WHY NOW?

 For several weeks, I’ve felt an urge to write again — not out of obligation, but out of truth. My latest episode of Echoes of Curiosity has been sitting out there in the world, gathering views slowly and organically, without any real promotion from me. And as I watched the early engagement, something inside me shifted. I realized that now is the moment to speak more openly about the story behind it.

This episode centers on my parents and my family for a reason. They were the first people I thought about when I decided to share my HIV status publicly. Not because they ever judged me — they didn’t — but because the weight of their love, their hopes, and their memories has always shaped how I move through the world. I wanted to honor them by telling the truth in a way that felt grounded, compassionate, and free of shame.

People often assume that coming out as gay is the hardest “coming out” someone can experience. But for me, that wasn’t the case. Coming out as gay was liberating. I did so early (18 years of age) and it was about identity, authenticity, and self‑recognition. Coming out as someone living with HIV… that has been a different journey entirely. It carries layers of judgment, misunderstanding, and the long shadow of stigma that has followed this virus for decades. It’s not just personal — it’s historical. It is cultural and it is emotional.

And that’s why it has taken me so long.

I needed time to grow into the kind of self‑acceptance that isn’t defensive, isn’t fearful, and isn’t shaped by other people’s misconceptions. I also needed time to understand that my story isn’t a cautionary tale — it’s a deeply human one. I had to feel strong enough to speak without flinching.

And I really needed time to recognize the quiet courage of the person who has walked beside me for eleven years.

Eduardo isn’t mentioned in the episode, but his presence is woven into every part of this journey. Living in a serodiverse relationship carries its own weight — its own conversations, its own fears, its own learning curve. He has supported me with patience, tenderness, and unwavering love. His encouragement to share my truth didn’t come from pressure; it came from witnessing my growth. He saw that I was ready before I did.

So why now?

Because I’m no longer speaking from fear.

Because I’m no longer hiding behind silence.

Because I’m finally able to tell this part of my story with clarity, dignity, and gratitude.

Because the world needs more voices that speak about HIV without shame — and I’m ready for mine to be one of them.

This episode is the beginning and this blog is the heart behind it.

Sharing both is my way of stepping into a fuller, freer version of myself.

As I continue learning how to speak about this part of my life with openness and peace, I’m grateful for anyone who takes a moment to listen. If you’d like to understand the heart behind this journey a little more, I invite you to watch the episode that inspired this reflection. It’s a small window into a much larger story — one I’m finally ready to share.

https://youtu.be/mTgEpvAcjnw?si=9RW1pEfqXP-dk9VF

Changes

 For many years, this space has lived under the name “Eating Words,” a title I chose back in 2009 when my writing life was shaped by a different season and a different rhythm. I’ve always loved the spirit of that Churchill quote — the idea that words, even when swallowed, can nourish rather than harm.

But over time, a part of me has grown into something new, almost quietly rearranging itself. My reflections, my storytelling, and now my YouTube channel have all begun to gather around a shared center — a more spacious curiosity about the echoes that shape a life.

And so, this blog is stepping into a new name: Echoes of Curiosity. It feels like the truest expression of what this space has become. My voice and my heart remain the same. Only the name has evolved to meet the work where it now lives.

Thank you for being here — through the changes that I’ve shared in these reflections. I’m grateful for every reader who has walked with me, and I’m looking forward to what comes next.

My Part

 A long time ago, a friend in a twelve-step recovery group told me that healing required him to face "his part" in his story. I remember sitting with that phrase, unable to understand it. His childhood had been marked by wounds he never invited — shame that settled into his bones, and violations that stole pieces of him before he even knew he had them. How could he possibly have a “part” in any of that?

It took years for me to understand that “my part” was never about blame. It was about honesty. It was about the choices we make in the long shadow of our own hurt. And it was about acknowledging the quiet harm we sometimes cause while trying to outrun the pain we never learned how to name.

When I finally turned that phrase toward my own life, I began to see the places where my silence, my fear, and my unhealed parts had left marks on people I cared about. This was not done intentionally or with malice. But I can’t deny that there was a trail of hurt that went unhealed. For years, I moved through the world in survival mode — long before a shocking diagnosis, and even more so after it. Survival taught me to disappear when I felt threatened and to protect myself at the expense of connection. I was letting old wounds speak for me when I didn’t have the courage to speak for myself. For a long time, I told myself those choices were necessary. But survival has a way of becoming a story we hide behind…long after the danger has passed.

