me tell you: It was a challenging time to be a hormonal adolescent. Even worse if you were sinful enough to grow boobs. I can’t tell you how many times I was pulled aside and asked to change clothes because my teenage body caused grown men to “stumble.” I learned to wear multiple sports bras and baggy shirts, and to start slumping my shoulders.

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I will never forget buying matching bathing suits with my friend Christen for the beach retreat. She was waifish and I was...not. But still, the exact same bathing suit. We had to get our attire “approved” in advance, because God forbid some fourteen-year- old boy catch wood for a sister in Christ. So, before we went swimming, we were to be inspected by a chaperone, like some ham at the county fair. Sigh. The exclusively feminine experience of having your form examined by a grown adult to determine whether or not just living in your body was going to be a problem for your “brothers in Christ.” Anyways, Christen’s suit got the green light. Mine did not. The only difference was the body I was born with.

I spent the entire retreat with a T-shirt thrown over that adorable teal one-piece. But that didn’t stop me from finding a boyfriend and making out on the bus ride home. Turns out, it doesn’t matter if you’re wearing a plunging neckline or a potato sack, hormones are gonna keep hormoning. Of course, we felt shame for our sinful nature. We suppressed it, until he couldn’t anymore, and that was the end of our romance.

Not one year later, the Third Baptist girls were invited to attend a True Love Waits rally—a daylong conference dedicated to teaching youth about sexual purity. Since I’d been marinating in sin since our beach retreat, I figured I’d better sign up.

I will never forget the keynote speaker holding up a single pink rose. So beautiful, so fragrant, so pure, he told us. Then he passed it around the church for all of us to admire. After the rose passed through a hundred or more hands, the speaker brought it back onstage and held it up for everyone to see. The rose had wilted. He claimed it was less fragrant. The once pristine petals were dull and dingy. While the rose had originally been a flower someone would receive with the sort of grin that shows all the teeth, it now looked like something you might find littering the sidewalk. A rose found on the ground that you know was a prop in someone’s sad story. After being passed through so many hands, it was forever and irreversibly tainted.

The girls sat in uncomfortable silence as the weight of this message sank in.

Holy crap, are we that rose?
Who the heck wants a wilted, stinky flower?
Nobody. That was the answer.
It was crystal clear to all in attendance that our purity made us matter. Without it, we would have nothing to offer and no path to being loved. Our sexuality was a prize for our future husbands—it belonged to nobody else.

Except, apparently, our father figures?

The whole thing culminated in the creepiest ceremony ever. At the end of the night, after all of that shame, the boys were dis- missed from the conference. While they went to the gym (to play basketball, I’m dead serious), the girls’ fathers were escorted into another room. In this sort of junior wedding ritual, each girl’s father presented her with a purity ring. A band that stood in as a placeholder for the ring we would receive when ownership trans- ferred to our future husbands. Most of the girls accepted their purity ring with delight, the heaviness of the moment not sinking in for the majority of us. And then we made a promise—in writing, which was witnessed by our fathers—to remain sexually pure until marriage.

It was exactly as awful as it sounds. I’m sure everyone involved still has trauma. But my trauma was compounded by the fact that my first and former stepfather, Kenny—the man who put a ring on my finger, and whom I pledged my purity to—was the same damn person who had sexually abused me since I was in second grade.

That ring might as well have been made with fire, the way it burned into my skin. Signaling to the world that this man, my abuser, was the unofficial owner of my body.

Things got more complicated when, a little while later, I found myself falling in love. Not “back of the church bus make-out session” love. But the kind that was a little bit more meaningful. Rooted in friendship, and some big physical feelings. Evan wasn’t from my youth group at all. In fact, his parents were agnostic. He was the first person to ever look at my ring with concern and ask some hard-hitting questions. Fellowship and living in a bubble is a big reason why things like purity rings can exist—it doesn’t seem weird if everyone around you is doing it. Evan offered me a promise ring if I would take the damn thing off.

That night, we had our first fight. Because he was right; it was weird. Not regular weird, where you make an awkward face and walk away. The type of weird that hits you in your core with how not okay it is and glues your feet to the floor. It struck a deep nerve with me. Because deep down, I knew none of this was okay, but I wasn’t willing to go into why. I couldn’t reconcile my stepdad holding a signed pledge for my purity while being the one to destroy it. And I couldn’t understand so much value being assigned to a thing that I had so very little control over protecting.

Eventually, we got around to talking about sex. About marriage. Because those two conversations go hand in hand in the majority of Southern towns. Most Christian teens have those talks with a mix of excitement and guilt. Me? I felt only one thing, and I felt it intensely.

Shame.

Shame that I had nothing of value to give to this guy. In my mind, I was ruined. I felt it seared into my skin like a scarlet letter for everyone to see, and it was going to cost me everything when Evan inevitably found out. Here was this amazing person who was caring and supportive and kind. What could I possi- bly offer him? Surely, he deserved better than a shame-ridden, wilted rose.

To the everlasting credit of this tenth-grade boy, Evan pulled me close and held me tight. He told me that despite what my church was teaching about the Bible commanding my purity, some biblical concepts couldn’t work when applied literally to every sin- gle life situation. He told me that it was all too black-and-white, too unyielding, too literal to function in the gray. He told me he loved me; that nothing was broken. That a loving God wouldn’t punish me for something I had absolutely zero control over.

What he said felt true, but I knew what the Bible said, and I just couldn’t make it make sense. If Scripture was to be taken literally—and I believed that it was—there weren’t any exceptions written into these chapters. Not even for victims like me.

I wasn’t ready to report anything, but he nudged me repeatedly because he had the good sense to know I wouldn’t be safe while that man remained in my home. He knew the abuse and violence would never stop on its own, and in my heart, I knew it, too. Together, we made a plan. I would wait for when I knew my stepdad would be away. Evan told me to find someone I trusted at my church, and I immediately thought of my Sunday school teacher. She was a friend of my mom’s and a steady presence in my childhood. Truthfully, she was practically family, and I knew I could depend on her.

The only problem: My abuser was a deacon.

So we bided our time, Sunday after Sunday, until, finally, deer season came. The very first weekend he was out of town hunting, I told my Sunday school teacher everything. At least, everything I could. She believed me, thank God, but when she tried to get details, I couldn’t give her much. I didn’t have the language to describe what happened to me. Because of Purity Culture, I felt deeply uncomfortable using words like “penis” or “vagina.” I had no idea what some of the acts were even called, but trying to find the words was humiliating. Not only was I reliving my trauma, but I felt like every piece I tried to share got me pelted with more and more shame and self-loathing.

My teacher retrieved my mother from her Sunday school class. My mom listened to what happened, and she looked at me, then at my teacher, and then back at me. As a mother, I think about the moments that followed and I can feel the injury I saw on my mom’s face. She was devastated. Both for what I had gone through and that the trusted adult I had chosen wasn’t her. I don’t mean that she was upset with me or feeling bad on her own behalf. The pain she felt was for me and that I hadn’t been able to come to her first. Sooner. That her child didn’t feel safe.

Within twenty-four hours, he was arrested and booked. His belongings were processed as evidence. In his wallet: $20, his license, a Blockbuster card, and my True Love Waits purity pledge card.

A few days later, my stepfather was released on bail, and my family was advised to get out of town. For two weeks, I was put up in a Florida hotel as the story hit the Alabama news circuit. Not that child abuse is a typically hot news topic, but the thing was—he was also a cop. And not just any cop, but captain of the SWAT team, beloved by his fellow officers, and thus had the nickname “Boy Scout.” To the police, my community, and also my church, my abuser was considered a saint.

Eventually, my family was told to come home. Our house had been armed with security and a phone that was wired directly to dispatch. Apparently, “Boy Scout,” the Third Baptist Church deacon, was considered a threat to my life. I wish I could say that this threat stayed only a threat, but for the next several years, we were terrorized. Our home was broken into; shots were fired from outside and a bullet was embedded in the dining room wall. On my sixteenth birthday, I caught my abuser crawling in through the kitchen window. I ran down the hall screaming, locked myself in the bathroom, and called the police on our hotline.

I’d like to tell you that the entire police force showed up with sirens blazing. But that would be a lie, and I’d rather tell the truth—which is ugly, so buckle yourselves up. Not only did the police not arrive in a hurry, they didn’t arrive for an hour. The entire time, I sat curled up behind the toilet, shivering from terror and screaming at dispatch, while my abuser paced outside the door, laughing and mocking my terror. I knew he had a gun, and if he wanted to, he’d shoot. Our dining room wall was proof of that fact. But I also knew that the very same dining room bullet, which was supposed to be tested for ballistics, had gotten “lost” in the processing. It would never be found. The police (and most of our small town) had clearly chosen their side. Boy Scout was the victim, and I was a liar.

I prayed that I’d make it to trial.

When the SWAT team finally did arrive, the house was empty and the kitchen window was shattered. Boot prints were in the kitchen sink, and glass was all over the house. My friend Randy, who was supposed to pick me up to celebrate my birthday, had been pulling into the driveway, unaware of the crisis unfolding inside. The poor kid was held for questioning. My abuser not only routinely escaped the consequences of his actions; he didn’t even suffer the inconveniences.

After that, understandably, a whole lot of parents weren’t super comfortable with their kids hanging out with me. Now, as a mom, I understand their decisions. I’m not sure I’d have done anything different. My situation was dangerous, all over the news, and affected my friendships. But as a child and a victim, this was a devastating blow. The well of support I was drawing upon had dried up with incredible speed.

Except, thank God, I still had my church. For all its flaws, TBC did all right...at first. My stepdad had been removed as a deacon. The pastor had come to pray for me. My Sunday school teacher had immediately believed me. Church, I believed, was my safe place.

And then, I signed up for church league basketball. It was a way to stay busy and make friends. Also, I was a horrendous basketball player, and church league was the only place I could cut it. I remember my excitement the first day of practice, lacing up my shoes at the Family Life Center. The FLC was a church-owned gym that, apparently, also sold memberships. I didn’t know this until I was halfway through practice and taking a water break. I was bent over the water fountain, chugging in earnest, when I felt a large presence behind me. Thinking someone must’ve been reeeeally thirsty, I took one final gulp and stood up. Wiping my chin, I turned back around, and practically ran into my stepdad.

No words were exchanged, but the look on his face said it all.

You will never escape me.

I ran from the gym, straight to my car, and peeled out of the parking lot as if the building were on fire. When I ran into the house, uncontrollably sobbing, my mom asked what was the matter. So I told her. “Kenny was at the FLC. He was working out there during basketball.”

General Sherman had nothing on my mother the day she marched into that church. She was on a warpath, and a righteous one, too. But our pastor was shocked by her outrage.

He had already removed Boy Scout from the deacon list. Wasn’t that punishment enough? What was he supposed to do? Ban this man from the premises?

Yes, my mother informed that man. That’s exactly what he should do.

Eventually, the pastor agreed with my mom and banned my abuser from the gym. But “with love,” he strongly suggested our family consider some Christian counseling. Maybe, he said, it would be good for us all to work through this trauma with sup- port. Even better, the counselor he recommended could bill on a sliding scale. And since Mom was now alone, trying to make ends meet, and wanting her daughter to heal...she agreed.

After all, this was a Christian counselor. What would it hurt to try?

I agreed with mom that I needed more therapy. The Child Advocacy Center offered free support, but their availability was limited (a heartbreaking statement about the prevalence of this issue—and please, donate to this organization). Anyways, I asked for a couple of sessions, eager to give it a shot.

Walking into the office of Mr. Christian Counselor, everything was so safe and warm. So many pillows, encouraging post- ers, pictures of a white, smiling Jesus. He sat down across a round table from me, which was new, but I didn’t hate it. I also didn’t hate that he was hot and a dead ringer for Viggo Mortensen. Not sure if I knew who that was at the time, but I do now, and the point still stands.

“I have a worksheet for you to fill out,” he said. “It might help us jump-start the conversation.”

I wanted nothing more than to make him proud, so I grabbed a pen and started answering questions.

Are you holding on to anger? Yes. I’m pissed. C’mon, I was fucking abused. (I didn’t write that because I was a youth group kid. But, whatever I said, I’m 100 percent sure that I pressed the pen down extra hard when I wrote it.)

What is the best way to move forward from anger? I don’t know; that’s actually why I am here.

Have you considered forgiveness as a path to freedom?
I dropped my pen on the table.
“I’m sorry...but, I’m confused by this question. Is this work-sheet for everyone that comes in? Are...are you suggesting I for- give my abuser?”

“You came here looking for a path to healing. Forgiveness is that path.”

He smiled that Aragorn smile.
And, suddenly, I didn’t trust it.

