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Some books are written with trembling hands. Some with defiance. The Trauma Bible: My Queer Psalms was born from both.
This collection is a love letter to survivalânot the glossy, âeverythingâs fine nowâ kind, but the quiet, messy, deeply queer kind. The kind of survival that sits beside grief and doesnât flinch. That lets the light in without demanding you be healed first. That makes room for the sacred and the profane. For belt sermons and Barbie dolls. For conversion therapy and glitter. For piano benches and puke buckets. For rage, for forgiveness, for the unholy act of still being here.
At its core, The Trauma Bible is not just a poetry collection. Itâs a reclamation. A rewriting of scripture where trauma isnât hiddenâitâs sanctified. Where queerness isnât a curseâitâs canon.
And if thereâs one psalm that captures the heart of this book, itâs this one:
He Gave Me a Reason to Want to Live
It wasnât a grand epiphany. No thunderclap.
No sainted revelation in a sterile hospital room.
Just him.
Sitting beside me, hand in mine,
as if holding on was holy work.
As if loving me was reason enough to believe in mornings.
I had counted exits. Not out loud. Not even fully formed.
Just a catalog of ways to stop hurting.
A quiet calculation of when it might be easier to be nothing than this.
But then he showed up.
With sarcasm and a crooked smile,
with tenderness that didnât make me earn it.
He made soup on days I couldnât move,
held the vomit bucket with grace,
watched Schittâs Creek reruns like they were communion.
He made staying less about endurance, more about joy.
I didnât feel like a burden in his presence.
I felt like breath. Like music.
Like someone worth waiting out the dark for.
He never tried to fix the ache.
He just made space for it.
Said, “You’re allowed to hurt and still be mine.”
And I believed him.
Because every day he showed up,
and every night he made it clear:
I was more than what had happened to me.
He didnât hand me hope. He built it.
Brick by quiet brick, meal by meal,
joke by joke, bedtime by better day.
And somewhere between the chemo, and the tears,
and the trauma I once thought would define meâ
I began to see myself through his eyes.
Not broken. Not tragic. Just loved.
He gave me no ultimatums. Only invitations:
To rest.
To rebuild.
To remain.
I wanted to die.
Then I wanted to stay.
Because of him.
And that, more than anything, is the final gospel of love:
Not that it saves you,
but that it gives you a reason to save yourself.
I wrote The Trauma Bible because I got tired of only finding holiness in places that demanded I be someone else to be worthy of it. This book is for every queer kid who survived their church, their family, their own mind. For the ones still sorting through the wreckage. For anyone whoâs ever asked, âWhat if Iâm too much?â and needed a sacred, glitter-covered, rage-fueled âYouâre not.â
It is scripture for the scarred.
It is praise for the broken.
It is permission to stay.
If this psalm resonated, the rest of the book is waiting to meet you where you areâwith open arms, a soft place to land, and absolutely no pressure to be healed before you show up.
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