Looking back, I can see how survival shaped the way I reached for people. I was desperate for companionship, but I often mistook sex or the spark of attraction for the kind of love I was actually starving for. That confusion led me into a series of relationships that were, in truth, never really relationships at all. Sometimes I poured myself into someone who was never truly into me, mistaking my longing for mutual affection and feeling shattered when the inevitable distance came. Other times, I found myself with someone who cared for me deeply — someone who was ready to offer real love — and I hurt them because I was chasing validation, not connection. I didn’t know how to tell the difference back then. I only knew the ache, and I kept trying to soothe it in all the wrong ways.

What makes all of this harder to admit is that I had the tools to know better. I had discovered A Course in Miracles at the tender age of twenty — an age when the heart is wide open but the self is still unformed. The Course spoke of love as something eternal. Love was something far deeper than the frantic reaching I kept mistaking for connection. But I was twenty. There was still a body to live in--a body I often saw as flawed, unworthy, or somehow behind everyone else. Validation became a kind of oxygen. Comparison became a chain I dragged behind me. And even with all the spiritual language I carried, I didn’t yet know how to live from it. I only knew how to long.

It wasn’t until years later, after I left Texas and began a new life in Virginia, that something in me finally started to settle. Caregiving for my aging mother, being closer to my siblings and their families, and pouring myself more fully into my teaching career created a kind of grounding I hadn’t known before. The noise inside me quieted. The frantic reaching softened up a bit. And for the first time, I could see the broader landscape of my life — not just the wounds that shaped me, but the choices I had made in response to them. I began to understand that the trail of failed relationships and painful missteps wasn’t a verdict on my worth, but a reflection of a younger self who didn’t yet know how to love without fear. And even though I wasn’t part of any 12‑step program by that time, I found myself drawn to the idea of making amends — not formally, not ceremonially, but in the quiet way of acknowledging my part and letting that honesty change me.

As my life in Virginia unfolded, I began to see my past with a clearer, kinder eye. Not to excuse anything, but to understand it. And in that understanding, something was revealed to me. I could finally see the people who crossed my path not as characters in my story, but as hearts I had collided with while trying to outrun my own. Some offered me more love than I knew how to receive while others carried hopes I couldn’t meet. And there were those I held too tightly, hoping they could fill a space that was never theirs to fill. I don’t carry shame for those years anymore, but I do carry awareness. And if awareness has taught me anything, it’s that acknowledging my part is its own kind of amends — a quiet way of honoring the truth, of releasing the past, and of wishing well the people whose lives brushed against mine during seasons when I was still learning how to love.

Today, “my part” means something different. It means showing up with honesty instead of fear. This is a challenge for many of us. What it means is to choose connection over validation. This is an opportunity to tell my story without hiding behind survival. It also means holding gratitude — real, steady gratitude — for the people who walked with me, even briefly, while I was still finding my way. This essay is not a confession. It’s a recognition. This is my way of saying: I see the past clearly now, and I’m living differently because of it. 

(me, Dallas, Texas, August, 2009)

The Grief That Raised Me

How does one approach the subject of death?

It's a question that has haunted me since the moment I realized that death was not an idea but an unavoidable fact of life. That understanding arrived early, long before I had the language to grasp its magnitude. What I did understand--instinctively, viscerally--was the enormity of loss. I saw it every day in my mother's eyes, long before I knew the stories behind her grief. 

In our home, grief wasn’t a single event — it was a season that never fully ended. My mother endured three devastating losses in as many years. First, her father died in 1967. The following year, she lost her twin sister, a bond so deep that even as a child I sensed the gaping wound it left behind. And then, in 1969, her mother passed away. Three years. Three blows. Three absences that reshaped the woman who raised me. I didn’t understand all of the details then, but I felt the weight of it all. It lived in the quiet moments, in the way she looked out the window, in the softness of her voice when she spoke about “before.” Her grief became the backdrop of my childhood — not in a dramatic or overwhelming way, but as a steady, unspoken presence that taught me what loss looked like long before I had the words for it.

Fast forward to my own encounter with that same specter. In 2016, I came closer to death than I ever imagined I would. What began as a routine surgery to correct a perforated colon spiraled into sepsis — sudden, violent, and life‑threatening. One moment I was recovering; the next, I was slipping into a place where nothing felt certain. My mother was still very much a part of my life then. I had stepped into the role of her caregiver with a kind of gladness — not out of duty, but out of love, and a sincere desire to return to her even a fraction of what she had given me. Those years were some of the most intimate and tender we ever shared. And as I lay in that hospital bed, drifting in and out of consciousness, I knew that my story was still intertwined with hers. I wasn’t ready to leave her. Not yet.

