Unmuted

 Disclaimer: This post is my story—told through my voice, shaped by my experiences. It’s not meant to be a universal statement, a theological debate, or a request for approval. If it resonates, I’m glad. If it challenges you, sit with that. But just know: this isn’t up for debate. It’s a reflection, not a courtroom. And for once, I’m not editing myself to make it easier for anyone else to read.

Prologue: Learning to Speak in My Own Voice

I used to think I had a voice—because I could speak. Because I could follow the script handed to me. Because I could say the “right” things at the “right” time in the “right” tone. But what I’ve learned is that having a voice isn’t about volume or vocabulary. It’s about ownership.

This blog isn’t just about finding my voice—it’s about reclaiming it from the people and systems that told me it was never really mine. For most of my life, I said what I was told to say. I echoed beliefs I was handed. I conformed out of fear, obligation, and survival. But the truth? That version of me wasn’t me—it was a muted, carefully edited projection designed to keep other people comfortable.

Using my voice now feels both exhilarating and terrifying. I stumble. I doubt myself. Sometimes I still hear the echoes of those old scripts telling me to sit down, be quiet, stay small. But I write this because I won’t stay small anymore.

This blog is messy. It’s vulnerable. It’s honest. It’s a marker in the journey of a woman who is learning—sometimes awkwardly, sometimes boldly—that her voice matters. Not because it’s perfect. But because it’s hers.

⸻

Section One: The Weight of Silence

I don’t know if there was a single defining moment when I realized my voice had been taken from me—but maybe it was the first time I wore shorts and wasn’t struck down on the spot. That might sound silly to some, but in the religion I was raised in—even as a cis-presenting male—shorts were a big no-no. That moment planted a seed: maybe all these rules weren’t divine law… maybe they were just control dressed up in scripture.

But the realization hit harder more recently, when I started questioning the things I’d been taught all my life. I wasn’t trying to be rebellious—I just wanted clarity. I asked honest questions, and the people who claimed to have all the answers suddenly couldn’t give me a straight one. That’s when it clicked: they didn’t want me to have a voice. They wanted me to recite, not reflect.

I was never outright told that my voice didn’t matter—but the message was always clear: “This is how we believe, and this is how you will believe.” As a child, I wasn’t allowed to speak my thoughts or opinions in the presence of adults. I respected my elders by staying silent. That doctrine burrowed deep, and I carried it into adulthood without even realizing it—into work, into relationships, into the version of life I thought I was supposed to live.

I spent years obeying, towing the line, and performing the role of the “head of household”—like the Bible told me I was supposed to. But now I see: that wasn’t leadership. That wasn’t respect. That was silence in disguise.

⸻

Section Two: The Awakening

If I’m honest, I think my voice started whispering to me years ago—maybe even decades. But every time it tried to rise to the surface, I shoved it back down. I convinced myself it couldn’t be right. It wasn’t part of the rules. It didn’t fit the mold. And I had spent my entire life trying to be the mold.

But now? Now my voice doesn’t just whisper—it speaks. Sometimes shakily. Sometimes boldly. But always truthfully. I say what I mean. I mean what I say. And maybe the biggest surprise is that, in finding my voice, I’ve also found kindness. Not just for others—but for myself. I’ve become softer in the right places, and sharper where it counts. I’ve let go of the rigid judgment that was drilled into me and replaced it with compassion. Except—of course—for the things that demand a firm line: racism, homophobia, transphobia, and bigotry of any kind. My voice doesn’t stay quiet in the face of hate.

Silence is complicity. And if you won’t speak up against oppression, discrimination, and violence—then you’re saying you’re okay with it. And I’m not.

The most terrifying thing I’ve ever said out loud was, “I’m trans.” It was simple. Just two words. But they carried the weight of a thousand fears. Saying it out loud—owning it—meant risking everything. And in some ways, I lost more than I ever expected. Family. Friends. People who claimed to love me, but had very strict conditions on how that love would show up… or disappear.

But what I gained? My truth. And my truth is worth every ounce of courage it took to speak it.

