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I just got rejected.

You know, it doesn’t sting the way it once did. In fact, today I find it more amusing than painful. Younger Timothy would have been devastated - partly because he put himself out there in a way that felt deeply uncomfortable, and partly because he didn’t receive the response he hoped for… the one he felt he deserved.

Let me tell you the story.

I went to church this weekend - a rare and extraordinary moment given my subpar experience being raised in one. It was there that I noticed him: a homely man with brown hair and an equally brown beard, wearing jeans, a button-up, and a pullover sweater. Not someone who would stand out in a crowd.

Yet he caught my eye.

He was a pianist, filling the room with music - glorious and mesmerizing. I found myself entranced. After the service, I mentioned him to a friend who knew him well. They lit up at the thought of the two of us together and happily shared his number.

Now what came next still feels slightly uncomfortable.

I’m usually someone that reacts rather than initiates. I observe. I poise. I don’t take the first step - especially not like this. But when I received his number, I felt there was only one thing to do.

Text. So I did.

“Hey. I saw you this morning. I was in the pink rainbow jacket. This might be a bit unexpected, but a friend shared your number and said you might be open to connecting. Hope that’s okay. You are quite handsome, and I’d love to see if there might be a spark. If you’re open to it, I’d love to meet up. If not, no pressure at all. Either way, your music was wonderful.”

I sent it.

The moment felt oddly significant - as if I had turned a page in the grand score of life discovering a new rhythm waiting there. I wasn’t even that invested in the outcome. Well…maybe a little. If I’m being honest with you and my squirrel friends, part of me was giddy at the possibility.

But mostly I was proud of the action itself.

There have been many moments in my life when I didn’t lead with directness or vulnerability. The time I almost married a woman because honesty felt too dangerous. Or the time I nearly went to seminary to become a youth pastor, feeling the expectant pressure from my religious community. Or the relationship I stayed in nearly seven years past its expiration date partially due to my drive towards "making things work."

So this moment felt different.

Not dipping my toe in to test the water.

Jumping.

The air didn’t scare me.

The next day, he responded. Three messages.

First, a grateful acknowledgment of my reaching out and kind words about the compliment on his music. Second, a share. Third, an ask.

To protect his identity, and my own sensibilities as a therapist, I’ll only share the second part in detail. As Emily Dickinson once advised, I’ll “tell the truth but tell it slant,” offering a little shield around the soft white underbellies that might be wounded by too much exposure. Still, the essence remains true.

“I gather you are looking for a date? I want to be honest with you, I’ve recently sincerely returned to the religion of my youth and just don’t think I could commit to gay dating right now in good conscience.”

Fascinating. I never knew gay dating was a thing.

At first I was puzzled. What did he mean? What was he trying to say? What did I feel about it?

Then my mind landed on a simple thought: such a tortured soul. Or, as Ursula would say, a “poor unfortunate” one. (She is by far my favorite Disney villain.)

And I burst out laughing at the absurdity of it all.

Strangely, the feeling of rejection didn’t arrive until much later. Instead, I was caught in the beauty and wonder of the unexpected. This moment held my attention the way a spider crawling up the wall captures the curiosity of my two Siamese cats.

I simply wanted to linger. Observe. Notice everything the text stirred in me.

I’ve long been a fan of Jacob Collier. I even had the chance to attend one of his concerts recently. His music, like this moment, invites lingering. Floating. Paying attention. The lyrics from his song Little Blue came to mind.

“Don't be afraid of the dark

In your heart

You're gonna find a way

To carry the weight of the world

On your shoulders

You're gonna find a way home”

Two thoughts rose up, like chords struck on a guitar.

The first was about him. In his message I could feel the weight he was carrying - the struggle of trying to reconcile belief with self. I recognized that tunnel. I had walked through it myself, trying to make sense of the beliefs handed to me as a child alongside the emerging truth of who I was: my attractions, my longing for love, my trueness.

At times it felt endless. Dark. Completely alone. My heart broke for him.

The second thought was about home. Growing up in a community that taught “hate the sin, love the sinner” when speaking about same-gender attraction left me feeling broken and beyond repair. The only way forward was to step away from that world, even though it had once held so much support and belonging.

Leaving was terrifying. But slowly, piece by piece, I began building something new.

A life where love didn’t require apology.

A self that didn’t require repair.

Beautiful in all its imperfections.

Finding myself laughing at the strange poetry of rejection, I realized something. Somewhere in all my wanderings I had found my way.

I am home.

Image by Steve Johnson