For all the stories people tell about “near‑death experiences,” I had none of that — no tunnel, no light, no sense of floating above my body. What I had was fear. A deep, primal fear of the unknown, the kind that settles into you when you realize you might not make it through the night. And yet, mixed with that fear was something I still struggle to describe. As much as my body was failing, there was a strange quiet inside me, a sense that letting go might be easier than fighting. It wasn’t a wish to die — it was more like a soft, dangerous invitation to stop hurting.

But then something shifted. Maybe it was instinct, maybe it was love, maybe it was the unfinished pieces of my life calling me back. I had survived an early death sentence in my 20s. I had come through so much physically over the course of many years, and I had finally found what felt like true love. I hadn't even been married a full year. I wasn’t ready to leave that behind. I wasn’t ready to leave him behind. And so, even as my body weakened, something in me chose to stay. Chose to fight. Chose to live.

Love is the force that clarifies everything when the body is failing.

As I drifted in and out of consciousness, something unexpected happened. Beneath the fear and the physical pain, there was a strange clarity — a sense that love was the only thing that mattered. Not the kind of love we talk about casually, but the deep, anchoring kind that shapes a life. I realized that love was the reason I wanted to stay. Love for the man who had made my heart his home. Love for my mother, who still needed me and whom I still needed in ways I hadn’t fully understood. Love for the unfinished pieces of my own story. And I’ve wondered since then if love is also what allows some people to leave. Maybe when the circle feels complete, when the heart has given and received what it came here to offer, love becomes the doorway instead of the tether. 

My experience didn’t make me fearless. I still worry about physical suffering, and I still feel a tremor of uncertainty when I think about the moment when life lets go. But something in me changed. The mystery around death softened. The terror loosened its grip. And in its place, I found something quieter and more enduring: love. Love is what outlasts physical death. I’ve come to believe that love is also what allows some people to let go — not as an ending, but as a completion. So if you fear death, you’re not alone. Most of us have some fears around this subject. But talking about it doesn’t make it arrive sooner; it simply makes the living richer. When we speak honestly about death, we’re really speaking about what matters most in life — the people we love, the stories we carry, the tenderness we share. 

And maybe that’s the quiet hope I can offer: that when death comes close, love becomes unmistakable. It rises to meet us and steadies us. It reminds us that even in our most fragile moments, we are held by something larger than fear.

(Bogota, 2021. My photo)

When Hitting "Upload" Becomes Connection

I never expected that launching a YouTube channel would feel this rewarding this quickly. "Echoes of Curiosity" began as a quiet idea — a gentle urging to share stories, reflections, and the spiritual threads that have shaped my life. But in those first days of posting, something unexpected happened: I felt a genuine connection forming.

Each time I see that another person has viewed an episode, it feels like a small light turning on somewhere in the world. Someone clicked. Someone listened. Someone stayed. I’m grateful for every single one. What has surprised me most is how meaningful it feels to engage with viewers. Today I received a thoughtful, heartfelt comment from a new subscriber, and responding to her felt like the beginning of a conversation rather than a transaction. It reminded me that behind every view is a person with their own story, their own curiosity, their own longing for connection.

I want to build a channel where people feel seen and where comments aren’t just acknowledged, but welcomed. I really want the conversation to continue long after the video ends. Because I do crave conversation as I'm sure many of my readers and viewers do. That's what I thought long ago when I reached out with this blog. Since starting it in 2009, I've had 27,102 visitors to "Eating Words" but overall, not much in regards to engagement in the form of comments. And I get it. With both Blogger and YouTube, people may not wish to comment publicly as these are both platforms in which the engagement can be public, as they are accounts that are accessible by anyone. But get this. Creating content has awakened a part of me that had been quietly waiting for years — the storyteller, the teacher, the spiritual wanderer. Filming, editing, shaping each episode… it’s work, yes, but it’s also play. It’s discovery. It’s a new way of expressing the same curiosity that has guided me through so many chapters of my life. And the best part is that I’m learning as I go. Every episode teaches me something new about the process, the platform, and myself.

I'm not quite sure where this journey will lead, and I don’t need to consider that. This is about the moment. Right now, I’m simply grateful — for the views, for the comments, for the courage to begin, and for the quiet joy that comes from sharing something authentic.

Echoes of Curiosity is still in its infancy, but already it feels alive. The connection is real.

