Resistance and Apple Turnovers

Resistance offers us clues to things that matter. In this case, a memory that changed my entire world view.

Friday, February 7th, 2024. 9:05 AM.

I'm staring at my inbox, trying to focus on clearing out emails, but my mind keeps circling back to one thing: an article that's about to go live.

"It's just an article, Alex," I whisper to myself, attempting a pep talk. "Cool it - you've published dozens of these."

(Spoiler alert: that little self-talk moment? Totally ineffective.)

This one was different, though.

This wasn't just any story - this was the story. The kind that sits at the crossroads of who you were and who you became. The kind that explains both your superpowers and your kryptonite.

This was the story of seventeen-year-old me, coming out before I was ready, finding myself homeless, and somehow building myself back up from scratch - one wobbly piece at a time.

It's funny (in that not-really-funny way) how some stories live in your bones for years, rarely seeing daylight. And here I was, about to share mine with the world, practically vibrating with nervous energy.

The tension was electric, almost visible in the air around me. Which was particularly ironic, given what I'd just posted on Substack that very morning:

Here's the thing about tension and tightness - they're like distant cousins who get mistaken for twins. For me, tension is a palpable energy, like static electricity under my skin.

Was my body trying to tell me something about sharing this story? Was that tension something more?

Was I… resisting the idea of putting my story out there?

I decided to set aside my laptop, close my eyes, and lean into that resistance—just to see what it wanted to tell me.

Wondering what story I'm talking about?

I recently shared my journey in

Jeannie Ewing

’s

I Grow Strong Again

publication - it’s a raw account of finding myself homeless at seventeen after coming out.

It's a story about finding hope in unexpected places and rebuilding when everything feels broken. If you're going through your own tough chapter right now, I hope you'll find some light in these words.

A Different Kind of Strength

I breathed with my resistance. Like an old friend coming to visit, I let that tension make itself at home.

With each breath, I noticed where the energy pooled and stalled—little force fields of not yet scattered through my body. "What is it about sharing this story?" I wondered softly, like watching ripples settle on a disturbed pond.

The answer didn't rush in. (They rarely do, don't they?)

But I stayed.

I just sat there with my resistance, no pushing, no pulling. Just a gentle "I'm here when you're ready" kind of presence. And after a few minutes of this quiet dance, as the tension began to soften its edges, it finally spoke:

You told your story. But you tucked away the darkest thoughts that haunted your nights.

Isn't it strange how we guard certain memories so carefully? Those thoughts that feel too heavy to share, as if speaking them might make them more real than we're ready for.

You told your story. But you kept private those sparks of joy that still warm your memory.

Sometimes, the brightest moments feel too precious to share, don't they? Like keeping a perfect shell you found on the beach, worried it might lose its luster in the telling.

You told your story. But you didn't let yourself celebrate how far you've come.

We measure the distance left to travel quickly, yet we are hesitant to turn around and marvel at the path we've already taken.

And just like that - poof - the resistance melted away. Sure, there were still butterflies doing their thing in my stomach, but that electric tension? Gone.

I took another breath, thanked that wise inner voice for its insight, and started my day fresh. It was time to shuffle around the content calendar a bit. Because this article needs to honor those three hidden pieces of my story—the shadows, the light, and the pride in how that seventeen-year-old kid built his new life.

And isn't it fascinating how memories choose their moments? How sitting with resistance can unlock doors we'd forgotten were even there?

So here it is - the first of three tiny stories I've kept close to my heart, stepping into the light for the very first time. I've even preserved some of the parlance. Some.

(The other two stories? They'll find their way to you later this month.)

The Dirty Apple Turnovers

It was one of those cold, dreary, rainy days when begging was pointless. No one walking meant no one to flash my best "I need help" smile at, which meant no "tips" - that's what I called it. Pride's a funny thing, even when you're homeless.

I was good at it, though. A natural businessman at 17, dealing my way into prime begging real estate by sharing the wealth. Mom and Dad would've been proud. Oh wait - I was gay.

(Spoiler: they weren't proud.)

Jerry, this seventy-something gentleman I looked after, needed cheering up. Bad day for all us men folk. We stayed clear of the women - especially me. They were always trying to mother me, and well... I had enough of that. 🙄

Counting my spare change, I did some quick math. Enough for a burger and two apple pies. That sugary sweet goodness was calling my name.

Made it to Mickey D's, even scored two extra dollars on the way. (Pro tip: tripping in mud really sells the whole homeless thing. Not my proudest moment, but hey.) After washing up in the sink and wolfing down my burger, I was stoked to surprise Jerry with a warm apple pie.

Then the rain kicked in.

I slipped on my "raincoat" - a carefully designed trash bag with a head hole, gifted by some guy who... well, had died and didn’t need it anymore.

Passing this perfect lamppost, I couldn't resist recreating that iconic "Singing in the Rain" moment.

Picture it: me, holding out apple pies like an umbrella, belting out the tune... right before promptly eating pavement. Or rather, puddle.

My fancy garbage bag saved most of me.

The apple pies? Not so much. When I say they got a bit dirty... I mean a lot dirty.

Walking back felt like forever, shoulders slumped. Who wants a muddy apple pie? All because I had to play Gene Kelly.

I found Jerry at our camp, shame weighing heavy. "I bought you a surprise pie, but I dropped it. I'm sorry." And then... yeah, I started crying. Because underneath all my street-tough pretense, I was just a kid who felt safe enough here to break.

Jerry cleared a spot beside him, took his pie, and smiled. "Thank you - you've made my entire day." Then took a bite.

He paused, savoring it. "Aren't these just the best things ever? Especially on a bad day? Nothing makes me happier than an apple pie."

"But what about the dirt and mud?"

His smile deepened. "That's just surface stuff. You got it out quick enough. Just eat around it. The best parts are inside anyway - mud never touched those. Be patient and deliberate. Go on - take a bite."

Looking down at my dirty apple pie, I did. Like Jerry, I focused on savoring it.

Sure, there was dirt and mud on the outside. That was true enough. But just beneath that surface? All the specialness of that apple pie was still there, preserved and perfect.

And it really was special.

We sat there in silence, letting dirty apple pies heal our bad day.

Sitting here now, decades later, I can't help but smile at how that muddy apple pie moment became my life's metaphor. Jerry's wisdom wasn't just about a dropped dessert - it was about the art of finding sweetness beneath life's inevitable mud.

When was the last time you sat with something that seemed ruined on the surface? What might be waiting, perfectly preserved, just beneath that first layer?

I wouldn't have uncovered this memory without sitting with resistance, letting it speak in its own time.

That's the thing about our stories - they wait for the right moment to resurface, carrying gifts we couldn't have appreciated back then. That seventeen-year-old kid, playing in puddles with his trash bag raincoat, had no idea he was learning a lesson that would shape his entire worldview.

It's become my practice now - this gentle art of looking past the surface.

Not in some forced, toxic-positivity way, but with Jerry's patient deliberateness. Whether I'm facing professional challenges, personal struggles, or just a really rough day, I remember that the best parts are often preserved inside, waiting for someone willing to look deeper.

Perhaps there's something in your life right now that feels a bit muddy, a bit messy on the surface. What might you discover if you sat with it, patient and deliberate, allowing yourself to savor the experience the way Jerry taught me?

About Alex

I’m equal parts old soul and curious wanderer, a farmer boy at heart, and a writer whenever I can corral my ADHD. Ultimately, I write for those who crave rest in a world that never pauses.

As a political psychologist, yoga therapist, and integrative coach—anchored by both research and lived experience—I delve into questions of identity, connection, and wholeness, which are the foundation of my Substack publication, Life as I See It.

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