In that moment, something shifted in me. This counselor, with all his warm decor and platitudes, didn’t feel like the safe haven that was advertised. Even as a child, I couldn’t accept the idea that I’d find healing by forcing forgiveness, which it sure seemed this counselor was suggesting.

What about accountability? What about recompense?

I stopped going to see that counselor, but I still longed for belonging in the church. I needed that anchor in my life, however flawed, and I hoped that one day I would find a place in the faith where I could truly feel safe and at home. I carried that hope forward through the next several years, still longing for a genuine faith community. One that would mend my wide-open wounds, not stick a dirty finger inside of them.

I grew up, went to college, failed out of college (more on that later), became a missionary, came home, and eventually met my husband, Ian.

At first, I was drawn to his unique worldview. He had a childlike sense of humor and wasn’t afraid to boldly criticize the politics and culture I’d grown up entrenched in. He ques- tioned things I had always accepted as truth, and while I didn’t always agree with him, I found it fascinating. His off-kilter fashion—European-inspired with slim-cut pants, highlights in his hair, and earrings in both ears—stood in sharp contrast to the boys I grew up with. It wasn’t a “bad boy” look, but it was different, and maybe that’s what excited me. I didn’t quite understand him, and that mystery felt fresh and exhilarating.

We fell in love quickly, swept up in what felt like a whirlwind of connection and shared faith. But looking back, I wonder how much of it was driven by the beliefs we were raised with. We grew up praying for our future spouses, believing that God would send us someone who would complete us. We were taught to wait, to hold out for this divine partnership, and that marriage would be the fulfillment of all those prayers.

We were both cookie-cutter stamps of the Purity Culture movement—purity rings, youth group pledges, and all the metaphors about chewed gum, wilted roses, and cows giving away free milk. And yet, we struggled to wait. Our engagement came quickly, and within a year of dating, we were married. At the time, it felt like the only way forward—not just because we loved each other, but because we believed marriage would save us from ourselves and from our desires.

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We got married and threw ourselves into church life, trying to piece together our faith and our marriage, as if one could fix the other.

A few years later, Ian graduated from medical school and it was time to leave Huntsville behind. (For now, I kept telling myself. Not forever.) I was terrified of leaving my home state. But he’d been matched with a residency in Orlando, Florida, and it was time for a new life adventure. So, we packed up our home and our two stinky dogs and started driving on I-65. It was gonna be awesome! Mickey Mouse. Sunshine. Less than an hour to the beach. And if I missed my family, I could always get home. The direct flights were fairly reasonable.

At least, that’s what I kept telling myself every time the anxiety kicked in.

I was still very much a small-town girl with a conservative perspective to draw from when we rolled into that big, sunny city with a carful of clothes and two dogs.

I did my best to settle into the Sunshine State while Ian got busy working. This was the Grey’s Anatomy phase of Ian’s training, meaning long hours and a whole lot of stress. It was lonely, not having him home very much, in a city that swallowed me whole. In Alabama, I’d grown up in a world where everyone knew your name and the names of your parents. You didn’t really have to worry about weekend plans, because on any given Saturday a family member was hosting a barbecue or a kid’s birthday party. I’d grown attached to this small-town simple life, so Orlando was a big change.

At first, I’d been excited about my new corporate job with a commercial real estate developer. I had a pretty corner office in a high-rise building that overlooked a lake with a fountain. But that nine-to-five grind didn’t quite fill my soul in the way my hometown life had.

I did, however, find a church just a couple of blocks from the bungalow we rented. I did my best to connect with the church’s young adult ministry, but that was a challenge, too. Ian was in his trauma surgery rotation, and his pager was constantly buzzing. So, I went by myself to a Sunday school class full of hand-holding, snuggled-up newlyweds. And though they were lovely and did their best to include me, the whole situation only made me more lonely.

“I’ll never make friends in this town,” I sobbed over the phone to my mom one night. “I’m going to church and I’m trying to make friends, but I’ve never felt so alone.”

Momma assured me that God would provide. And the next day at work, I met Michael.

He had a brilliant smile and a Southern drawl and he sounded a whole lot like home. We started talking at work.

Soon, I was picking up his favorite latte on the way to work. And on our lunch breaks, he would gush all about the love of his life, Jesse. I assumed Jesse was a girl, but that assumption turned out to be wrong. When we all met for lunch one day, I couldn’t conceal my shock.

“Oh my GOSH, Michael! You’re gay?”

“Um, DUH.” He laughed. “Did the cowboy hat throw you off ?”

I then remembered he had recently pointed out a bar a few blocks from my house. He mentioned that it was a fun place to go, and I replied that one day we should...but I hadn’t noticed the rainbow details.

“MK, your gaydar isn’t malfunctioning. It’s completely nonexistent.”

Michael and Jesse told me funny stories about drag contests and bouncers who wore shorty shorts. They insisted I would love Thursday night karaoke, but I assured them it wasn’t my scene.

I blushed and giggled a little at the idea.
It sounded fun, if not a bit scandalous.
A week or so after that hilarious lunch date, I was driving home from a friend’s house one night, right past that same gay bar Michael had pointed out to me, when I witnessed a young lady being struck by a car. I swerved to the side of the road and jumped out of my vehicle, screaming.

In an instant, people poured out of the bar to assist in the emergency. I barely registered that they were dressed flamboyantly. Their makeup didn’t strike me as strange. In that moment, we were all scared human beings. Their hearts were racing just like mine.

A drag queen cradled the woman’s head in his hands as I called the police.

“Don’t move, baby girl,” he comforted the woman. “Don’t mess up these pretty braids.”

It was a fraction of a moment that felt like forever. I can still hear her crying for Momma. Thankfully, the club was only a block from the hospital, and the ambulance arrived in an instant.

When the lights and sirens finally faded, my adrenaline-filled body couldn’t handle silence. It was like every one of us had been shaken like soft drinks, and in that moment, we had all cracked open. There were hugs and prayers exchanged between strangers. I remember someone humming a hymn.

Then slowly, one by one, the crowd dispersed. We had to go back to our lives. But not before exchanging a couple of phone numbers, promising to share any updates.

I called my friends Michael and Jesse. I understood that the gay community in Orlando was a close one and I wondered if they’d heard any news.

Michael asked around, but he didn’t hear much.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “We will know more tomorrow.”
I decided to stay up until then.
The next morning, we all went to breakfast with the drag

queens, who had started a text thread for updates. We bonded over hash browns and our collective trauma—and after coffee, just some regular life stories.

The woman, we learned, was in critical condition. Two broken legs and a fractured spine. James, who had cradled her head so gently, had probably saved her life. Turns out, he had done so with great intention because not only was he a drag queen, but once a month he returned to his rural hometown to serve as a medic for the volunteer fire department.

A hero. An absolute gem of a human.

I decided to invite James to church. To my delight (and a bit of surprise), he accepted my invitation.

For the next few months, James showed up to church with a Starbucks cup in each hand. A skinny vanilla latte for me and a white chocolate mocha for him. We’d sip our drinks at that big round table, laughing with the rest of the Sunday school class. James had a knack for presenting Scripture in a way that spurred deep, theological discussions. We’d discuss the day’s lesson, share our personal struggles, and at the end of class, pray for one another.

And then one day, after closing prayer, James said that he’d like to get baptized. He filled out an interest card for the church, requesting new member information. I decided that I should fill one out, too, since it’d been awhile since I was dunked. I figured it’d be more special together, and, after all, I was due for a re-up.

That week, we individually received invitations to meet with the church’s lead pastor. I went first at 1:00 p.m., and the whole thing went pretty smoothly. Just the basics of a Southern Baptist sign-up.

Do you love Jesus? Do you understand sin? Did you ask Jesus into your heart?

I was in and out of that office in minutes, a card-carrying congregation member. James was supposed to be one hour behind me, so I expected his call at any moment. But the hours kept ticking, and James didn’t call. By dinnertime, I was growing concerned.

First I texted. Then I called.

Then I started to panic. A day went by, and then a couple more days. At this point, I was worrying myself sick.

I reached out to Michael, who had no idea what was happen- ing but was happy to meet for coffee.

“Babe, I don’t really know him that well. But if I had to guess...that meeting with your Southern Baptist pastor didn’t go so smoothly for James.”

A familiar knot of doubt started to form in my stomach. I knew the Bible verses used to condemn same-sex relationships by heart—the “clobber verses,” as they’re called. And I’d heard the usual explanations in church about how “homosexuality is a sin” and about “God’s design for marriage.”

But those verses...could they mean something different? I had read about more-loving translations that aligned with Christ’s teachings on compassion and inclusion, but to entertain that idea felt like questioning the Bible itself, something I felt I was not allowed to do. I had always managed to push those thoughts aside. You have to understand, Christianity wasn’t just my faith; it was my culture, my community, and a lens I had used to under- stand the world for as long as I could remember. Living inside that system, I had developed a kind of cognitive dissonance.

James was gay, and he was also a wonderful human being who loved God and wanted to be part of a church, and I couldn’t reconcile that truth with the things I’d always been told about gay people being bad. So...I just didn’t. I tucked those conflicting beliefs far away in some corner at the back of my mind so I wouldn’t have to face my own questions.

I didn’t consciously do this. It’s just that I’d done it so many times that I forgot what it felt like to question it. I had long since swallowed the contradictions between what the church said and what I experienced in my actual life. I’d been taught that the world would lie to me, and that what the church taught was the only truth. I’d learned to keep my blinders on to make it all work.

Michael shook his head like he knew a sad secret that he didn’t really want to share. Luckily, he didn’t have to. Because that’s when I heard back from James.

Hey Sugar Bear. Sorry I disappeared. Rough week. Not really your fault. I met with the pastor, and it didn’t work out. Not coming back. Please understand. 

XOXO, James

I blinked for a minute, just staring at the screen. What did he mean, “It didn’t work out”? James had been welcomed at church every Sunday—what did the pastor say?

With furious tears welling up in my eyes, I stood up in the middle of Starbucks.

“I’m going to the church. I’m gonna talk to the pastor.” “Right now?” Michael asked.
“Right. Now.”

Michael squeezed me tight and wished me good luck, but I was certain that I wouldn’t need it.

“This is all some sort of misunderstanding,” I said.

“I hope so,” was all he replied.

And as I left, I noticed his eyes were still holding on to that secret. A few hours later, I left Pastor Mark’s office with an angry and broken heart. I’d received an up-front-and-personal educa- tion on the difference between acceptance and inclusion. Accord- ing to the pastor, James was living in sin and therefore could not be a member of the church. To be clear, James was welcome to attend Sunday school, to bond with and pray over members. He was encouraged to tithe, volunteer, and attend. None of that was a problem. But when it came to the official act of joining, my church held a thick red line. James was gay, and therefore con- demned. He was not a “true” brother in Christ.

Looking back now, I realize this moment was one of the many, many times I’d felt an internal struggle to reconcile my values of love and kindness with the teachings of the beliefs I espoused. All those years as a front-row Baptist, and I still didn’t see what was in front of me. There was a long list of casualties from the zillion pileups that occurred at the intersection of evan- gelical Christianity and queer identity.

Seeing what happened with James, the inconsistencies were becoming harder to ignore. I started questioning whether the Jesus I read about in Scripture—the one who always sided with the overlooked and misunderstood—was the same person I sang praise choruses about in that church. But even as these questions surfaced, I wasn’t ready to confront the deeper patterns. I wasn’t ready to face what it might mean if this was not just one isolated failure but something bigger, woven into the fabric of evangelical theology itself.

Instead, I clung to an easier explanation. I told myself this was just one bad pastor, one broken church, one act of injustice. It wasn’t the theology itself that was flawed; I just needed to find a healthier spiritual community. Like dating, I thought, I’d even- tually find the “right” church, one that truly loved me and the whole world well. I’d settle down there, and my faith would heal. It was comforting to think that all this hate and harm was simply proof I’d trusted the wrong people. The system wasn’t the problem—it was just this particular expression of it.

So I withdrew my membership and drove home, clinging to the belief that it wasn’t the theology, just this church. But before I walked through the door, I texted James.

I am so sorry. I know I can’t do anything to make this better, but I really am sorry.

I never heard from James again, but I did hear something of that pastor.

Many years later, he was caught having an extramarital affair, and he exited the ministry for good.

Dear Readers,

If this chapter spoke to something tender in you—thank you for reading.

Not That Wheel, Jesus comes out August 12, and I’d be so grateful if you’d consider preordering a copy. Preorders are the biggest way you can support my work (and help this book land in the hands of the people who need it most).

✨ Click here to preorder.

Your support means more than you know.

Love,
MK

I’m gonna celebrate the heck out of you today—but first, let’s get real for a minute.

About something you probably already know deep down, but that deserves to be said out loud.

Lemme just spit it out plainly:

There’s a reason we talk about daddy issues as often as we talk about daddy’s girls.