Doubting Thomas Revisited

 It's always a challenge when I have the big blank space before me but sometimes, I produce something that seems audience worthy. I hope this speaks to you:

It seems like such a scary time in our society right now. Some might argue with me using the word seems because what they are seeing with their eyes can't be doubted. "Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed" comes to mind for some reason. As a reminder, it's what was purportedly said by Jesus to his disciple Thomas when he doubted that Christ had risen. It was an admonishment to be sure but I don't think it ruined Thomas' chances at heaven. Thomas saw the wounds with his body's eyes. He stopped doubting after he made physical contact with his hands--at Jesus' request. Was Jesus trying to make a deeper point that may have been overlooked even by the writers of Holy Scripture? A point that had more to do with the rest of us, along with Thomas?

What I see when I look out on the world informs me of one of these two things: love or fear. In fact, I can put any emotion or thing into columns beneath each of these words. I can look upon the world I see (even with my body's eyes) with love. It is possible. And it is now more urgent than ever. Every person I see deserves my love first. The rest will follow if it's directed by love. How is it accomplished? Thomas answered himself: "I believe." So now, we must believe what we don't see. And what our body's eyes don't show us. The hardest task is to apply this to everyone. Consider watching any news report via social media or legacy media. We quickly ascribe (in all cases and on all sides) guilt or blame to one person or one side based on our knowledge. And our knowledge is flawed. I've never met a human being who knows everything. That just seems to me to be more of God's job. I honestly don't know where anyone is coming from--even if I relate with feelings. What my body's eyes don't see is the pain of losing a loved one to violence, the fear of losing life or limb, fear of any kind of loss. What I don't see are the children of these people divided into tribes--yearning for some kind of normalcy, the people who fear they are being forced to abandon their way of life, the countless people seemingly lost in depression and addiction. That is because I am letting my body (alternately known as my ego) direct my vision. 

If I start with love, it is different. I connect with people. I don't see all the details and I don't need to. There is some starting point well before violence in cases where fear is the director but the outcome is never good. The ultimate result of starting with love is that judgment doesn't preclude any assessment. 

Is it easy to slip back into my body's eyes from time to time? Every day! The moment I open them until I close them again at night or in the wee hours of the morning. And most of the time I have to remind myself that what I'm seeing isn't real. In essence, I am spirit. I'm reminded of the opening lines from A Course in Miracles:

"Nothing real can be threatened. Nothing unreal exists. Herein lies the peace of God." 

If I really believe in eternity, I need to remind myself of that fact every day. Part of that reminder is a dose of reality while I inhabit this body (or appear to inhabit it). I know that almost qualifies as "crazy talk" but hear me out: There's got to be a reason I'm seeing all of this. Could the reason possibly be to see it another way? It certainly is a miracle to see a risen Christ. I honestly can't imagine what it would have been like for the disciples to see Him. A mixture of shock and disbelief would seem pretty normal. Imagine if the real message is the miracle of seeing what we really don't or can't see with the body's eyes. Because, like it or not, they will one day be attached to a corpse. If that thought generates fear, we have some work to do. 

(Caravaggio: "The Incredulity of St. Thomas" at Sanssouci Picture Gallery, Potsdam, Germany)

Echoes of Curiosity

 I was finally able to iron out a few technical kinks and just plowed into my first episode of "Echoes of Curiosity" which lasted all of seven minutes, seven seconds. I liked it! There were lots of "um's" and "uhh's" and a few awkward pauses but the whole thing is totally unedited and sincere. 

I have had this idea to do a YouTube series of videos for some time. I think it originated back during the pandemic and, for the past two months, I've decided to get serious about it--even as I continue to familiarize myself with video editing (way more difficult than I thought!) and work with what I've thus far found to be the best format (the fantastically reliable ZOOM) and there it was! I'll share it here for you.

https://youtube.com/@tboylan837?si=npd86E-tMuCb74kb

With that said, I am thrilled to have you connect with me any way that is comfortable and convenient for you! Whether it's on one of my few social media accounts or via this blog Eating Words or now on my YouTube channel Echoes of Curiosity. I'm one of those people who spends an inordinate amount of time on social media and it's become such a toxic place with so much rage and hatred displayed daily. Despite that, I still find bright spots and try to follow folks who want to bring some positivity to the arena. At the same time, I unfollow folks who do the opposite. It can be time consuming to sift and purge, but I don't see myself giving up social media any time soon. So Echoes of Curiosity was my personal solution as I shift all of my social media to begin sharing something more meaningful. 

I wonder what observations are waiting for us out there. I'm curious. Are you?