Watch this video of Luis telling his story!

When I was young, I went through a collage phase. I probably looked all around my house for whatever magazine I could get my grubby hands on. I specially recall the damage to a beautiful special edition magazine of Princess Diana.

I know this because my mum told me after asking her about this botched magazine she, to this day, still keeps around. I can only imagine how my mum felt after I destroyed it. Our relationship has had its ups and downs, but in my mind, my mother is deeply associated with the image of Princess Diana and their admirable capacity to be graceful to those who need it most.

I grew up as a pretty happy child up until late middle school when I became depressed, as many other gay men have at some point in their lives. Again, my history with mental health has its ups and downs. I’ve banked my share of hours with therapists but recently I’d plateaued in my progress. Last year, I made a breakthrough. I honor my story by highlighting the importance of taking yourself to therapy. 

One symptom I keep a look out when gauging my state of mind is my capacity to find beauty in life. I believe a sense of beauty is a psychological skill we can train or lose. To see it, notice it, name it, replicate it. At my worst, I stop watching TV shows, I stop eating sweets, and I isolate myself. Inversely, I write more poetry when I am processing negative emotions, this skill has allowed me to tap into my sense of beauty and pull myself out of a downward spiral. I’d like to share a spoken word poem about what I think psychological beauty is:

I’m on my knees. The congregation says Grace.
I look up towards high ceilings, the tainted glass,
Dramatic imagery in art, stone, oil, wood, brass.
Engulfed in what they say is beauty, yet I don’t see your face.

My favourite part of going to mass is leaving.
Outside, street vendors sell all types of food.
Outside, what is actually a religious experience
Tastes like fried, steamed home cooked goods.
Outside, I eat sugar just to help boost my mood.
My sister and I resist the Sunday public shaming,
My parents show us grace, your beautiful face.
I’m not asked to go with them again, embraced,
and still picked up for a meal, my soul’s soothed.
Coming out decades later, I still seek sanctuary.
The figures I look up to had a wardrobe change:
tiny underwear, leather jockstraps, tails, fangs.
I’ll say it again, out of one patriarchy and into another.
Penis penance. Men moan confessions to each other,
Some carry a cross, others prefer to be tied to it,
Time’s still spent on my knees doing other things
Giving or receiving Gay Communion. I don’t sing,
But what comes out my choir has a similar ring,
The sound of falling icons and featherless wings,
The premium and peace speech therapy brings.

Confess.
Humbling, paying alms to sort unclaimed shit out
Going to counseling cause someone else did not,
What’s that about? Tinted glass bias, guilty eyes
Projecting self esteem into simple average guys.
Confess…
People can be “nice” but very unkind in thoughts
Because that’s how people pleasing comes across.
Truth is I’m scared of a drag queen’s entourage,
Cunty vibes encouraged, community sabotage.
Confess!
I don’t trust men to be a secure emotional space
I’m afraid that’s a reflection of what I do, am too,
If I use authenticity to camouflage my true face,
Interpersonally challenged with a deep lack of self awareness.
At least that’s my impression.
Doctor it’s been two weeks since my last session
Our last convo has become my confession, I pray:

Grace. For lack of a better word, I ask you for air.
Begrudgingly, as a child you brought me despair,
Betrayed at how empty your brand made me feel
If your love depended on God, others to be real.
I prayed the gay away for years. I couldn’t dare,
Be associated with such a strong feminine name.
And still you’ve forgiven me, as is in your nature,
To mold me as a kid, teen, adult, with true nurture:
Not idealized under judgment but understanding
Of my delicate features, my edges, how I feel injured.

Dented by your many falls from grace. Disgrace
Means facing that which lives in the dark, fowl,
Scowl, I crawl and brawl and embrace them all.
My beasts take a breath as I feed them a meal,
My demons are cordial if I listen and let them be
My hells are manageable, if I show myself ways
To renounce a saint’s life, see myself face to face.

The point was never to climb back up to Grace,
But to hold you as we go down and into the ground.
I found, we can find sanctuary in this hellscape,
Through a loving, poised, graceful, headspace.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder and depression has a way of placing a gray filter in front of those who battle it, which makes asking for help a bleak task. As a gay man in therapy, I’d say most of my work depended on unlearning behaviours, overcoming trauma and learning to embrace love, uncertainty and the freedom to be my best queer self. It’s messy, trying to figure ourselves out; I know I struggled with not knowing who I could be. I documented my journey of self discovery using social media, each post made me value the beauty of being able to find beauty in a life lived. Each post’s a puzzle piece with rough edges and contradictions, each attempt gave me clarity about who I was not, diversifying my self image whilst unifying my confidence. I welcomed the New Year with the following poem:

One choice makes me larger
Another makes me small. Decide: do or do not. 
Two parties playing tug of war on a dance floor.
What would secure men do in this circumstance?

Get down, boogie, focus on the tempos for once, 
Be the baddie that gets low, create my own flow.
Try to understand men’s body language: a glance.
Eye contact. Hello. After that you’re on your own.

Quick turn to see if you’re still looking. You know, 
I wrote a spoken word poem about this moment,
But there was dialogue, actions, scripted truths.
The countdown starts, fumble, miss my queue.

I’m putting pressure on myself to not perpetuate
That which was done to me. I hesitate and wait,
For impulse to shake the electrodes off my head.
Regress to make progress, act before I overthink.

If it’s still within me. I’m sure. I’ve gotten this far, 
276 [281] posts later yapping of the glory and gore
Of being gay in 2026. Now for a new resolution:
To give myself the grace I’ve always needed, evermore.

Despite synonyms, I was conflicted with resonating to the word “grace”, I knew of her but talking to her, through therapy and poetry, made me feel like I was being reacquainted with an old, healing, friend who knew I could be my worst qualities, and still saw me as a person worthy of love. If I try, if I succumb to my fear and bail, if I get depressed again, grace can be a colorful filter to feel aesthetic, confident, even regal. And that feels sourced from within, feels like me. Like an inverted vision board, my life regained value because I prioritized this feeling whilst posting about travelling, cooking, existential, surviving or in the words of another incredible graceful figure, Catherine O’Hara:

“[Taking] a thousand naked pictures of [myself] now. You may currently think, “Oh, I’m too spooky.”, or, “Nobody wants to see these tiny boobies.” But believe me, one day you will look at those photos, with much kinder eyes and say, “Dear God, I was a beautiful thing!” Oh, and make sure you submit those photos to the Internet. Otherwise, your own children will go looking for them one day and tragically, they won’t be there.”

What groundbreaking conclusion psychological help has bestowed upon me is realizing that I find the capacity to look past “the cringe” with the love and kindness my mum, Princess Diana or even Catherine O’Hara would have given a loved one quite beautiful. Counseling, speaking, writing, sharing my thoughts, gives me a space where I can see beauty, notice it, name it, and replicate it by being more graceful to myself and hoping it’ll make me more graceful to others. Changing my point of view so that the world might seem changed, too.