Fatherhood is a role that carries immense weight.

If you don’t believe me, ask just about anyone how they feel about their dad. Listen real close, and what you’ll hear is probably either resentment or adoration…and not a whole lot in between.

I think that says less about the power of any one man, and more about the gravity of the role itself.

The thing is, it doesn’t take a big, bad dude to pass down generational pain. Most of the time, all it takes is a scared little boy who was never taught any other way.

And that’s why Father’s Day matters so much.

That’s why today, we do the honoring.

Because the men who do the work of growing and healing? They deeply deserve to be seen.

What they are doing as fathers isn’t easy.

In fact, I would argue that it’s sacred.

Because just like trauma can trickle down through generations… guess what else can?

Healing.

Fatherhood is a heavy mantle that some men choose to carry with awareness. And I can’t tell you how much that matters.

Dads, the depth of your impact can’t be captured in one sweet Facebook post. A picture of you coaching a Little League game or a “Greatest Dad” mug doesn’t cut it.

We already know that.

The truth is, it’s hard to verbalize the weight of a good father’s love. That steady, daily presence that can hold more than one generation in its hands.

I sometimes wonder if these men know how their quiet daily work is changing society.

How their steadiness is the exact kind of medicine we need for this broken, angry, wounded world.

How just witnessing their kind of fatherly love lands like safety in the hearts that never had it.

Today, those hearts all celebrate you.

Because when a man shows up with consistency, and care…not just for his children, but for his own healing too?

He has done far more than be a good parent.

He’s offering a better blueprint for society.

For what masculinity, love, and legacy can look like.

When fatherhood is done well, it’s one of the most powerful, healing things in the world.

That’s why we speak of it with both reverence and ache.And that’s why today matters.

So if there’s a man in your life who embodies that kind of love, please reach out to him.

Give him credit.

Not just for the early mornings, or the t-ball coaching, or the daily grind. But for the deep internal work he had to heal in order to love so well.

Good fathers are a treasure in this world, and one we deeply need. When they rise to the occasion, the whole world rises with them.

So to the good fathers out there:

we see you

we thank you

and today, we celebrate you.

Happy Father’s Day. 💚

"I'll never make friends in this town,” I sobbed over the phone with my mom one night.

The next day at work, I met M.

He had a brilliant smile and a southern drawl and he sounded like home. He loved horses, too, having spent years doing rodeo. Our friendship was instant and easy.

He visited the barn and taught me how to lasso. I picked up his favorite latte on the way to work. And on our lunch breaks, he would gush all about the love of his life, Jesse. I assumed Jesse was a girl, but that assumption turned out to be wrong. When we all met for lunch one day, I couldn't conceal my shock.

"Oh my GOSH, M! You're gay?"

"Um, DUH." He laughed. “Did the cowboy hat throw you off?”

I then remembered he had recently pointed out a bar a few blocks from my house. He mentioned that it was a fun place to go, and I replied that one day we should….but I hadn’t noticed the rainbow details.

"MK, your gay-dar isn't malfunctioning. It's completely nonexistent."

M and Jesse told me funny stories about drag contests and bouncers who wore shorty shorts. They insisted I would love Thursday night karaokes, but I assured them it wasn't my scene.

I blushed and giggled a little at the idea. It sounded fun, if not a bit scandalous.

A week or so after that hilarious lunch date, I was driving home from a friend’s house, when I witnessed a young lady get struck by a car. I swerved to the side of the road and jumped out of my vehicle, screaming.

In an instant, people poured out of the bar to assist in the emergency. I barely registered that they were dressed flamboyantly. Their make up didn't strike me as strange. In that moment, we were all scared human beings. Their hearts were racing just like mine.

A drag queen cradled the woman’s head in his hands as I called the police.

“Don’t move, baby girl,” he comforted the woman. “Don’t mess up these pretty braids.”

It was a fraction of a moment that felt like forever. I can still hear her crying for Momma. Thankfully, the club was a block from the hospital. The ambulance arrived in an instant.

When the lights and sirens finally faded, my adrenaline couldn’t handle silence. It was like every one of us had been shaken like soft drinks, and in that moment, we had all cracked open. There were hugs and prayers exchanged between strangers. I remember someone humming a hymn.

Then slowly, one by one, the crowd dispersed. We had to go back to our lives. But not before exchanging a couple of phone numbers, promising to disperse any updates.

I called my friends, M and Jesse. I knew the gay community was a close one and I wondered if they had heard any news.

M asked around, but didn’t hear much.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “We will know more tomorrow.”

I decided to stay up until then.

The next morning, we all went to breakfast with the drag queens who had started a text thread for updates. We bonded over hash browns and our collective trauma—and after coffee, just some regular life stories.

The woman, we learned, was in critical condition. Two broken legs and a fractured spine. James, who had cradled her head so gently, had probably saved her life. Turns out, he had done so with great intention because not only was he a drag queen, but once a month he returned to his rural hometown to serve as a medic for the volunteer fire department.

A hero. An absolute gem of a human.

Two years later, those same gentle heroes were working their jobs at Pulse when a hate-crazed terrorist made his way through the doors with a semi-automatic rifle. When he first started shooting, some patrons kept dancing.

They thought it was part of the music.

That detail never fails wreck my heart.

They kept dancing.

They just wanted to dance.

I’ll never forget the pit in my stomach as I stared at my phone through the night. Praying each name in that years-long text thread was sleeping at home in their beds. After four sleepless nights, we received confirmation—two of the group had been working. Both had escaped and survived the massacre.

But it wasn’t a happy ending.

An act of hate forever changed their lives, and they were deeply, irreversibly altered. One turned to drugs and the other disappeared. I pray he is still alive, somewhere.

But, yes. They survived. Thank God, I should say.

In an act of terror that killed 49 and hurt scores more, they were the lucky ones.

But when I think of that word...”lucky”.

God, it honestly pisses me off.

That’s how low the bar is, y’all. That’s where we are as a society.

Our gay friends are sometimes just lucky to survive.

How can this be who we are?

If you talk to the LGBTQ community, and I mean really get to know them, you will hear a whole lot of heart breaking versions of what they consider to be “lucky”.

Their parents didn’t disown them. They are lucky.

They haven’t been physically assaulted. Lucky.

They survived a terrorist attack.

Lucky.

I am so deeply over this shit.

Nobody, nobody should live in fear. Nobody should feel lucky that they’ve avoided physical abuse, or emotional abuse, or my Lord, mass murder.

Six short years after the Pulse shooting, what is it going to take?

Look how broken America is.

Look what this hate has cost us.

And look at how the religious and political mouthpieces for hate are becoming more and more emboldened.

Last year, I posted a meme celebrating the beginning of Pride.

It said:

Wishing all the homophobes a SUPER uncomfortable month!

I post it every year and I usually laugh my butt off. It’s too easy to predict all the comments. It’s the same old crap, different mouths, every year.

“Well, that’s not very Christlike.”

“I don't hate anyone! I hate the sin, but I don’t hate the sinner.”

“Ohhhhhh, well who is intolerant now?”

This year, I am truly done laughing.

I used to abide this shit, but to be honest, I really can’t do it, anymore. I’ve read and I’ve lived through enough horrible history to understand this terrible truth:

Polite hate is the most dangerous kind of hate. It loads the gun, then just backs away quietly.

Christians, please, open your eyes. It’s two thousand and freaking twenty five. I know that you know exactly how this works. You don’t get a pass for good manners.

I won’t let you hide behind pat platitudes when your beliefs give motive to terrorists.

You don’t get to say “it’s the sin that I hate” when that mantra makes bullets for terrorists.

And yah, I guess you could call me intolerant. Smack that sticker on my forehead, I don’t care. For years, I have tolerated far too much from the bigoted backrow Baptists. But the paradox of tolerance states that if a society's practice of tolerance is inclusive of the intolerant…in the end, intolerance will win the day.

And that’s exactly how people die dancing.

So yah, not only do I wish the homophobes reading an incredibly uncomfortable month—I hope this discomfort convicts your soul, and makes you question EVERYTHING. I hope the itch in your spirit spreads to places you can’t bend over to scratch.

I hope enough people walk away from your screeching that you are left alone with your hate. And I hope that hate makes you sick to your stomach when you realize the harm it has caused.

Being gay is not a sin. And Pride is not some party.

It’s a courageous protest that weak minded fearful bigots just can’t comprehend.

It’s authenticity in the face of oppression. Vulnerability in the face of violence.

Pride is the spirit of millions of people who have chosen to dance in the crosshairs.

Growing up in the church, I was frequently told that there are evil forces at work. That these forces were fighting against God’s will, and causing harm to His people. Now, I can see that the threat was true, but it was coming from inside the house.

There are evil, hateful forces at work right now…against the LGBTQ community. Some of those forces look like Saints when they’re hiding behind stained glass.

It’s gonna take a force, equal and opposite in power and passion, to turn the church around. So, if you’re a Christian who has been fence-sitting this issue, it’s time to get off the damn fence.

This June, I beg you to look past the prejudice and the preaching you’ve had crammed down your throat your whole life. Look past your anger, and your pastor’s fear. Look at these beautiful humans. Trying with all their hearts to claim the dignity and love and safety that they, as humans, deserve.

This?

THIS is what you are scared of?

These are the forces of evil?

If that’s what you think then, my friend, you’ve been brainwashed.

I get it. I was brainwashed, too.

But all along, I deep down in my heart, I knew there was something amiss. I couldn’t quite rationalize what I knew of God’s love with the hate I saw coming from church.

For twenty years, I was too afraid to challenge my faith. I thought that it might fall apart.

But that is EXACTLY why I wish all the homophobes a SUPER uncomfortable month. Because I know from painful, hard-earned experience what discomfort can do to change minds.

So, instead of doubling down on your hateful theology…I ask you, non-affirming Christians, in the name of our faith. In the name of God’s love.

Will you please put your weapons down?

Will you consider the lesson that I learned on the street in front of Pulse so many years ago?

Will you feel the heartbeats of your fellow humans, and for once SEE YOURSELF IN THEM?

I beg you to try.

I beg you to grow.

It’s already been far too late.

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Hey, friend.

I am so glad you’re here.

Maybe you already know this, but as a national best selling Christian author who grew up Southern Baptist, my views are VERY unique in the Christian publishing world.

I feel so lucky to share this space with such a kind & inclusive audience.

If you wish to keep my voice platformed and support my work, you can subscribe to my Substack for free (right here where this article was written).

Or, you can support me by pre-ordering my book, Not That Wheel, Jesus!

(this is a B&N link—it’s everywhere books are sold!)

(Pre-ordering tells the publishing industry that my voice belongs in this space.)

Or you can just stay here and read my words, and I will remain deeply grateful.

Thank you for your support & stay kind out there.

Love and Pride 💚 🌈,

Mary Katherine

P.S. this article has been published, and will be published annually on June 1. My message remains LOUD and the same until peoples hearts start changing.

He wouldn’t stop to celebrate what he considers “just doing the right thing.”

But I will.

Because yesterday marked seven years sober for the man I love with my whole heart.

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Seven years since he chose to face his pain instead of running from it.

Seven years since he stopped numbing and started healing.

Seven years since he became the kind of man who held the entire world together for his kids—even after they lost their mother.

And somehow, it feels like—against the odds—he found it within himself to become something entirely new.

Evolving is the bravest thing a soul can do.

I truly believe that.

The longer I live the more I realize most people never fully step into themselves. Which makes it it’s hard to understand what it means as a human to turn an entire life around.

To have a deep enough integrity to choose accountability of oneself.

To look at the chaos, the hurt, the bad patterns—and say:

This isn’t who I want to be. I’m choosing something better.

That kind of courage is rare, especially in the face of addiction. Because it’s not just about one turning point.

It’s a thousand small choices—quiet ones, hard ones. The kind no one claps for.

Recovery is a steep and uncelebrated climb.

But Matt has been climbing it—steadily, faithfully—for seven years now and the most beautiful thing for me to see are the results in every life he touches.

I never knew the man who wrestled with darkness. The stories from that time feel like another world—B.C. and A.D. Except, it’s before and after life with alcohol.

And while I’ll never be glad for the weight he was made to carry, I am endlessly grateful for the man that it shaped.

What I have learned from witnessing sobriety is this:

That healing journey doesn’t just change one person.

It creates a ripple.

A wave of steadiness and love that touches everyone who ever stood close to it.

Loving Matt has even healed something in me.

As a family member to several alcoholics and addicts, just know that healing is possible…that someone can choose it? That put a spark of hope back in my life.

Who knew I’d fall in love with someone who takes me to weird hippie shows completely sober.

Who still dances like the most joyful person in the room—heart open, shaking out his bones with abandon.

Like life itself is a celebration.

And I guess that’s what it comes down to, isn't it?

