Manayunk Memoir (Part 1)

3,854.

That’s how many photos I’ve taken in Manayunk, Pa.

The first one? December 15, 2015, at Manayunk Brewing Company. I still remember it like it was yesterday.

Back then, this small, quirky community felt like Manhattan to me—big, electric, full of promise. I was younger, wilder, and definitely drank more than I should’ve that night.

But I’ll never forget the kindness of a 31‑year‑old woman—a complete stranger at the time—who made sure I got home safely.

I’m 31 now.

I made my second trip to Manayunk on February 24, 2017, when I was still desperately hanging onto the notion that I was straight. Sigh.

In 2020, I moved to Manayunk with my then‑girlfriend, who I do not have permission to write about—so I won’t. A lot has changed since then. Clearly.

When we broke up, I was legitimately a wreck. Like, seriously—I was not well. I had what some may call a mental breakdown. I thought adopting a puppy would help, and in retrospect, it may have. After all, I’m writing a children’s book series about her (stay tuned!).

In all seriousness, though, I do not recommend doing what I did. I didn’t need a therapy dog. I needed therapy. Period.

This is what led me to EMDR therapy.

I went on a walk with an old friend, and while we walked, I felt dead inside. I know that sounds dramatic, but it’s true: I felt nothing.

I know some of you may think my writing about my family is somewhat excessive, but I cannot express enough that, had I not gone to therapy, I would not be alive to tell this tale. My mom broke my heart. Without my amazing therapist—whom I paid thousands of dollars for—I wouldn’t just have a shattered heart. I’d have an ashen one.

I want to take a moment to thank those who stuck by me during that period. I don’t even recognize myself when I look at pictures. In fact, I have deleted most of them. It’s too hard to see myself during that period. Someone else might not notice—but I can see the pain in my eyes, in my energy. I hurt a lot of people, but mostly myself. I am genuinely sorry.

As far as I know, my mom has never read any of my books. We don’t speak. I wish I could say I didn’t care, but that would be a lie. Not a day goes by that I don’t think of her.

No matter what anyone says, a mother is irreplaceable.

My writing helped heal me—but this heartbreak? This one’s a lifelong battle. When I came out, it was like the rug was pulled out from under me. The person I was before... she erased her. In her eyes, I’m nothing more than that: gay.

While in therapy, I began—or I guess, continued—writing in my Notes app. I rebuilt myself there. Like before, I worked and ate in restaurants, as one does. From an employee standpoint, I had a few traumatizing experiences (IYKYK), while others led me to unexpected connections, small joys, and stories worth telling.

I hope you’ll follow along with my journey—to the places that held my becoming, the memories etched into their walls, and the road I carved back to myself. I am proud of who I am now—not in spite of being gay, but because I am so much more than the word they used to try and define me.