⸻

Section Three: The Fear Factor

Oh man… the fears don’t vanish just because I’ve found my voice. They linger. They whisper. They show up every time I sit with a hard truth and wonder if I should hit “post” or press “send.” Should I say this? What if it offends someone? What if they misunderstand me? What if they stop liking me? What if, what if, what if…

It sucks. It really does. Because even now, after everything, I sometimes catch myself thinking it might just be easier to shrink again—to go back to the quiet, to the script, to the “safe” version of me. But deep down, I know that’s not living. That’s hiding.

I still censor myself sometimes. I second-guess my words. I hesitate before I speak, or before I publish a blog post, wondering if it’s too much. But then I remember: if I don’t tell my truth, how will anyone else know they’re allowed to tell theirs?

As for who I’m afraid might hear me? That’s still easy—my parents. Even though they’ve made it painfully clear they don’t want to see me, there’s still that buried hope that they might… someday. They’ve sent a few texts lately that seem to contradict their actions, but they haven’t acknowledged the boundaries I laid out. And that silence? It still stings. It still makes me hesitate. Because if your own parents can reject your voice, it makes you wonder who else might.

But I speak anyway. Even when it’s scary. Because my silence doesn’t protect me—it only erases me.

⸻

Section Four: The Power and the Practice

The biggest surprise about finding my voice? That I have one at all. After everything I went through—after all the ways I was silenced, minimized, and erased—I’m honestly shocked there was anything left to speak from. But there was. And there is.

What’s surprised me even more has been the people who’ve shown up with love, support, and encouragement. People I never expected have reached out just to say they’re proud of me. That I’m brave. That I inspire them. And while that’s beautiful to hear, I’ll be honest: it doesn’t always feel brave. It doesn’t always feel inspiring. Some days, it just feels heavy. Some days, all I can feel is the weight of what I let hold me back for so long.

And of course, not all the responses have been kind. The criticism, the judgment, the subtle digs—those still come. Usually from people tied to my old life—my old cult (let’s be real, that religion had way too many strings). And sometimes from people who shouldn’t even have a seat at the table, let alone a say in my voice.

But here’s what I know now: my voice is powerful. Not just for me—but for others. It empowers me to stand up for those who are still silent. To give hope to those who are still searching. To breathe life into truths others are still too afraid to say out loud.

I’m finally surrounded by people who value honesty. People who speak truth even when it costs them. That’s the kind of community I want to be part of. That’s the kind of woman I want to be.

And yes, it’s exhausting sometimes. Helping others who are still stuck in that mindset—the one I barely escaped from—can be mentally, emotionally, and spiritually draining. Especially when they ask for help but aren’t ready to move.Especially when they still cling to the same justifications that once kept mesmall.

But even on the hardest days, I’d rather be tired from telling the truth than rested from keeping it quiet.

⸻

Section Five: The Ongoing Journey

I want my voice to stand on its own. Not propped up by anyone else’s approval. Not borrowed from anyone else’s strength. Just mine. I want it to be solid—unapologetic and rooted. Even if it shakes, even if it cracks, I want it to be mine.

If someone is reading this and feels afraid to speak up, I hope they walk away with a little more hope than they came in with. I hope they feel a spark of inspiration, a flicker of courage, a glimmer of what could be. Because your voice doesn’t have to be loud to matter. It just has to be yours.

And for me? I think the best way I can honor my voice—especially on the days when fear tries to shout louder than truth—is to just keep speaking. Whether it’s out loud, in writing, or silently in my own head. Because let’s be honest… sometimes the loudest battlefield is the one in my own mind. And even there, my voice deserves to win.

⸻

If you’re still quiet, still afraid, still waiting—I see you. And when you’re ready, your voice will be there too.

Why I Keep Coming Back to the Ocean

 Disclaimer:

This post contains high levels of emotional growth, buffet side-eye, and unsolicited opinions about scrambled eggs. May cause sudden urges to book a cruise, cry at the sight of a wake, or fist-pump in the name of self-love. Proceed accordingly.

My first cruise was five days long, the ship was tiny by today’s standards, and my wife and I had no idea what we were doing. We were wide-eyed, excited, and just a little nervous — the way you are when you step into something new and vaguely expensive. We started asking questions out loud like clueless dorks, and the couple in front of us turned around and said, “Is this your first cruise?”

They took us under their wing — a husband and wife who clearly had it all figured out — and walked us through everything from muster drills to buffet hacks. We’re still Facebook friends to this day. That was our first glimpse into cruise culture: kind, welcoming, and occasionally semi-drunk by noon.