Because for someone in recovery that’s exactly what life is: a hard-won, fiercely-earned celebration.

Happy sober birthday, baby.

Love you BIG. 💚

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Hey everyone,

It means the world to me that you’re here. Sharing these pieces of my heart is my way of pushing past fear, step by step. I believe encouragement and love should never come with a paywall.

But if you choose to support my work financially, know that you’re not just keeping the lights on—you’re keeping my voice alive.

Thank you for showing up alongside me on this journey.

With love and gratitude,

Mary Katherine

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This landed in my feed today, and I laughed.

Not because any of this is funny. It’s not. But because frankly, this timeline in the United States of America has reached Pee-wee Herman levels of absurdity, and I don’t even know how to process it anymore.

A mission from God?

Led by Donald Trump?

Are we actually serious right now?

I’ve written. I’ve marched. I’ve begged people to pay attention. I’ve yelled until my voice cracked…

And still.

This insidious, creeping fusion of power and religion, dressed up in Sunday school clothes, has way too many of y’all nodding along like it’s the gospel.

Which is crazy, because y’all should be pissed.

Let’s be honest: if the average person stood in the middle of the street and said he was on a mission from God…they wouldn’t be getting the Oval Office. They’d get a mental health evaluation and a grippy sock vacation, stat.

But somehow, when Donald Trump does it, it’s patriotic. Worth clapping for.

Holy, even.

Christians, I need y’all to hear me.

This idolatry isn’t just a perversion of your faith—it’s a violation of your civic duty.

America was not created to be a theocracy. Our founders, flawed though they were, explicitly warned against the incestuous marriage of church and state. They knew it was dangerous. They built this country to protect freedom of belief—not to elevate one man’s ambition to the level of religious truth.

But here we are.

As if the Constitution never happened. As if the whole idea of America wasn’t born in defiance of religious tyranny. As if the blood spilled, the ink signed, and the revolution never even mattered.

I know memories are short…but good God, y’all.

Our history books aren’t even that thick.

These warnings aren't buried in some grad school library. We’re talking Chapter 2, fifth grade history.

Y’all should know better.

We all should.

But some of you would rather close your eyes and pretend you’re bowing your heads—while the rest of us are wide awake, screaming.

We see what you’re doing, the accountability you are dodging.

And in your silence, we hear you.

We hear the echo from the hollow of your soul where your values and spirituality once lived. We see your social media activity and how different it is from the values you proclaim.

And you don’t get to gaslight us now. Not when the man you’ve cast as God’s missionary has the moral scruples of a Disney villain.

The Department of Homeland Security and the FBI have openly stated that Christian nationalism is one of the most dire threats to our democracy. And to be cleat, we now have our president posting that he’s on a mission from God…

…and nothing can stop him?

Nope.

HAAAAAIL nope.

You don’t get to tune this one out, Trumpers. You don’t get to pretend that this man—whose entire political platform spits in the face of Christ’s ministry—is somehow heaven’s choice.

Donald Trump on a mission from God?

What an offensive joke.

And your belief in it?

Performative. Intellectually dishonest.

A gospel gutted for political gain.

Before some of you come at me—because many of you certainly will—let it be known:

This ain’t my first rodeo.

I am not speaking as an outside observer. I was raised on red clay and reverence. I spent more time inside the walls of a church than most folks spend in their own kitchen. I know the Word of God backward and forward, I even served as an overseas missionary.

So, I remember what Jesus said:

“It’s harder for a rich man to enter heaven than for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle.”

And honestly, at this point?

I’m more likely to believe in a needle-threading camel than I am to believe that Donald J. Trump has been assigned any kind of divine task from heaven.

Maybe the underworld.

This man tore families apart at the border with a zero-tolerance policy that separated 5,500 children from their parents. Many were never reunited.

He slashed SNAP benefits, ripping food off the tables of the working poor—while his third wife crapped on a gold toilet.

He pushed for the death of the Central Park Five even after they were exonerated, because this is a man who has always believed he is judge, jury, and executioner.

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And now?

He sits in the executive branch surrounded by yes-men lemmings.

If you believe this narcissist has had a change of heart through any kind of spiritual experience, let me remind you what he said in his OWN WORDS when asked if he’s ever asked God for forgiveness:

“I’m not sure I have. I just go on and try to do a better job from there. I don’t bring God into the picture.”

Let that sink in.

The adulterer. The swindler. The liar. The deviant.

He’s NOT sorry.

And why on earth would he be?

Donald Trump is his own dang god, and y’all are just singing in the praise band.

He doesn't care about you.

He doesn't care about me.

Trump cares about no one but Trump.

Meanwhile, the American evangelical church is crumbling. Our government’s system of checks and balances is teetering. Because this man doesn’t just ignore basic decency—he ignores the Supreme Court, too.

He wraps political extremism in religious language, and somehow, the church keeps writing him blank moral checks—letting him speak for our nation, our faith, our future.

I can’t let that happen unchallenged.

The Constitution is paper-thin, and y’all—we are standing in the flames.

This is not about faith; it’s about power.

A drunk kind of power.

The kind that gulps down praise, demands loyalty, and doesn’t care what it destroys to stay on top.

And if you’re still buying it, let’s just be honest about your religion.

Because it’s not Christianity.

And it’s not patriotism.

It’s cosplay. It’s fandom.

It’s a cult.

God or Trump? It’s time to pick a lane.

Because these roads don’t go in the same direction.

You can say you’re following God’s path.

Or you can say you’re following Trump.

But don’t get it confused.

There’s only one set of footprints on the road Trump’s walking.

And it’s not because the Lord is carrying him.

Hey friends,

Your presence here means the world to me. Knowing you’ve taken the time to read thoughts on empathy and human kindness reassures me that these values still resonate.

If this article resonated with you, please consider sharing & subscribing to keep the conversation alive. I’ll always keep my content paywall-free because encouragement shouldn’t come at a cost. For those who choose to offer financial support, thank you for keeping the lights on.

With love and gratitude,

Mary Katherine

There will be no recovery.

There is…Nottoway to get it back.

(Sorry, I couldn’t help myself.)

The truth is, I braced when I saw these articles trending because I knew exactly what was coming: the same discussion, the same outrage, the same arguments and sharp-edged barbs.

I’ve seen this moment play out my whole life.

It’s the tension of growing up Southern.

Of watching people you know fight to preserve something they also refuse to fully name.

It’s heartbreaking.

It’s a deep, deep fracture in our communities.

And it's a pain you just learn to live with.

These stories, these arguments, they all feel the same. They just hit publish with new cover photos.

Today it’s a plantation.

Tomorrow, an antebellum beauty pageant.

In the fall, it’s a fraternity holding an “Old South” celebration, dressing up like Confederate soldiers and dancing with women in hoop skirts.

Tale as old as time, or at least as long as I’ve been here.

The line between understanding the grief of our shared history and defending the pride of it has always run straight down the middle of Black and white in the South.

And while I do see some of my pilgrim-descendant cousins finally waking up to that pain, it’s not enough.

Not nearly enough.

So I clicked on the article, and the comments did their thing. One half mourning the loss of a “beautiful piece of architecture.” The other half exhaling, even celebrating because—for once—the trash took itself out.

I read as a Black man commented that he believed his ancestors were speaking. That this was a reckoning, a long-overdue cleanse.

Aaaaand that did it. That kicked the whole anthill.

A woman named Susan was especially mad, hammering out comments like it was her doctoral thesis…all in the name of “preserving history,” of course.

“History is being erased, can’t you see that? This is loss for everyone. If those walls could talk, the stories they would tell!!!!!”

But Susan… you don’t want those walls to talk.

Not really.

Not if they’re telling the truth.

Because if they did, they wouldn’t be whispering stories of picnics and parties on the lawn.

They’d be screaming. With horror. With loss. With the sound of lives stolen and bodies broken.

And I can’t even take you seriously when you say this is about “preservation.”

Was that what this resort was doing—when Becky and Chad were posing out front with their wedding party, looking like they wandered off the set of Gone with the Wind?

That’s not preservation.

That’s theater.

You don’t see Germany transforming concentration camps into picturesque Airbnbs. You don’t see abandoned child labor factories turned into candlelit wedding venues.

Because people with a conscience don’t romanticize places of deep human suffering.

But here in the American South, we’re still serving mint juleps on back porches where people were tortured and calling it tradition.

I used to be a realtor and let me tell you, if someone is murdered in a house, nobody will touch it.

“Bad energy,” buyers say. “Dark history.”

But turn that murder into systemic, generational slavery?

Suddenly it’s charming. Suddenly it’s a showpiece.

Y’all wouldn’t buy a house where one person died tragically, but you’ll throw a whole entire party at a place where hundreds were enslaved AND killed?

That’s not reverence.

That’s moral rot.

And maybe that’s why my heart feels so hardened.

Because usually, I would care when someone loses something valuable. But in this case, the loss is so damn imbalanced.

I just need people to bring the same damn energy to the fact that human lives were razed on that property.

For me, there’s too much blood on the ground to care about the wood in the fireplace.

I’m sorry, but I don’t feel sorry.

In these circumstances, the conversation shouldn’t be about the loss of architecture.

It should be about our loss of humanity.

We all came into this world naked, without a single belonging and that’s exactly how we’re all going to leave. You won't carry your porch columns into the afterlife.

What really matters, in the end?

The truth is, there’s only one appropriate way to preserve places like this: Turn them into museums.

And if that’s what Nottoway was doing, I would probably be mourning, too.

But cmon, y’all. That isn't what this was.

Tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

Otherwise, it’s not preservation.

It’s propaganda.

The confederacy isn’t a heritage I celebrate.

It is, however, my home’s sad story.

And what I know is that the truth of that history isn’t found in the woodwork or the intricate chandeliers or the manicured lawns. It isn’t told by the beauty of the architecture from its time.

History lives in the echoes still humming through the floorboards. The sound of children being ripped away from their families, the crack of a whip into human flesh, the screams of women being raped in the kitchen...while the men played poker and the housewives tightened their corsets and poured another sweet tea.

I will not mourn the burning of a house built on human misery. In my opinion, none of us should.

Call me Sherman, I suppose, but today I’m whistling Yankee Doodle.

Sometimes it feels good to watch it burn.

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Hey friends,

Your presence here means the world to me. Knowing you’ve taken the time to read thoughts on empathy and human kindness reassures me that these values still resonate.

If this article resonated with you, please consider sharing & subscribing to keep the conversation alive. I’ll always keep my content paywall-free because encouragement shouldn’t come at a cost. For those who choose to offer financial support, thank you for keeping the lights on.

With love and gratitude,

Mary Katherine

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And maybe this post isn’t for you…and you know what?

That is okay, friend.

If Mother’s Day is joyful, if it feels sacred and celebratory, please don’t feel like this takes away from that.

I’m not here to steal joy. I’m expressing pain.

And in a healthy world, both of our feelings can exist. But let me start by saying this:

I hate this freakin holiday.

It sneaks up on me every year like a bag full of ugly truths I wish I didn’t have to carry. Don't get me wrong.

Motherhood, for me, is beautiful.

But at times, it is also quite heavy.

Heavy because I started that journey from the inside of a deeply fractured partnership. Add postpartum depression and a shit ton of childhood trauma, that first decade was truly a storm.

Then once a year, I was expected to come up for air and somehow...celebrate myself?

So like a hollowed out zombie, I would go off to Publix and buy the cake. I wrapped the gifts. I made the day meaningful for me because who else was going to? Plus, my kids deserved normalcy.

Sometimes I got out of town with girlfriends and called it an escape. But what kind of life should be so painful you feel the need to escape it on the very day meant to honor your place in it?

And if I was lucky enough to have peace and distance from the weight of it all–if I found myself resting, just once—the guilt of not being with my children would eat at me.

If any of this at all resonates with you, if this holiday makes you want to crawl out of your skin...I need you to hear me when I say this: It is not because you’re a bad mother.

The word "mother" is not just about the love you have for your children. That love is deep and natural for many of us—not the complicated part.

The complicated part is the role.

Because mother isn’t just a relationship, is it?

It’s a job title. A set of expectations.

It’s an identity assigned by culture, family, tradition. One that includes self-sacrifice, emotional labor, performance, peacekeeping, caretaking.

Too often with no support.

If it were just about love, the holiday wouldn’t feel this way for so many, would it?

There’s no real way to win Mother’s Day when your role in a family is still healing from grief.

If you’re in a painful partnership, it turns over every rock. If you have a partner now who shows up for you beautifully, that’s wonderful...but it can also shine a light on what you didn’t have in the years it mattered so much.

And if you’re alone, it just reinforces a truth: you’ve been doing this alone for a long time.

I’m not saying this to complain. I’m saying it because I know someone out there feels what I’m feeling and wonders if they’re the only one. Wonders if they’re crazy for dreading this day. For feeling flat or sad or angry while the world posts flowers and smiles and brunch photos.

