4 Years After Being Canceled

How being hated taught me how to love

My latest guilty pleasure is Call Her Daddy. Yes, that podcast with Alex Cooper, the female Joe Rogan, with this supernatural ability for peeling back the layers of her famous guests like she’s shucking corn—to find something unexpectedly real. Hook, line and sinker and I am here for it. One episode with Katy Perry hit a particular nerve.

Katy broke the mold by zeroing in on Alex's studio’s backyard—seriously, who thinks to ask about a backyard? But Katy explained was all about how a person’s environment reveals their true character. Imagine that, right? It’s like she was sizing up Alex’s entrepreneurial spirit through some cleverly placed shrubbery.

Now, if you’re not into reading people by their gardens, this might sound a bit out there. But for those of us with an intuitive streak, it’s like finding your kindred spirit.

I suppose my own intuitive leanings come from a lifelong obsession with tracking the pulse of the next big idea. I’ve always had this sense—like a built-in social GPS—charting where we’ve been, where we’re headed, and how close we are to a cultural renaissance. It’s been my personal compass. But the last decade has been like driving through a tunnel with no GPS signal, careening in the dark and praying not to hit a wall.

Then came 2020—let’s call it my "off-road" moment. I was untethered, disillusioned, and thoroughly lost. Society seemed on the brink of collapse, and all the cultural maps I’d drawn felt obsolete. So I did something drastic after getting canceled by my closest friends: I packed up three suitcases, booked a one-way ticket to California, and left everything behind. Desperate times call for desperate measures, right?

The first two years SUCKED. Old friends who had ditched me, the pressure of living up to my family’s incredible achievements and the constant fear of not measuring up to everyone’s high expectations compounded. Getting cancelled was shameful, especially when being a progressive was my whole life. It felt like I was camping out in the middle of a winter storm with no tent, just exposed to all my fears and insecurities. It was an identity crisis I didn’t ask for, but man, it hit hard.

To call it humbling would be generous. My sense of self-worth took a nosedive, anxiety was riding shotgun and the world around me seemed to shrink by the day. I was living my own Wrinkle in Time—untethered, adrift in a void where nothing seemed solid or certain. But here’s the strange thing: in the midst of that darkness, something sparked. It wasn’t comfort, but curiosity. The kind of curiosity that grabs you by the shoulders and yells, "Let’s jump out of a plane with no parachute!” And you embrace the void as if this new perspective could show me how to fly.

And so, as I stood with my feet on the edge of my metaphorical aircraft, somewhere between despair and discovery, I decided to step out of my comfort zone. After all, what else did I have to lose?

If my life were a story, this would be the part where things get really bleak. Imagine me, free-falling without a parachute, arms flailing, waiting for wings that never come, and crashing straight into rock bottom with the full force of gravity. I was staring up at the sky, questioning everything, including whether life was even worth it. My mind was racing with my worst fears realized: that nothing I did mattered, and maybe I wasn’t good for anything at all. Trying to fix me felt like attempting to download Android on an iPhone—it just wasn’t going to work. I felt like a glitch in the system, like Maribel from Encanto—the one person in the family without a special gift, just sort of there but without a real purpose. I was stuck at the crossroads of uncertainty and hopelessness, feeling utterly meaningless. Then, in a moment of total despair, I did something I had always mocked: I prayed. I didn’t expect anything. I just laid it all out there, asking for mercy and grace, hoping there was something beyond the void and maybe, just maybe, someone listening.

What happened next could only be described as a Narnia-level experience. It’s hard to describe, but imagine a bolt of lightning surging through you, washing away everything dark and despairing. For the first time in years, I slept a full night without nightmares, and the suicidal thoughts disappeared in an instant after 8 years of severe depression. I felt unconditional love vibrating inside me like nothing I had ever experienced before. The mercy and hope I had prayed for had come true.

Now, I should mention—before this, I had a pretty low opinion of organized religion. To me, Evangelical Christianity seemed like an outdated relic from a past world, clinging to ideals that had no place in a modern society powered by progress and science. You can imagine the blow to my ego when I realized that not only was I not the master of my fate, but that something much larger was at play.

In my newfound humility, I reached out to my only Christian friend in LA (shoutout to Steve Cabe!) and asked if I could join him at church. A few days later, we walked into Vintage Church in Santa Monica. I braced myself for the worst, expecting fire and brimstone, but what I found instead was a warm, welcoming group of people—indie rock worship music that were total jams and a witty British pastor who cracked self-deprecating dad jokes with the audience uproared in laughter. This wasn’t the church of my nightmares. It felt...refreshingly genuine and devoid of politics.

As I immersed myself in this new world, I discovered that I’d been living Christian values all along—just without the formal framework. People like Mister Rogers and MLK Jr. had always been my heroes. Men of faith who changed the world with kindness, love, and a deep sense of justice. In discovering Christianity, I wasn’t finding something new. I was unearthing something that had always been there.

This faith became my foundation. It healed me from the inside out, breaking down my ego piece by piece and letting my spirit breathe for the first time. While my peers were getting cozy in their second homes and having kids, I was out in the wild, taking long, soul-searching pilgrimages through the Sierras and Mt. Hood. I started attending Bridgetown Church in Portland, Oregon, based on a recommendation, and deepened my connection with God. It was like everything I thought I knew got a massive overhaul, thanks to the wisdom I soaked up from people like John Mark Comer, Tyler Staton, and Nicky Gumbel from my time in Alpha.

And then, in the most unexpected way, life started to click into place. I met the love of my life, scored a job that felt like it was made just for me, and all those shattered pieces of my past suddenly fit together in ways I never could’ve imagined. The chaos that used to consume me paved the way for something incredible. Looking back now, the things that once haunted me have no power. I finally see myself clearly—without the pressure of superficial accomplishments. Turns out, I wasn’t a mistake or worthless; I just wasn’t meant to do any of this without God at the center, helping me discern between what’s true and false. And trust me, the ego is a master of making you believe falsehoods.

Now, it feels like my GPS signal is back and better than ever. But this time, it’s not just about keeping track of the world’s madness. It’s about knowing I’m on the right path, guided by something bigger, more profound than my own understanding. The chaos of public discourse? It’s just noise. I’ve learned to tune it out and focus on what’s real—on the people whose actions are firmly grounded in genuine virtues.

So, while I wouldn’t wish cancellation on anyone, it taught me invaluable lessons about life. It forced me to confront who I truly am the way God sees me and, in doing so, I found a deeper understanding of how to live with real meaning rooted in true love. For that, I am forever grateful.