It was also the first time we truly unplugged. Phones went on airplane mode and stayed that way. It was five glorious days of being untethered from the rest of the world, and we swore right then and there: never again unless it’s at least seven nights. I didn’t want to go back to reality — I wanted to live in this floating city with towel animals, daily entertainment, and the occasional guy in cargo shorts yelling “DO YOU EVEN KNOW WHERE THE FRONT OF THE SHIP IS?” (Sir, I barely know where my room is. These hallways are a maze designed by an evil architect with a sense of humor.)

But it wasn’t until nearly three years ago — on Symphony of the Seas, standing at the aft of the ship watching the wake churn behind us — that something inside me finally broke free.

I turned to my wife and said the words out loud: “I am a trans woman.” And even though I was terrified, even though I knew deep down she’d support me, there was still a voice whispering, What if this changes everything?

Spoiler: It did. But not in the way I feared.

That moment — with the sea stretching out behind us and the water spinning like truth itself — was the beginning of everything. That cruise wasn’t just a trip; it was the first time I started dressing in clothes that hinted at who I was becoming. The next cruise? I packed fully as me. No compromise. No “safe” androgyny. Just Lexi, on purpose.

And here’s the thing about the ocean: it doesn’t care who you used to be. It just welcomes whoever you are when you arrive. No judgment. No baggage fees. No Ultimate Abyss attendant pulling out a scale when you insist you can ride but clearly shouldn’t. (Yes, that happened. No, I didn’t follow through. Yes, I have since made peace with gravity.)

Every cruise since has added another layer of healing. One formal night, someone complimented my shoes and it wasn’t about being trans or different — it was just about being fabulous. Another time, during the Love & Marriage show, a very confident lesbian referred to her girlfriend’s nipples as “pepperonis,” and I’m still laughing about it to this day.

I’ve cried at the sight of the wake. I’ve skipped scrambled eggs because, honestly, they were funky. I’ve discovered edamame, slayed formal night, and mourned the loss of Carnival’s chilled strawberry soup like it was a national tragedy. I’ve seen people at the buffet do things I wish I could unsee. I’ve side-eyed pool chair hogs with Olympic-level precision. I once went on a salsa-making excursion that also turned into salsa-dancing, which was unfortunate because I dance like a confused scarecrow with a timing issue.

Cruises became more than vacations. They became safe spaces. Mirrors. Time capsules. Portals into who I am when I’m not shrinking.

Because more than the chaos and cocktails, cruises give me something rare: moments where I stop and think, This is my life now. Not someone else’s. Not a borrowed fantasy. Mine. I get to live authentically, openly, joyfully. And I never forget how privileged that is.

(Also, real talk? Cruises are more accessible than most people think. You can book them up to two years in advance and treat them like vacation layaway. Peace doesn’t have to be out of reach — sometimes you just have to plan your joy.)

There’s one photo from the pre-transition days that still sits deep in my heart — silly props, big smiles, pure laughter. We don’t share those anymore, but I hold the memory close. It reminds me how far I’ve come. These days, my favorite snapshots aren’t taken by a cruise photographer. They’re internal: me standing on the aft deck, wind in my face, no filter needed.

And through all of it — through every silly mishap, fabulous outfit, and buffet line decision — my wife is right there beside me, reminding me daily that I am loved, worthy, and celebrated. That’s the kind of anchor no ship can match.

Oh, and to the people who treat cruise staff like they’re beneath them? Tip better. Be better. The crew is working their asses off while you’re demanding extra ice in your tenth free lemonade. If you act like the world revolves around you at sea, you’re probably unbearable on land.

Closet couldn’t hold her. Now she’s got balcony views, bold lipstick, and the audacity to love herself out loud.

And now, with one cruise just a memory and another on the horizon, I find myself doing something I never thought I would: writing love letters to cruise ships. Because this next one? It’s special. A new ship. A new line. A new chapter. So yes — I’m that girl, and I have something to say.

Dear Celebrity Beyond,

I’m not coming aboard to escape. I’m coming to arrive. Fully. Authentically. Dressed to the nines and finally packing the right clothes.