You are not crazy.

It’s okay to say: this holiday never felt good for me.

It’s okay to admit that you were the one creating the magic every single year while carrying so much silence and pain.

These are the hard truths we are taught to keep quiet about. But they’re so much more common than we think.

This morning, I saw a video that cracked my heart open and made me decide to spill all of this out.

It was of an Instagram reel of a mom holding her toddler in a beautifully decorated room. A first birthday party which was clearly the result of a mom’s thoughtful planning. Her husband was holding the cake, and right in the middle of the song, he leaned forward and it fell to the floor.

Splat.

In a moment that asked for regret or apology, he started laughing. Then his mom started laughing. And soon the whole room was laughing during the birthday song, with cake splattered on the ground.

The camera panned to the mother’s face as she stood holding her baby girl. Clearly, she devastated. But instead of crying or screaming, you watch her face go numb. The comments, sadly, were chock full of women simply saying "yep" or "been there".

And no, I’ve never lived that exact moment.

But I do know that exact feeling.

That snap in your chest when all the invisible labor, the unspoken effort, the hope that maybe this time someone else will hold it for you…just crumples.

That’s what this holiday feels like for too many people.

Like the camera is panning to your face in a moment where you’re trying to hold it together.

And it has nothing to do with your love for your children.It has everything to do with the responsibility and expectation that’s attached to your name.

Your role in a family represents more than just the love you have for your kids.

And sometimes that role can be painful.

And you don’t want to stare at it all day.

So if you’re feeling heavy about Mother’s Day, if you’re not up for clapping for yourself, it’s okay.

Truly, it is.

You’re not ungrateful.

You’re not broken.

And you’re certainly not a bad mother.

You’re probably just telling the truth.

And you know what? I was going to end this here.

But my heart wants to share one more thing.

Because right now, there are four kids I love very much who will also be having a tough weekend.

Their Mother’s Day looks nothing like mine, because their mama isn’t here anymore.

And that’s a different kind of grief.

A heavy ache.

And it belongs in this conversation too.

Because there are so many truths that live inside a day like Mother’s Day.

Speaking them out loud doesn’t erase the joy.

It simply makes room for the rest of us.

Because we’re all human. And in human families, we all have wildly different versions of what the role mother means—of what that experience feels like.

And I think it’s okay to say that out loud.

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Hey everyone,

It means the world to me that you’re here. Sharing these pieces of my heart is my way of pushing past fear, step by step.

I’ll always keep my words open and accessible because I believe encouragement and love should never come with a paywall.

But if you choose to support my work financially, know that you’re not just keeping the lights on—you’re keeping my voice alive.

Thank you for showing up alongside me on this journey.

With love and gratitude,

Mary Katherine

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I remember, even at a young age, thinking it was the perfect picture of love. That tree gave everything—its fruit, its branches, its trunk.

And even when it had nothing left to offer but a stump, even then, it sat gladly. Waiting for the boy who had taken it all to come rest his weight on what remained.

And I thought, Yes. This is it. This is love.

I admired that tree. I wanted to be that tree.

And for about thirty-nine years, I was.

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I spent the first half of my life proving my worth in relationships by cutting myself to pieces. Offering time, energy, tenderness, loyalty, attention, forgiveness—whatever was needed.

People told me how rare I was, how lucky they felt to be cared for like that. I made people feel rich because I was willing to give everything—and most times, I did. Down to the stump.

It looked like joy.

It felt like love, at least to those who received it.

But there’s something most people don’t understand about givers.

Deep down, we’re desperately lonely.

Because the truth is, most givers learned how to love by noticing what was missing. We mastered the art of showing up for others in the exact ways no one ever consistently showed up for us. Giving is our soul’s love language. It’s how we say: I know what this feels like. I know how much it matters. So let me do it for you.

And then, once we’re all poured out, we retreat into a quiet, shaky gratitude. Because we believe, deep down, that we’re lucky to love at all.

I’m not gonna lie. After my divorce, I started to ask myself: What if I stopped trying? What if I pulled back my love? What if I stopped offering so much of myself, so reflexively, so eagerly—who would stay?

The answer was devastating.

Far fewer people than I expected.

But it gave me something I never had before: clarity.

I learned that some people never saw my love as a gift. They saw it as a guarantee. Something I would always offer, no matter how little was given in return.

And when I finally stopped overfunctioning—when I stopped carrying the whole of love by myself—some mistook my quiet for rejection. Some got angry, like I’d broken a contract they never had to sign. At most, they simply moved on to the next giver.

It shattered me.

But it also freed me.

Because it taught me something about myself.

I don’t want to be loved for how well I disappear into someone else’s world.

I want to be loved while I’m whole.

I want a love that doesn’t just benefit from my generosity, but meets it.

It doesn’t have to look the same. It just has to try.

And maybe that’s the truth I was never told.

The people who want to receive your love and return it in full are few.

Rare, even.

Maybe that little boy—though he was young, and I don’t blame him—just didn’t know any better.

He kept asking, and the tree kept giving, until there was nothing left.

But it turns out, that wasn’t love at all.

Because love would never pull you apart, or take you piece by piece, even if that’s what’s being offered.

Real love knows how to say: I want you whole.

Even if that means I have to grow around your fullness.

Even if I have to soften to receive it.

Even if I have to stretch to understand.

And that’s where I am, now .

(Thank God.)

Every day, I’m learning that love—the kind I’m learning to live in—isn’t measured by how much I can give…

But by how gently someone lets me keep myself.

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Hey everyone,

It means the world to me that you’re here. Sharing these pieces of my heart is my way of pushing past fear, step by step.

I’ll always keep my words open and accessible because I believe encouragement and love should never come with a paywall.

But if you choose to support my work financially, know that you’re not just keeping the lights on—you’re keeping my voice alive.

Thank you for showing up alongside me on this journey.

With love and gratitude,

Mary Katherine

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I’ve been feeling melancholy lately.

That might seem strange, considering how much beauty is present in my life. But the truth is, even positive change can hurt.

Healing doesn’t always feel good.

Sometimes it strips away parts of you that were never meant to stay. The parts that played small. That allowed people to hurt you. That stepped over yourself to make others feel comfortable.

You learn to love yourself enough to finally claim the love you have always deserved.

The kind that meets your needs.

That makes you stronger and somehow softer.

The kind that irreversibly raises your standards and changes the way you live.

And then, unexpectedly, in the middle of all that growth—

Grief shows up too.

Not because you’re broken, but because growth requires space.

And you better believe it will make room for itself.

Sometimes painfully.

Removing friendships, familiar roles, old versions of yourself. Whatever damaging comforts you were still clinging to...

It is a falling away, not a falling apart.

And that is where I am right now.

Rooted in what matters. Clearer than I’ve ever been about my values.

And...sad.

Because this too, is a part of becoming—

The quiet awareness that it’s possible to feel deeply grateful and profoundly lonely at the same time.

So I return to this chair I’ve sat in so many times since the beginning of this healing journey.

I watch as the sun goes down.

I relish the quiet.

I cry as the sky changes.

And I feel it all pass through me—

The wind,

The ache,

The letting go.

And in that quiet space,

I remind myself of what is steady:

My heart.

My values.

And the belief that time is gentle.

That no matter how much I’m hurting,

No matter how sideways I feel—

This world will keep on spinning.

The sun will keep on setting.

And tomorrow,

I’ll try again.

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Hey everyone,

It means the world to me that you’re here. Sharing these pieces of my heart is my way of pushing past fear, step by step.

I’ll always keep my words open and accessible because I believe encouragement and love should never come with a paywall.

But if you choose to support my work financially, know that you’re not just keeping the lights on—you’re keeping my voice alive.

Thank you for showing up alongside me on this journey.

With love and gratitude,

Mary Katherine

A $5,000 baby bonus to solve America’s declining birth rate.

For real, y’all. I am not even kidding a little bit.

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An actual check for women to have babies—with a side of menstrual education classes. As if the problem with rapidly declining birth rates is that women don’t understand how reproduction works.

It’s dystopian.

It's insulting.

And it tells you exactly how little this country values the people who bring life into the world.

Sigh. Where do I even start?

I live in Alabama.

A state where the maternal mortality rate ranks among the out of most developed nations. A state where over half our counties have no OBGYN to even call. A state where, if a woman starts to hemorrhage after childbirth, she literally may just die—because the nearest labor and delivery unit closed last in the last couple year.

But sure. $5,000 and a PowerPoint on how periods work.

That’ll fix everything.

Newsflash, politicos: Women aren’t refusing to have children because we don’t understand biology. They are choosing to be childfree (or have fewer children) because they know exactly what it costs to bring life into this world as it is right now.

And honestly, I’m not sure any of us want to hear about menstrual education from a man who once said women “bleed from wherever.”

Our government is a clown show—and not the funny kind. It’s a clown show inside a dumpster fire, wearing a red hat, completely disconnected from the people it claims to represent.

While they get fat on the cake they’re stealing, they’re handing us crumbs and calling it freedom.

But let’s say I’m desperate enough to take the bait.

Let’s say a woman chooses to have a baby because she needs that $5,000 badly enough.

What can we expect that to look like?

Maybe it looks like Amanda Zurawski.

A woman in Texas who nearly died of sepsis after her water broke at 18 weeks. Her fetus had no chance of survival, but doctors refused to intervene because the law didn’t allow it—until her life was in danger. By the time they treated her, she was critically ill. This isn’t fiction. She testified before Congress.

And she’s not alone.

When Roe fell, we tried to tell you: this wasn’t just about abortion. This was about miscarriage management. Ectopic pregnancies. D&Cs.

Suddenly, even Republican women needed life-saving care in a world that said, “Sorry, not unless you’re dying loud enough.”

But instead of fixing the system, Trump wants to hand us a check?

Okay, fine. Let’s do the math.

$5,000 doesn’t even cover a childhood of diapers. Most families spend close to $1,000 annually on diapers alone. It won’t pay for a single year of childcare in most states, where average costs now exceed $1,200 per month for infants. And it sure as hell doesn’t compensate for the risk to a woman’s body, her mental health, or her standing in society.

Because let’s not forget—Donald Trump didn’t even stick around to raise his own children. Sure, maybe he threw money at them, but money doesn’t buy presence. It doesn’t buy love. And it doesn’t buy partnership ornaments guarantee of a functional coparent. Because despite the fanfare about family values in this country, the U.S. has the highest rate of children living in single-parent households of any country in the developed world.

One person was never meant to carry the burden of family life alone. And yet, single parenthood is the reality for one in four mothers in this country.

$5,000.

What a joke.

It’s almost like this man thinks people should be paid less than they’re worth.

Oh right—that’s his entire business model.

Take labor. Exploit it. Undervalue it. And when it asks for rights or dignity—deport it.

Last week, I saw a help-wanted ad for a blueberry farm in the South:

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$11 an hour. Ten-hour days. In the sun. Picking produce for a country that has the nerve to pretend its “native-born” workforce wants these jobs.

But they don’t.

Because those roles were never built for fair wages.

They were built for invisible humans—the kind Donald Trump exploited to get rich.

Then deported to score political points.

And now? His base isn’t stepping up to do the work.

So what’s the answer?

Breed the next generation of poverty laborers by coercing American women into giving birth.

That’s what this is.

It’s not policy. It’s not compassion.

It’s reproductive capitalism.

It’s about a government seeing a labor shortage and trying to solve it with bodies.

It’s about creating human supply chains.

Not communities. Not families. Not thriving children.

So let me be clear: this is a raw deal. And I don’t know a single woman who would take it on its merit alone.

If anything, women who’ve already chosen to have children might breathe a momentary sigh of relief—“Thank God, maybe this will help cover two months of daycare.”

Maybe it’ll buy a crib and a year of diapers.

But then they still have to face the world they’ve brought that child into:

An American dream, bleeding out in recession, during a housing crisis, with a crumbling healthcare system, and a public education system that’s being defunded year after year—and still somehow expected to withstand regular school shootings.

What should it cost to bring a child into this world?

Because American women already have to step over themselves to become mothers these days. They weigh the cost. They know the consequence. And they do it anyway—not because of a check, but in spite of one.

$5,000 doesn’t soften the burden. It doesn’t even take a bite.

I chose to be a mother.

I love being a mother.

But let’s not pretend this country makes it easy—or even remotely safe.

The price women pay to carry and raise children in America is staggering.

And this?

It’s not support.

It’s an insult.

I have too many words and too many questions.

But I’ll finish with just one:

America—are we feeling great yet?

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Dear friends,

I write to express my emotions—and hopefully, make you feel something too. If this piece stirred you to anger, I hope it also nudges you toward action.

Start by following historians like Heather Cox Richardson, and plugging in with the ACLU to protect what’s left of our rights.

And if my voice matters to you, if these words help you feel less alone in the chaos, please consider sharing and subscribing. My work remains pay well free, because I believe truth should not cost money.

But for those who choose to support financially—thank you. You help keep the lights on. You help keep this conversation going.

Mary Katherine

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Anger has never come easy to me.

I grew up believing it was a dangerous emotion. I was taught to avoid it, to tame it, to suppress it. I believed that silence was strength, that submission was peace. And I lived that way—for years. I was so devastatingly sweet and polite while my life was plundered by the very systems I was told to trust: marriage, religion, culture.

Some parts of myself, I have to admit, I painfully chose to give away. I believed I was supposed to. That it made me worthy. Holy, even,

The truth is, I didn’t know any other way.

But I do now.

I’ve been healing, I really have. I’m becoming stronger and better. I’m learning to give and receive love in ways that I never knew possible, and the safety of that love is changing me.

Peace has shown up in my life and in my home, and that’s what I work to keep growing. It’s a long job, but one I’m committed to. For myself, for my children, and for the future I want to create.

But as I begin to look forward to that peaceful future, of a life I’m excited to build—its hard not to pause with a pit in my stomach as I see all thats laid out ahead of me.

I am shocked at the things that are happening in this country, how the headlines feel so much like punches.

The toxicity and bullying.

The erasure and silencing.

The pressure to conform, and even submit.

These behaviors are not just personal issues to cope with anymore, they have become political.

Cultural.

Collective.

You and I are in an abusive relationship with our government. And the power dynamics right now, they aren’t just shifting.

They’re closing in on us scary fast.

Believe me when I say from personal experience--silence is not the way out. And I say that out loud as much for my own benefit as anyone else’s. Y’all haven’t heard much from me lately, and that's because I have been struggling with this moment a lot.

As I’ve told you, my deepest desire right now is peace. That’s what I’m focusing on in my life, and it’s very hard work to come by. My nervous system is just now beginning to heal from a tumultuous 39 years.

I have a hard time turning on the news, and many will say that’s a privilege.

I know that’s true.

I feel it in my bones.

But knowing hasn’t made it easier to stay present.

Every time I click on a headline, it feels like a buckshot to my nervous system. These terrible stories hit me straight in the gut and pull me down into myself. Each shocking newsflash saturates my body in helplessness until I want to crawl out of my own skin.

Maybe that’s the part we don’t talk about enough—the way social justice burns in your body. The way emotional saturation makes it hard to function, to parent, to write, sometimes even to breathe.

These days, I’m a sponge that can’t hold anymore. I don’t want to drown in outrage for the sake of being informed.

And yet, I know I can’t look away.

Because even when I want to shut it all out, the truth keeps knocking, loudly.

I know what it’s like to ignore that sound. To swallow injustice deep into your belly because you believe silence is peaceful.

I know what it feels like to do that, and it doesn’t feel like peace. Not at all.

Look around.

Read the headlines, y'all.

I can't believe everyone is okay with this…because deep down, I still believe people are good.

I think some people are just being quiet—not because they are evil or uninformed, but because they are genuinely exhausted. And I want to reach out a hand of understanding and say: I get that. And I am so sorry.

But I also know where silence leads.I know what it has stolen in my own life. And when I look at what’s happening in this country that I love—that is not a price I’m willing to pay.

Just yesterday, the White House hosted a lavish prayer dinner. Jesus himself couldn’t afford a seat at that table but God knows Paula White, the grifter, could.

The purpose of that meeting didn’t seem to be prayer. Instead, the goal was to twist Christianity in an effort to bless Trump’s agenda. To frame the government’s work as holy, using scripture that Donald Trump himself has certainly never read.

But I have.

And what I know is this:

“Where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom.” (2 Corinthians 3:17)

Not surveillance.

Not suppression.

Not the steady stripping of human dignity.

And certainly not cold-hearted mockery.

I have a question.

Why is it that every time someone in the Trump administration invokes God’s name, it’s for the sake of punishment, exclusion, or cruelty?

Actually, I have a much bigger, more pressing question than any of that:

Why in the hell is our government operating from a religious framework at all?

We are supposed to have freedom of religion and freedom from it, too. And yet the Bible continues to play backdrop for policy that is harming the most vulnerable among us.

“Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.” (Matthew 25:40)

And yet, this is what we’re doing--the United States government is ripping people off the streets without due process.

No hearing. No trial. No warning.

There is video footage of unmarked vans, ICE agents dressed in all black with masks-- snatching people off sidewalks,whisking them away to undisclosed locations. Places where even attorneys and family members have been unable to find them.

I would ask, “What would Jesus do?”

But let’s be honest—nobody in power actually cares. So instead, how about a more practical question:

What would the Constitution say?

Kilmar Abrego Garcia is a father. He has lived in Maryland for over a decade, raising American-born children. He was part of a community. He had a life. And then—he was snatched away.

Deported to La Esperanza, the most violent prison in the Western Hemisphere.

A place so notorious that even from satellite images, you can see blood on the concrete.

That’s not metaphor.

That’s reality.

He is now in imminent danger because the United States sent him there. And we did it based on rumors.

There was no conviction.

No cross-examination.

Just whispered accusations about supposed gang ties. Never proven. Never tested in court. And that was all it took.

Is this the American you love?

Before anyone tries to argue the finer points of immigration law, let me say this plainly:

All people residing in the United States are entitled to due process under the Constitution.

That is not a partisan issue.

That is not up for debate.

That is the law.

Even the White House acknowledged it—calling the deportation “an administrative error.”

But instead of correcting it, they doubled down.

And when asked about the return of this father... a man unlawfully removed, a man in mortal danger, the White House Press Secretary mocked him from the podium:

“He’s not exactly father of the year.”

As if that justifies exile.

As if parenthood, dignity, and constitutional rights are privileges handed out by the government, and not inherent.

I mean, Elon Musk isn’t Father of the Year, but we haven’t deported his ass yet.

...what could possibly be the difference?

I guess we could ask the Musk family. They know from experience in apartheid South Africa. Because as it turns out, fascism isn’t new. It’s worn many flags throughout history.

This one just happens to be wearing a hat.

…and honestly, if that joke pisses you off, I ask one thing before you Unfollow.

Take a deep breath.

Center yourself as a human being.

Set your politics down for just a moment.

And then, ask yourself this question:

Have you seen these things happening in the US government over the last few years?

Discrediting the press (fake news, enemy of the people)

Undermining education (“I love the poorly educated,” defunding Department of Ed)

Targeting science and truth (COVID lies, discrediting Fauci, conspiracy boosts)

Sowing distrust in elections (“Stop the Steal,” refusal to concede, Jan 6)

Silencing dissent (deporting student leaders, punishing campus protests)

Weaponizing religion (Bible photo-op, “biblical” defense of cruelty)

Demonizing minorities (Muslim ban, “rapists,” “shithole countries”)

Defying judicial oversight (ignoring Supreme Court rulings)

Rewarding loyalty over law (pardons for allies, DOJ pressure)

Destabilizing the economy (reckless trade wars, inflation denial, shutting down the government for leverage)

Stripping human rights (abortion bans, asylum attacks, voter suppression)

If these sound familiar (and they should), I want you to know that this is not a dramatic recap of recent American politics.

These are documented steps from textbook tactics pulled directly from fascist regimes.

So I’m asking you—all of you—especially the most exhausted among us:

Please wake up to the moment we are living in.

No matter how weary you are, allow yourself to see what’s plain in front of your face.

I know anger takes up space.

I know you already feel like overfilled sponges leaking at the seams.

Me, too.

But believe me, your silence has been bought by your exhaustion. And they are making you tired on purpose. If you let smallness sink in now, they’ve already won.

You can do that, but don’t you forget:

You have one life.

One soul that craves freedom.

And these boundaries are closing in fast. The protections to your freedom, enshrined in the Constitution, are gasping for oxygen now. There’s a death rattle that historians are trained to hear and they’ve already sounded the alarm.

They know what it means, and so do you.

This moment cannot be negotiated with.

What’s happening is real and it calls for your anger.

I am begging you, please.

Be angry.

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Dear friends,

I write to express my emotions—and hopefully, make you feel something too. If this piece stirred you to anger, I hope it also nudges you toward action.

Start by following historians like Heather Cox Richardson, and plugging in with the ACLU to protect what’s left of our rights.

And if my voice matters to you, if these words help you feel less alone in the chaos, please consider sharing and subscribing. My work remains pay well free, because I believe truth should not cost money.

But for those who choose to support financially—thank you. You help keep the lights on. You help keep this conversation going.

,

Mary Katherine

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I called Matt "my happy place.”

Because he is.

In his presence, the world feels lighter, more colorful, safer. He turns my sixes into nines.

Most of my audience shared in my excitement, but not everyone, and I understood. A few concerned voices popped up in the comments, asking questions I couldn’t ignore.

Are you sure that you are ready for love? Shouldn't you be your own happy place?

Now, I’m in a phase of life now where I don’t dismiss hard questions. When someone is kind enough to voice genuine concern, I don't swallow it whole but I do sit with it.

So this week, that’s exactly what I did.

I sat with it and asked: Are they right to be worried? Should my heart feel this at home in somebody else?

And when I asked that question, my answers came in flashbacks of the last smiling woman who wrote about love on this page.

The one who lived in a world of delusions, who ate crumbs for dinner and named it a feast. Who twisted herself into shapes to be loved.

That girl, I believe that’s who these people are worried about. And you know what? I get it.

My heart still breaks for her.

I remember very well the way it felt living inside her skin...

I blew up on the internet for being funny--

unhinged, chaotic, hilarious.

My Facebook Live stories were manic and unforgettable. I was telling the truth, but I was also hiding in it.

People told me I was a breath of fresh air,

a wild storyteller,

a bright light.

But no one ever asked if I was okay.

And I wasn’t okay, not really.

I was lighting myself on fire just to keep the whole world warm, handing out joy while starving for connection, trying to make people laugh loud enough that they couldn’t hear the screaming underneath it all.

Sometimes funny.

Sometimes manic.

Sometimes like I was flying apart at the seams.

The applause was loud.

It was working.

It was working!!!

…until it wasn’t.

Until I ran out of places to pull energy from and the fire I had lit to keep others warm started to burn me from the inside out.

I turned to my church, to the community that had taught me how to love, and told them everything was falling apart.

My marriage was loveless.

My life had no hope.

I asked for help.

I asked for a name for this pain.

I asked for someone to call it what it was.

But they didn’t call it self-abandonment.

Instead, they told me it was devotion.

They made it holy. As if God would have me stay in this and suffocate slowly. But I believed, and so that's what I did.

The worst and luckiest night of my life was when it all fell apart.

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When my marriage ended, the entire framework for my existence crumbled. I realized I hadn’t just lost a partner, I’d lost the belief system I’d built my life upon.

The house was rubble,the faith was rubble.

I didn’t know what I believed anymore--about God, about love, about myself.

I felt unmoored, like something inside me had been pulled loose, and blackness had rushed in to fill it. I was slipping into a shadow I couldn’t quite name.

Not just sadness, but the kind of sadness that swallows sound.

And in that void, that grief,

something primal in me stirred.

I believe there is something about devastation that calls you back to the beginning of things.

To dirt and air and sky,

to the unspoken places with no names.

Nature doesn’t ask you to explain your pain.

It just whispers, come.

Come, heal.

And so I went.

I started hiking on a mountain called Montesano.

I didn’t know what I was looking for, but each morning I showed up anyway. What I didn’t know then was that with every new day and every step

I was beginning the slow, quiet work of walking toward myself, of coming back to life.

The woods became a kind of cathedral,

not the kind you perform inside,

but the kind where your breath fogs in front of you and the trees don’t judge you for crying.

Where healing doesn’t happen in grand gestures of offering of praise and money,

but in moss and dirt and quiet repetition.

And alongside that, shit tons of therapy.

Intensive, raw, honest therapy.

I would sit on her couch and name the ache.

I would trace old wounds and uncover inherited beliefs.

I would cry and question and rage and grieve.

And then I would lace up my trail shoes,

take it all into the woods and let the lessons settle into my bones.

The work didn’t end in her office.

It began again under the trees.

Some days I hiked with rage in my chest. Some days I barely moved, just sat under the leaves and wept. One morning, I laughed out loud for the first time in months and scared a squirrel half to death.

There was no map, no certainty, just movement.

But somewhere in that forward motion, I started to feel like a person again.

And then one day while hiking up my favorite trail,an old song started playing in my headphones.

It was Matchbox 20, a band from my childhood.

I smiled. My heart caught in a memory until one line stopped me cold.

I don’t know if I’ve ever been truly loved by a hand that’s touched me.

I froze.