This is our first date, you and me, and I have high expectations — but I think we’re going to get along just fine. I’ll bring the sass and the sundresses. You bring the stillness, the sunsets, and the space to just be.

See you in September.

—Lexi

MY FAVORITE VIEW!!!!

She Was My Safe Place Before I Knew I Needed One

 Twenty years, two proposals, a few plot twists, and a love story that chose me back.

Some love stories begin with fireworks. Ours started with a church youth camp, a borrowed car, and a painfully awkward “wait, you’re how old?” moment. I was 18. She was 14. And while I was innocently playing with her hair, thinking we were just vibing around the campgrounds, she casually (but wisely) dropped the bomb: “You know I’m 14, right?”

That was the moment I mentally yeeted myself off a cliff and immediately backed off — because no, thank you, I was not trying to make any headlines. She loved her hair being played with (and still does), but she gave me the age warning like the responsible queen she’s always been. That was our first real interaction. Nothing happened then. It shouldn’t have. It wasn’t our time. But something started. A spark. A thread. A footnote in the love story that would take years to write.

Over the years, our paths kept crossing — through broken engagements (mine, not hers… though she did help plan one of my honeymoons… to someone else… I know, I KNOW), long stretches of silence, and moments where we were just almost. I was navigating heartbreaks and detours, and somewhere along the way, I realized the one who always showed up, who always cheered me on, was her.

I was about to give up. I told my coworkers, “I can’t keep doing this — she doesn’t want to date me, and I can’t keep hoping.” That very day, she called my job and said she’d give me a chance. It was ridiculous timing. But maybe that’s just who we are — cosmic chaos with good timing.

We started dating. I was smitten. And insecure. She was radiant and somehow interested in me, and I couldn’t wrap my head around it. I wrote her good morning emails every day — she wrote back. We tried to beat each other to the inbox. It was nerdy and sweet and deeply us. We were engaged within a month. Proposed on Hallelujah Boulevard at the camp where we met — while she was pushing a baby stroller, because yes, even our proposal had childcare energy.

When I got down on one knee, her first words weren’t “yes” or “no.” They were, “I’ve gotta tell my mom we’re dating.” That’s how it started. And somehow, that moment — messy, funny, and completely unplanned — set the tone for everything to come.

We’ve now been married for over twenty years. That number alone feels sacred. And our life today looks nothing like it did when we started — it looks better.

We’ve moved across state lines for jobs, for safety, for the next chapter of “us.” We’ve experienced joy and chaos, and yes, even a literal nightmare: hitting a pedestrian. They survived, thank God. It wasn’t my fault — they walked straight into the highway — but the sound, the feeling, the aftermath… I still carry it. She carried me through it.

We’ve weathered church trauma — the kind that tries to make you believe God’s love is conditional and your worth is tied to your weight. I’ve had pastors laugh in my face and mock me when I said I wanted to pursue ministry. She never laughed. She never minimized. She stood taller than any pulpit and reminded me I had worth, I had calling, and I had her.

And then came the deepest truth — the one that lived in me long before I had the words for it: that I’m a trans woman.

I won’t pretend it wasn’t complicated. She had questions. Some hesitations. But her love was bigger than fear. She chose to stay. She chose me. Again. And again. And again. That kind of love? It builds you. It becomes part of your bones.

She shows me in the most thoughtful, consistent ways that she sees me. She comes home with earrings, dresses, makeup, soft socks. She reminds me, over and over, that I’m Lexi. That I’m her wife. That even when the world doesn’t see me, she does.

There’s also… the number. One day, I misheard her — thought she said “I love you,” so I said it back. Turns out, she was just giving me a random number. For what? No clue. She probably remembers (because she remembers everything). But that number stuck. It became ours. And when we double it now, it’s our way of saying our love keeps growing. Quietly. Constantly. Exponentially.

There’s still so much we haven’t done — growing old together, embracing whatever weird and wonderful chapters life throws at us next. I’m not just excited for the good stuff. I’m ready for the hard stuff too, because I get to do it with her. And honestly, if life were only the fun parts, it wouldn’t feel like life — it’d feel like a highlight reel. And we? We’re writing a full story.

And if I could tell her one thing — really tell her — it’s this:

I do not take you for granted. Not for one second. I am so unbelievably thankful that I get to do this life with you. There’s no one else I’d want beside me. There never was.