Ouch.

Right there in the middle of the trail, my chest cracked open, a quiet shattering. Because in that moment, I realized it was true.

And I wasn’t angry.

I wasn’t bitter.

I was just…ready.

My therapist looked at me gently and said, "Some wounds can only be healed inside of a relationship.” She agreed that I was ready, not because I was done healing, but because I’d finally come home to myself.

“It’s going to be hard,” she said. "But I think it’s going to be beautiful.”

First of all, I would not call my first date beautiful.

In fact, I would call it a nightmare.

He drank three bottles of wine, hallucinated an astronaut, gobbled charcuterie by the fistful,

and ranted about Nancy Pelosi between belches.

Don’t ask me why I said continued to a second date (I think I was still in therapy—but clearly not enough of it.)

Lemme tell you, that second date hit different. And not exactly in a great way. He prayed over lunch, asked me to join the Church of Christ, and then dumped me...all before dessert.

Which honestly came as a relief, because I didn’t know we were in a relationship to begin with.

Still, I went home crying. Devastated.

Not because I was heartbroken—

but because what the hell had I even stepped into?

I decided that if love was going to find me,

it was going to have to find me another way.

I started deleting the apps,

clearing out the inbox,

trying to make the whole experience disappear.

And then—right before I logged out for good—

one last notification caught my eye.

A bright smile.

Joyful eyes.

Every picture was surrounded by music and trees.

His bio said: Hope is a crazy thing.

I agreed with that.

Sort of.

So I sent him a message—

and I wasn’t exactly selling myself hard.

I told him I hated dating apps,

that I was deleting them all,

that I wasn’t sure if hope was crazy

or just plain toxic.

Oh, and I was a single mom,

so I probably wouldn’t have time,

but here was my number, just in case.

I didn’t expect a response.

But then I got a text.

“Hey—it’s Matt. I’ve got four teenagers. I get it.”

And just like that, the conversation started.

Our first date was a hike in the woods,

and we talked about everything.

About life. About faith. About all the things we’d lived through, and the ways love had wrung us out.

I was stunned by the depth of who he was,

how well he knew his own mind.

Late afternoon, it started to rain.

Not just a drizzle, but a full-on storm.

We stayed in the hammock, laughing, getting soaked. The kind of laughter that bubbles from your chest when you’re young, when everything feels new and full of possibility.

I left that date feeling like a teenager—

excited, carefree, a little reckless.

It scared me to death,

but I sat with that feeling.

I asked it questions,

and what I figured out was this:

This was not some angsty, teenage love.

It was something different, something deeper and calmer. Being with Matt felt like standing beside the ocean, and it was the steadiness, that depth, that scared me.

I didn’t name it at the time, but I know now what it was. I knew, deep down, that if I walked toward this man my heart was going to change, and it would never be the same.

It wasn't limerence or love at first sight.

I was just...inevitable.

But I knew what I had longed for for 40 years, and if this was my chance, I was going to walk toward it.

And so I did.

Whole.

Scared.

Brave.

I moved toward Matt.

He moved toward me.

And every day, we just keep moving.

And the longer I am with him, the more I am certain I’ve stepped out of the baby pool and into a deep well of something profound and new.

Not built on adrenaline,but on intention.

Not on dreams, but on shared reality and plans.

We do not float above the ground.

We work the dirt together

a plow-in-the-ground kind of love.

There is planting and pruning

hard, honest conversations,

muddy hands, full presence,

and a new kind of ache in my heart that doesn’t scream to he heard.

It softens.

I know how I’ve changed.

I’m more calm in my own body than ever before. My life is no longer filled with manic energy, trying to keep everything together.

This relationship has brought me deeper into myself and into a peace I didn’t know was possible.

Here, I feel rooted. I’m safe.

This love set the bar of my heart so freaking high.

And that’s why I stand here, celebrating, writing my love story with eyes wide open.

I am fully aware of all this could bring, and so grateful for what it had brought me.

I’ve thought deeply about it,

about those questions you’ve asked,

and I can answer your concerns now, friends.

I stand by it.

This man is my happy place,

and I’m not ashamed to say so.

In fact, I will name this love exactly what it is:

A shelter I’m happy to call home.

Forward my mail.

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Dear friends,

It means the world to me that you’re here. Sharing these pieces of my heart is my way of pushing past fear, step by step.

I’ll always keep my words open and accessible because I believe encouragement and love should never come with a paywall.

But if you choose to support my work financially, know that you’re not just keeping the lights on—you’re keeping my voice alive.

Thank you for showing up alongside me on this journey.

With love and gratitude,

Mary Katherine

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How he carries the weight of the world on his shoulders and still stands so damn tall.

He’s the only living parent to four incredible teenagers, and he loves them with everything that he has.

And that’s just who he is. He doesn’t do much halfway.

Not his job, not relationships, nothing.

Somehow, no matter how much is on his plate, the man shows up with a steady, unwavering love.

He holds space for laughter.

He makes it look easy.

Crazier than that, he makes it look fun.

And when the world gets too heavy, I’ve never once seen him break.

I have seen him bend quite a bit, though.

I remember the first time I really noticed it—how heavy life gets for someone without a safety net. I watched the weight of his day press in early and never let up. The day just kept landing punches, one after the other. It was hard to watch, the kind of hard that sits heavy on your chest, making it impossible to take a full breath.

By late afternoon, Matt was quiet, moving through the world like a man carrying something far too big to put down. I could feel the tension building—not an angry pressure, but a pressure nonetheless.

Then, without ceremony or much conversation, he walked across the kitchen, grabbed his keys, and looked at me.

“You can stay or you can go,” he said gently. Not shutting me out, just letting me know—he had somewhere to be.

And then he left.

I followed.

Hopped in the passenger seat of his truck and rode in silence to the river, where Matt found a spot on a worn-out bench and sat down.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t move. He just watched as the colors stretched wide, as the water caught fire, as the day exhaled its last breath.

And when the light faded into darkness, Matt stood up, walked to his truck, drove home, and put himself to bed.

The sun rose the next day, and he started again.

The light had returned to his eyes.

Later, I asked him what changed.

What was different?

He paused for a moment, then said

“I think sometimes… it just helps to feel small.”

Matt has this way of distilling something profound into a single, quiet truth. No over-explaining. No philosophy. Just that.

It helps to feel small.

I understood.

And recently, I’ve started doing the same.

When the weight of navigating it all on my own feels like too much to hold, I grab my keys and go looking for something bigger than myself—something steady, something infinite.

Like tonight, when I found myself driving up my favorite little mountain, Monte Sano. Broke into some private property. (For legal purposes, this is a joke.)

Found a giant log. Made my own little bench.

And then I sat down.

I watched as nature shushed the world and its chaos into slumber, softening the sky with brushstrokes of gold and ember, violet and rose.

And let something bigger than me remind me—

My problems aren’t the whole universe.

I made myself small.

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Dear friends,

It means the world to me that you’re here. Sharing these pieces of my heart is my way of pushing past fear, step by step.

I’ll always keep my words open and accessible because I believe encouragement and love should never come with a paywall.

But if you choose to support my work financially, know that you’re not just keeping the lights on—you’re keeping my voice alive.

Thank you for showing up alongside me on this journey.

With love and gratitude,

Mary Katherine

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Y’all, I love reality TV.

Sure, it may be lowbrow at times… but hey, so are people. These shows really just reflect human behavior. Our motivations, our insecurities, our desperate need to be perceived a certain way.

And man, pass me a Diet Coke, I just love watching it all unfold.

I lay back under a pile of covers, feeling like a little anthropologist. Just, you know, instead of observing chimps using tools in the wild, I’m watching grown adults trip over bar stools, cry their mascara off in hot tubs, and yell:

“I’m not here to make friends!”

—all while slamming their sixth White Claw.

And if there is one reality show that reeeeally delivers on the whole social experiment aspect, it’s my guiltiest pleasure: Love Is Blind.

I was hooked from the beginning (L+C forever), but Season 8? Phew. This season served up a social case study for the ages. We got politics, we got religion, we got big, big problems.

Yes, I’m talking about Ben and Sarah.

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SPOILER ALERT FROM HERE ON OUT

From the moment these two connected in the pods, their relationship was one of the most intriguing. But as it fell apart, I couldn’t help but notice the internet latched onto a very odd narrative:

“This crazy liberal woman abandoned a good church boy at the altar!”

And y’all, I just can’t sit with that.

Because the truth is quite the opposite.

Sarah is a free-thinking woman who knew exactly what she believed and valued.

And Ben?

Well, Ben goes to church.

Not kidding—that seemed to be the only defining thing about his belief system. His butt in a pew on occasion.

And for that alone, the Evangelical internet handed this kid a gold star. I mean, elevated his profile to icon status. But while his brand of cultural Christianity was good enough for the pew-sitting comments sections… turns out, it wasn’t good enough for Sarah.

Because Sarah is a woman who asks questions.

And lo and behold—Ben had no answers.

Not about his own values.

Not about social issues.

Not even about what his own church believed.

At one point, Sarah asked Ben directly where his church stood on LGBTQ+ issues.

Instead of offering any insight, he blinked and said:

“I don’t know. I haven’t really looked into it.”

Sir.

You are evangelizing your beliefs on a whole entire Netflix show. Perhaps you should be able to unpack them?

To be clear, this man asked Sarah to marry him knowing her sister is gay.

He knew this was deeply personal for her.

He knew it would impact her family, her future, and their marriage.

And yet, the implied expectation was that Sarah would accept Ben’s non-answers—all while considering lifelong devotion to his Christian religion.

A belief system that, by all appearances, he hasn’t even bothered to examine himself.

(That must have been super reassuring.)

Then came the Black Lives Matter conversation.

She brought it up, asked what he thought.

Ben blinked again and then responded:

“I guess I haven’t really thought too much about it.”

Benjamin, be so serious. You live in Minneapolis—the city where George Floyd was murdered. The epicenter of the largest civil rights movement of this generation.

And you haven’t thought about it?

At this point, Girlfriend could have gotten more information about Ben’s values by Googling him than she could from his own mind and mouth.

That being said, I was not surprised when Sarah, like a rational adult who values informed decision-making, said no at the altar.

Seemed like a pretty reasonable choice to me.

But that’s not how the internet felt.

They could not let this one go.

And I mean, they were foaming at the mouth.

You know how I said I love studying human behavior? Well, the internet’s not too different from reality TV. And I’ve been online a long time.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that when a beehive has been kicked and people are losing their minds over something, there’s always a deeper reason.

And it’s worth peeking under the covers to figure out what that reason is.

Because I promise you, when Ben Shapiro is suddenly writing hot takes about a Love Is Blind breakup, you can bet this is not about reality TV.

A woman rejecting an Evangelical man on national television?

That was a threat.

And Shapiro even said the quiet part out loud by spelling out that he received it as such.

“Ben dodged a bullet!” he proclaimed in a way-too-many-minutes-long YouTube video.

And that became an actual trending phrase on the internet this week.

Ben dodged a bullet.

I have to ask a question here.

What exactly was the bullet?

Was it supposed to be an unhappy marriage?

A fundamentally misaligned relationship that would have been riddled with conflict and frustration?

Because if that’s what they were implying, wouldn’t Sarah and Ben both have dodged a bullet?

No. That’s clearly not what Shapiro & Co. mean.

Because the bullet wasn’t an unhealthy marriage.

The bullet was a thinking woman.

And that, apparently, is terrifying for some.

The internet exploded with outrage.

“She threw away a godly man!”

“A woman who rejects a good Christian man over politics deserves to be alone!”

“They were unequally yoked!”

“She’ll regret this when she realizes what she lost!”

“The Lord protected that boy!”

They weren’t just mad that they broke up.

They were mad that Sarah thought it through.

That she didn’t just close her eyes, swallow her doubts, and say yes to the Good Christian Man™️.

Because that’s the expectation, isn’t it?

Blind faith. Blind devotion.

A woman willing to submit, follow, trust—to believe that marriage itself will provide the answers her partner cannot.

But Sarah didn’t do that. She refused to play along.

And that’s why they can’t let it go.

Because a woman thinking for herself, choosing herself, and saying, “this isn’t enough for me”—that doesn’t just challenge their beliefs on marriage.

It threatens to unravel them entirely.

The outrage isn’t about morality or values.

It’s about unhappy people waking up to a truth they never wanted to face—

Men losing control in a system built to keep them in charge.

Women realizing that obedience was never the price of love.

And for those stuck in a cage of their own making, that realization is unbearable.

Happy, balanced people don’t get this worked up over a stranger who doesn’t get married. And yet, it is worth noting that the outrage wasn’t directed at him.

It never is.

Because in this brand of Evangelicalism, a man’s faith is measured by how often he sits in a pew.

A woman’s faith? By how much of herself she’s willing to sacrifice.

And Sarah said no to the sacrifice.

But honestly, if one woman walking away from an altar is enough to send all these folks into a panic…

What are they really worshipping?

Because unquestioning devotion should never be asked of a person.

Not in marriage.

Not in religion.

Not ever.

Anything real can stand up to questions.

And some bullets shouldn’t be dodged.

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Hey friends,

Your presence here means the world to me. Knowing you’ve taken the time to read thoughts on empathy and human kindness reassures me that these values still resonate.

If this article resonated with you, please consider sharing & subscribing to keep the conversation alive. I’ll always keep my content paywall-free because encouragement shouldn’t come at a cost. For those who choose to offer financial support, thank you for keeping the lights on.

With love and gratitude,

Mary Katherine

Here’s what we’re NOT going to do.

We are NOT about to make a big stink about whether people stood up and clapped for a sick child during an active session of Congress.

This morning, I woke up to a ton of my friends on the right—who, amazingly (but not super surprisingly), have been completely silent this week while Donald Trump has deliberately made a series of absolutely mind-blowing decisions designed to provoke, distract, and divide.

But now?

Oh, now they have big mouths full of big words because they’ve finally found something simple to be mad about.

Democrats didn’t stand up and clap for a sick kid.

Are you freaking kidding me right now?

Our Congress is NOT the Make-A-Wish Foundation.

Yes, it was a moving moment.

Yes, I understand the emotions.

And let me remind you that I’m a cancer survivor, and I have children—so, I get it.

But I also understand when a child is being exploited as a shiny object to distract from what is happening directly in front of us.

And I refuse to be scolded for my lack of performative enthusiasm while our government is actively doing terrible things.

So let’s talk about that sick kid for a second. Let’s talk about the fact that Donald Trump wants to gut the ACHA, and if that child has a recurrence later in life, his treatments won’t be covered by insurance.

Would you like to stand and clap for that?

And in case you're wondering why other politicians weren't motivated to engage in this moment, a little recap of what is occuring in our government:

Trump floated the idea of buying Greenland, which, in case you need a reminder, is not for sale—because countries are not real estate listings.

He suggested making Canada the 51st state because apparently annexation is just another shady business deal.

He humiliated Zelensky on a global stage—something that both sides would have been horrified by not too long ago.

He started a trade war with one of our closest allies.

He posted a video of himself as a giant gold statue towering over Gaza, effectively hinting at wanting to build a resort over a mass grave of dead children.

And yet, conservative media is obsessed with the fact that Democrats didn’t clap hard enough?!

Ask yourself: Why is this the thing they want you to be mad about?

Why are they so desperate to keep your attention on optics instead of policy?

Why do they want you focused on applause levels instead of foreign policy disasters, trade wars, and actual human suffering?

If your biggest outrage this morning is about who didn’t stand up, instead of the actual nightmare unfolding in front of you, then congratulations.

You are exactly where they want you—distracted, manipulated, and completely missing the point.

Oh, and by the way, America is cozying up to Russia and eggs are nearly $7 a dozen.

 ...but, sure.

Let's just argue about clapping.

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Hey friends,

Your presence here means the world to me. Knowing you’ve taken the time to read thoughts on empathy and human kindness reassures me that these values still resonate.

If this article resonated with you, please consider sharing & subscribing to keep the conversation alive. I’ll always keep my content paywall-free because encouragement shouldn’t come at a cost. For those who choose to offer financial support, thank you for keeping the lights on.

With love and gratitude,

Mary Katherine

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Because honestly, since Inauguration Day, it feels like there has been a fire hose of absolute madness coming at us from every direction. As a writer, I can’t even touch on all of it.

But I’m going to touch on some of it because, my God.

If the only way people will see reality is if we drag it in front of their faces, then I guess we’ll just have to keep dragging.

Let me start by saying that three years ago, I posted a simple statement of support for Ukraine.

It wasn’t controversial. It wasn't even a debate.

And do you know what happened?

My community—Republicans, Democrats, independents alike—came together and raised half a million dollars in humanitarian aid for Ukraine.

Because we knew, instinctively, what America was supposed to stand for.

We knew that when a bully decides to steamroll a sovereign democracy, we don’t stand by and let it happen.

We knew that we had promised Ukraine--our ally--that if they gave up their nuclear weapons, we would be their last line of defense between democracy and a complete takeover.

That was our promise.

And here's the thing, I understand the disdain for violence. I am also not a fan of war.

But what I am a fan of is diplomacy.

And when your country’s word becomes mud, that no longer becomes possible on a global scale.

Keeping our promises must matter.

I thought we all agreed on that?

But this morning, my comment section featured some folks who deeply believed that my support for Ukraine somehow made me less American. That I was unpatriotic for standing by the exact same stance we all agreed upon three years ago.

I was told that I am not “America First”.

And you know what? That’s probably true.

Because now I know what that phrase really means to y’all (and we'll get into that in a second). But first—let’s set aside all the noise, all the speculation, all the he said, she said about what Trump might do in the future.

I don’t even have to tell you what he’s planning to do.

Let’s just talk about what he has already done. What he has put on social media for the entire world to see. Because if you have even a basic grasp of history, you don’t need a crystal ball to know exactly where this is going.

Let’s start with the AI-generated video that Trump himself—the current President of the United States—posted from an official government social media account.

It featured a golden statue of himself, towering like a god-king over the ruins of what was Gaza. A Trump-branded resort, plastered on the remains of a war zone. And then—because the man cannot resist the urge to make himself a parody of absolute villainy—a video of his buddy Elon on a Palestinian beach, dancing in a raincloud of money.

Think about that for a second.

The sitting President of the United States put out a government-backed fantasy of his own personal business profiting from war.

How do you defend that?

How do you justify that?

You don’t.

You can’t—unless you have completely lost your grip on reality.

And I am so tired of pretending otherwise.

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Never mind how morally repugnant this is.

Never mind how insanely inappropriate it is for a sitting president to literally market a war as a business venture.

Let’s just sit with this fact: Over 45,000 Palestinians have been killed in the last two years. Nearly half of them children.

And this man—this actual leader of the free world—thought it was appropriate to post a gloating fantasy about slapping his name on top of a massacre.

And people are just nodding along.

It’s not okay.

It’s also not okay that the United States just cast its lot with Russia and Belarus at the United Nations. It’s not okay that we publicly humiliated Zelensky—the leader we swore to protect under the Budapest Memorandum—after promising Ukraine that if they disarmed, we’d defend them.

And now what?

We strip them of their weapons and throw them to the wolves?

And they dare to call that America First?

No.

I will say this as clearly as possible: I will never be America First.

Because when people say America First, what they really mean is America First at the expense of everyone else.

They mean power first.

They mean Trump first.

So let’s define it.

Define America.

Define First.

Because slogans sound real cute until you actually look at what they mean. And I am done letting people hide behind them.

You cannot deny what this administration has put out on our own government’s social media page.

And don’t even try to justify it.

Because believe me, nothing gets posted on an official government account without being checked and double-checked for every dog whistle on the planet.

They are blowing that whistle because they want you to hear it.

And you know what it’s saying?

Hate immigrants.

Laugh at their pain.

Mistrust the Jews.

Exploit the Palestinians.

To hell with diplomacy.

But in all things, believe Donald Trump is the solution!

Trust in him, because he represents…Jesus?

Don’t make me laugh.

The absolute irony of this Christian nationalist movement is that Jesus isn’t in any of it.

But do you know what is?

A golden calf.

This isn’t patriotism.

This is idolatry.

And it is time for some of y’all to wake up and stop worshiping the idol long enough to see it for what it really is.

Dangerous.

Patriotism is not about fealty to a leader—it’s about holding our leaders accountable to our country’s values.

It is not about blind loyalty—it’s about defending what is right.

So yeah, you’re damn right I’m not America First.

If that’s what you call patriotism, I can do without any bit of it.

I have been and always will be decency first, humanity first, freedom first.

Silly me.

I thought that’s what this country stood for.

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Hey friends,

Your presence here means the world to me. Knowing you’ve taken the time to read thoughts on empathy and human kindness reassures me that these values still resonate.

If this article resonated with you, please consider sharing & subscribing to keep the conversation alive. I’ll always keep my content paywall-free because encouragement shouldn’t come at a cost. For those who choose to offer financial support, thank you for keeping the lights on.

With love and gratitude,

Mary Katherine

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Two soccer games in two different cities. Making edits on a manuscript. Helping my kid hot-glue hair onto a wax museum project. And in the tiny sliver of free time I had left, I spent several hours chasing my two Houdini Labradors around the neighborhood because they’ve apparently figured out how to turn off the electric fence, and now that’s their new favorite trick.

Eventually, my kids went to be with their dad, my house quieted down, and I finally had a minute to catch up. So, I popped online, checked my messages, and started responding to anything I’d missed.

And there it was—one that had been sitting in my inbox for a while.

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It started off politely enough. They told me they’d been following me for a long time, that my words resonate with them.

But then came the shift.

Because my words had resonated with them, they expected me to write about a very distressing news story—the recent discovery of hostages who had been murdered. They were devastated, understandably so, and assumed that I would share in their grief by publicly writing about it.

And because I hadn’t, they needed to express that they were deeply disappointed in me. They were confused by my silence. They felt like it was loaded—like it meant something.

Here’s the thing: I hadn’t even seen this message for a couple of days.

Because while this person was waiting for me to issue a public response to a tragedy, I was deeply engaging in my life as an actual human with big responsibilities.

And when my response didn’t arrive in whatever time frame they deemed acceptable?

“Mmm, I think I have my answer. Thanks.”

And I just…stood there for a minute. Trying to decide if I should laugh, cry, or throw my phone across the room.

Because what answer did they think they had?

That my silence about this particular moment in world events was an indication that I was okay with it? That I was choosing not to care? That I was making some kind of political statement by not immediately drafting a public response?

That’s certainly one hell of an assumption to make about a person.

So, let me give you a dose of reality.

I care, deeply, about human suffering.

I have spoken on justice, pain, and grief more times than I can count. But over the last several days, I hadn’t been tuned into the news cycle.

I had been pouring myself into the people and responsibilities in front of me.

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So maybe you can understand just how crappy it felt to return online only to be judged for…I don’t even know what.

Not writing an essay I didn’t know I was supposed to write?

I’ll be honest, my response was sharp:

“It’s weird to say you think you have your answer when I didn’t answer you. I’ve been spending time with my family, and I don’t owe you a response.”

Because I don’t.

And I guess that has to be said.

But I do have a question for anyone who feels this way.:

What do you actually need?

Do you need reassurance that I believe murder and genocide are evil? That I think violence against innocent people is horrific? Do you really need me to say that?

Or is this about something else?

Because I’ve noticed that when people demand statements, it’s often less about the issue itself and more about their own emotional processing.

People want to see their own outrage reflected back at them.

They want the illusion of control in a chaotic world. They want everyone to validate their emotions in the way they expect, or else they assume the worst.

And honestly?

That’s not fair.

If I were to rush out a statement the second anything terrible happens, would that actually help anyone? Would it add anything to the conversation? Would it fix anything? Or would it just satisfy the demand for performance—for proof that I’m on the “right side”?

If I followed someone who had an immediate take on every single issue, I wouldn’t trust them. Because let’s be real—no one is an expert in everything. No one is that informed on every global crisis the moment it happens.

Speaking out on every single hot topic isn’t a sign of courage or wisdom—it’s a sign of arrogance, of a lack of discernment. It tells me they’re more interested in appearing knowledgeable than actually being knowledgeable.

And frankly, that’s dangerous.

Just because someone has a microphone doesn't mean you should trust what they're saying.

The thing is, I know my own limitations.

I’m an author, not a trained journalist.

I am informed, but I am not an expert.

And perhaps most importantly…

I am a person, not a news ticker.

I don’t believe in performative activism. I believe in thoughtful, meaningful, real engagement.

I don’t rush to speak on things before I’ve taken the time to process them. I don’t feel the need to react just because someone on the internet decided it was time for me to. And I certainly don’t accept the premise that my value as a person is measured by the speed of my outrage.

So no, I’m not going to play these reindeer games.

I will not be guilted into performance activism.

I will not be bullied into speaking on command.

I will speak when I have something real to say, and when I believe my voice adds value.

And if that’s not enough for some people?

Well.

I guess I have my answer, too.

Hey friends,

Your presence here means the world to me. Knowing you’ve taken the time to read thoughts on empathy and human kindness reassures me that these values still resonate.

If this article resonated with you, please consider sharing & subscribing to keep the conversation alive. I’ll always keep my content paywall-free because encouragement shouldn’t come at a cost. For those who choose to offer financial support, thank you for keeping the lights on.

With love and gratitude,

Mary Katherine

Subscribe